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Crisis Chronicles Cyber Litmag (2008-2015)

~ Contemporary Poetry and Literary Classics from Cleveland to Infinity

Crisis Chronicles Cyber Litmag (2008-2015)

Category Archives: Plato

Plato; or, the Philosopher (by Ralph Waldo Emerson)

04 Monday Jan 2010

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 1800s, American, Emerson (Ralph Waldo), Essays, Plato

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Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
25 May 1803 – 27 April 1882

Plato; or, the Philosopher
by Ralph Waldo Emerson
from Representative Men, 1850

AMONG secular (*7) books, Plato only is entitled to Omar’s (*8) fanatical compliment to the Koran, when he said, “Burn
the libraries; for their value is in this book.” These sentences contain the culture
of nations; these are the corner-stone of schools; these are the fountain-head of
literatures. A discipline it is in logic, arithmetic, taste, symmetry, poetry, language,
rhetoric, ontology, morals or practical wisdom. There was never such range of speculation.
Out of Plato come all things that are still written and debated among men of thought.
Great havoc makes he among our originalities. We have reached the mountain from which all
these drift boulders were detached. The Bible of the learned for twenty-two hundred years,
every brisk young man who says in succession fine things to each reluctant generation,-
Boethius, Rabelais, Erasmus, Bruno, Locke, Rousseau, Alfieri, Coleridge,- is some reader
of Plato, translating into the vernacular, wittily, his good things. Even the men of
grander proportion suffer some deduction from the misfortune (shall I say?) of coming
after this exhausting generalizer. St. Augustine, Copernicus, Newton, Behmen, Swedenborg,
Goethe, are likewise his debtors and must say after him. For it is fair to credit the
broadest generalizer with all the particulars deducible from his thesis.

Plato is philosophy, and philosophy, Plato,- at once the glory and the shame of
mankind, since neither Saxon nor Roman have availed to add any idea to his categories. No
wife, no children had he, and the thinkers of all civilized nations are his posterity and
are tinged with his mind. How many great men Nature is incessantly sending up out of
night, to be his men,- Platonists! the Alexandrians, a constellation of genius; the
Elizabethans, not less; Sir Thomas More, Henry More, John Hales, John Smith, Lord Bacon,
Jeremy Taylor, Ralph Cudworth, Sydenham, Thomas Taylor; Marcilius Ficinus and Picus
Mirandola. Calvinism is in his Phaedo: Christianity is in it. Mahometanism draws all its
philosophy, in its hand-book of morals, the Akhlak-y-Jalaly, from him. Mysticism finds in
Plato all its texts. This citizen of a town in Greece is no villager nor patriot. An
Englishman reads and says, “how English!” a German- “how Teutonic!” an
Italian- “how Roman and how Greek!” As they say that Helen of Argos had that
universal beauty that every body felt related to her, so Plato seems to a reader in New
England an American genius. His broad humanity transcends all sectional lines.

This range of Plato instructs us what to think of the vexed question concerning his
reputed works,- what are genuine, what spurious. It is singular that wherever we find a
man higher by a whole head than any of his contemporaries, it is sure to come into doubt
what are his real works. Thus Homer, Plato, Raffaelle, Shakespeare. For these men
magnetize their contemporaries, so that their companions can do for them what they can
never do for themselves; and the great man does thus live in several bodies, and write, or
paint or act, by many hands; and after some time it is not easy to say what is the
authentic work of the master and what is only of his school.

Plato, too, like every great man, consumed his own times. What is a great man but one
of great affinities, who takes up into himself all arts, sciences, all knowables, as his
food? He can spare nothing; he can dispose of every thing. What is not good for virtue, is
good for knowledge. Hence his contemporaries tax him with plagiarism. But the inventor
only knows how to borrow; and society is glad to forget the innumerable laborers who
ministered to this architect, and reserves all its gratitude for him. When we are praising
Plato, it seems we are praising quotations from Solon and Sophron and Philolaus. Be it so.
Every book is a quotation; and every house is a quotation out of all forests and mines and
stone quarries; and every man is a quotation from all his ancestors. And this grasping
inventor puts all nations under contribution.

Plato absorbed the learning of his times,- Philolaus, Timaeus, Heraclitus, Parmenides,
and what else; then his master, Socrates; and finding himself still capable of a larger
synthesis,- beyond all example then or since,- he traveled into Italy, to gain what
Pythagoras had for him; then into Egypt, and perhaps still farther East, to import the
other element, which Europe wanted, into the European mind. This breadth entitles him to
stand as the representative of philosophy. He says, in the Republic, “Such a genius
as philosophers must of necessity have, is wont but seldom in all its parts to meet in one
man, but its different parts generally spring up in different persons.” Every man who
would do anything well, must come to it from a higher ground. A philosopher must be more
than a philosopher. Plato is clothed with the powers of a poet, stands upon the highest
place of the poet, and (though I doubt he wanted the decisive gift of lyric expression),
mainly is not a poet because he chose to use the poetic gift to an ulterior purpose.

Great geniuses have the shortest biographies. Their cousins can tell you nothing about
them. They lived in their writings, and so their house and street life was trivial and
commonplace. If you would know their tastes and complexions, the most admiring of their
readers most resembles them. Plato especially has no external biography. If he had lover,
wife, or children, we hear nothing of them. He ground them all into paint. As a good
chimney burns its smoke, so a philosopher converts the value of all his fortunes into his
intellectual performances.

He was born 427 A.C., about the time of the death of Pericles; was of patrician
connection in his times and city, and is said to have had an early inclination for war,
but, in his twentieth year, meeting with Socrates, was easily dissuaded from this pursuit
and remained for ten years his scholar, until the death of Socrates. He then went to
Megara, accepted the invitations of Dion and of Dionysius to the court of Sicily, and went
thither three times, though very capriciously treated. He traveled into Italy; then into
Egypt, where he stayed a long time; some say three,- some say thirteen years. It is said
he went farther, into Babylonia: this is uncertain. Returning to Athens, he gave lessons
in the Academy to those whom his fame drew thither; and died, as we have received it, in
the act of writing, at eighty-one years.

But the biography of Plato is interior. We are to account for the supreme elevation of
this man in the intellectual history of our race,- how it happens that in proportion to
the culture of men they become his scholars; that, as our Jewish Bible has implanted
itself in the tabletalk and household life of every man and woman in the European and
American nations, so the writings of Plato have preoccupied every school of learning,
every lover of thought, every church, every poet,- making it impossible to think, on
certain levels, except through him. He stands between the truth and every man’s mind, and
has almost impressed language and the primary forms of thought with his name and seal. I
am struck, in reading him, with the extreme modernness of his style and spirit. Here is
the germ of that Europe we know so well, in its long history of arts and arms; here are
all its traits, already discernible in the mind of Plato,- and in none before him. It has
spread itself since into a hundred histories, but has added no new element. This perpetual
modernness is the measure of merit in every work of art; since the author of it was not
misled by any thing short-lived or local, but abode by real and abiding traits. How Plato
came thus to be Europe, and philosophy, and almost literature, is the problem for us to
solve.

This could not have happened without a sound, sincere and catholic man, able to honor,
at the same time, the ideal, or laws of the mind, and fate, or the order of nature. The
first period of a nation, as of an individual, is the period of unconscious strength.
Children cry, scream and stamp with fury, unable to express their desires. As soon as they
can speak and tell their want and the reason of it, they become gentle. In adult life,
whilst the perceptions are obtuse, men and women talk vehemently and superlatively,
blunder and quarrel: their manners are full of desperation; their speech is full of oaths.
As soon as, with culture, things have cleared up a little, and they see them no longer in
lumps and masses but accurately distributed, they desist from that weak vehemence and
explain their meaning in detail. If the tongue had not been framed for articulation, man
would still be a beast in the forest. The same weakness and want, on a higher plane,
occurs daily in the education of ardent young men and women. “Ah! you don’t
understand me; I have never met with any one who comprehends me”: and they sigh and
weep, write verses and walk alone,- fault of power to express their precise meaning. In a
month or two, through the favor of their good genius, they meet some one so related as to
assist their volcanic estate, and, good communication being once established, they are
thenceforward good citizens. It is ever thus. The progress is to accuracy, to skill, to
truth, from blind force.

There is a moment in the history of every nation, when, proceeding out of this brute
youth, the perceptive powers reach their ripeness and have not yet become microscopic: so
that man, at that instant, extends across the entire scale, and, with his feet still
planted on the immense forces of night, converses by his eyes and brain with solar and
stellar creation. That is the moment of adult health, the culmination of power.

Such is the history of Europe, in all points; and such in philosophy. Its early
records, almost perished, are of the immigrations from Asia, bringing with them the dreams
of barbarians; a confusion of crude notions of morals and of natural philosophy, gradually
subsiding through the partial insight of single teachers.

Before Pericles came the Seven Wise Masters, and we have the beginnings of geometry,
metaphysics and ethics: then the partialists,- deducing the origin of things from flux or
water, or from air, or from fire, or from mind. All mix with these causes mythologic
pictures. At last comes Plato, the distributor, who needs no barbaric point, or tattoo, or
whooping; for he can define. He leaves with Asia the vast and superlative; he is the
arrival of accuracy and intelligence. “He shall be as a god to me, who can rightly
divide and define.”

This defining is philosophy. Philosophy is the account which the human mind gives to
itself of the constitution of the world. Two cardinal facts lie forever at the base; the
one, and the two: 1. Unity, or Identity; and, 2. Variety. We unite all things by
perceiving the law which pervades them; by perceiving the superficial differences and the
profound resemblances. But every mental act,- this very perception of identity or oneness,
recognizes the difference of things. Oneness and otherness. It is impossible to speak or
to think without embracing both.

The mind is urged to ask for one cause of many effects; then for the cause of that; and
again the cause, diving still into the profound: self-assured that it shall arrive at an
absolute and sufficient one,- a one that shall be all. “In the midst of the sun is
the light, in the midst of the light is truth, and in the midst of truth is the
imperishable being,” say the Vedas. All philosophy, of East and West, has the same
centripetence. Urged by an opposite necessity, the mind returns from the one to that which
is not one, but other or many; from cause to effect; and affirms the necessary existence
of variety, the self-existence of both, as each is involved in the other. These
strictly-blended elements it is the problem of thought to separate and to reconcile. Their
existence is mutually contradictory and exclusive; and each so fast slides into the other
that we can never say what is one, and what it is not. The Proteus is as nimble in the
highest as in the lowest grounds; when we contemplate the one, the true, the good,- as in
the surfaces and extremities of matter.

In all nations there are minds which incline to dwell in the conception of the
fundamental Unity. The raptures of prayer and ecstasy of devotion lose all being in one
Being. This tendency finds its highest expression in the religious writings of the East,
and chiefly in the Indian Scriptures, in the Vedas, the Bhagavat Geeta, and the Vishnu
Purana. Those writings contain little else than this idea, and they rise to pure and
sublime strains in celebrating it.

The Same, the Same: friend and foe are of one stuff; the ploughman, the plough and the
furrow are of one stuff; and the stuff is such and so much that the variations of form are
unimportant. “You are fit” (says the supreme Krishna to a sage) “to
apprehend that you are not distinct from me. That which I am, thou art, and that also is
this world, with its gods and heroes and mankind. Men contemplate distinctions, because
they are stupefied with ignorance.” “The words I and mine constitute ignorance.
What is the great end of all, you shall now learn from me. It is soul,- one in all bodies,
pervading, uniform, perfect, preeminent over nature, exempt from birth, growth and decay,
omnipresent, made up of true knowledge, independent, unconnected with unrealities, with
name, species and the rest, in time past, present and to come. The knowledge that this
spirit, which is essentially one, is in one’s own and in all other bodies, is the wisdom
of one who knows the unity of things. As one diffusive air, passing through the
perforations of a flute, is distinguished as the notes of a scale, so the nature of the
Great Spirit is single, though its forms be manifold, arising from the consequences of
acts. When the difference of the investing form, as that of god or the rest, is destroyed,
there is no distinction.” “The whole world is but a manifestation of Vishnu, who
is identical with all things, and is to be regarded by the wise as not differing from, but
as the same as themselves. I neither am going nor coming; nor is my dwelling in any one
place; nor art thou, thou; nor are others, others; nor am I, I.” As if he had said,
“All is for the soul, and the soul is Vishnu; and animals and stars are transient
paintings; and light is whitewash; and durations are deceptive; and form is imprisonment;
and heaven itself a decoy.” That which the soul seeks is resolution into being above
form, out of Tartarus and out of heaven,- liberation from nature.

If speculation tends thus to a terrific unity, in which all things are absorbed, action
tends directly backwards to diversity. The first is the course or gravitation of mind; the
second is the power of nature. Nature is the manifold. The unity absorbs, and melts or
reduces. Nature opens and creates. These two principles reappear and interpenetrate all
things, all thought; the one, the many. One is being; the other, intellect: one is
necessity; the other, freedom: one, rest; the other, motion: one, power; the other,
distribution: one, strength; the other, pleasure: one, consciousness; the other,
definition: one, genius; the other, talent: one, earnestness; the other, knowledge: one,
possession; the other, trade: one, caste; the other, culture: one, king; the other,
democracy: and, if we dare carry these generalizations a step higher, and name the last
tendency of both, we might say, that the end of the one is escape from organization,- pure
science; and the end of the other is the highest instrumentality, or use of means, or
executive deity.

Each student adheres, by temperament and by habit, to the first or to the second of
these gods of the mind. By religion, he tends to unity; by intellect, or by the senses, to
the many. A too rapid unification, and an excessive appliance to parts and particulars,
are the twin dangers of speculation.

To this partiality the history of nations corresponded. The country of unity, of
immovable institutions, the seat of a philosophy delighting in abstractions, of men
faithful in doctrine and in practice to the idea of a deaf, unimplorable, immense fate, is
Asia; and it realizes this faith in the social institution of caste. On the other side,
the genius of Europe is active and creative: it resists caste by culture; its philosophy
was a discipline; it is a land of arts, inventions, trade, freedom. If the East loved
infinity, the West delighted in boundaries.

European civility is the triumph of talent, the extension of system, the sharpened
understanding, adaptive skill, delight in forms, delight in manifestation, in
comprehensible results. Pericles, Athens, Greece, had been working in this element with
the joy of genius not yet chilled by any foresight of the detriment of an excess. They saw
before them no sinister political economy; no ominous Malthus; no Paris or London; no
pitiless subdivision of classes,- the doom of the pin-makers, the doom of the weavers, of
dressers, of stockingers, of carders, of spinners, of colliers; no Ireland; no Indian
caste, superinduced by the efforts of Europe to throw it off. The understanding was in its
health and prime. Art was in its splendid novelty. They cut the Pentelican marble as if it
were snow, and their perfect works in architecture and sculpture seemed things of course,
not more difficult than the completion of a new ship at the Medford yards, or new mills at
Lowell. These things are in course, and may be taken for granted. The Roman legion,
Byzantine legislation, English trade, the saloons of Versailles, the cafes of Paris, the
steam-mill, steamboat, steam-coach, may all be seen in perspective; the town-meeting, the
ballot-box, the newspaper and cheap press.

Meantime, Plato, in Egypt and in Eastern pilgrimages, imbibed the idea of one Deity, in
which all things are absorbed. The unity of Asia and the detail of Europe; the infinitude
of the Asiatic soul and the defining, result-loving, machine-making, surface-seeking,
opera-going Europe,- Plato came to join, and, by contact, to enhance the energy of each.
The excellence of Europe and Asia are in his brain. Metaphysics and natural philosophy
expressed the genius of Europe; he substructs the religion of Asia, as the base.

In short, a balanced soul was born, perceptive of the two elements. It is as easy to be
great as to be small. The reason why we do not at once believe in admirable souls is
because they are not in our experience. In actual life, they are so rare as to be
incredible; but primarily there is not only no presumption against them, but the strongest
presumption in favor of their appearance. But whether voices were heard in the sky, or
not; whether his mother or his father dreamed that the infant man-child was the son of
Apollo; whether a swarm of bees settled on his lips, or not;- a man who could see two
sides of a thing was born. The wonderful synthesis so familiar in nature; the upper and
the under side of the medal of Jove; the union of impossibilities, which reappears in
every object; its real and its ideal power,- was now also transferred entire to the
consciousness of a man.

The balanced soul came. If he loved abstract truth, he saved himself by propounding the
most popular of all principles, the absolute good, which rules rulers, and judges the
judge. If he made transcendental distinctions, he fortified himself by drawing all his
illustrations from sources disdained by orators and polite conversers; from mares and
puppies; from pitchers and soup-ladles; from cooks and criers; the shops of potters,
horse-doctors, butchers and fishmongers. He cannot forgive in himself a partiality, but is
resolved that the two poles of thought shall appear in his statement. His argument and his
sentence are self-imposed and spherical. The two poles appear; yes, and become two hands,
to grasp and appropriate their own.

Every great artist has been such by synthesis. Our strength is transitional,
alternating; or, shall I say, a thread of two strands. The sea-shore, sea seen from shore,
shore seen from sea; the taste of two metals in contact; and our enlarged powers at the
approach and at the departure of a friend; the experience of poetic creativeness, which is
not found in staying at home, nor yet in traveling, but in transitions from one to the
other, which must therefore be adroitly managed to present as much transitional surface as
possible; this command of two elements must explain the power and the charm of Plato. Art
expresses the one or the same by the different. Thought seeks to know unity in unity;
poetry to show it by variety; that is, always by an object or symbol. Plato keeps the two
vases, one of aether and one of pigment, at his side, and invariably uses both. Things
added to things, as statistics, civil history, are inventories. Things used as language
are inexhaustibly attractive. Plato turns incessantly the obverse and the reverse of the
medal of Jove.

To take an example:- The physical philosophers had sketched each his theory of the
world; the theory of atoms, of fire, of flux, of spirit; theories mechanical and chemical
in their genius. Plato, a master of mathematics, studious of all natural laws and causes,
feels these, as second causes, to be no theories of the world but bare inventories and
lists. To the study of nature he therefore prefixes the dogma,- “Let us declare the
cause which led the Supreme Ordainer to produce and compose the universe. He was good; and
he who is good has no kind of envy. Exempt from envy, he wished that all things should be
as much as possible like himself. Whosoever, taught by wise men, shall admit this as the
prime cause of the origin and foundation of the world, will be in the truth.” (*9)  “All things are for the sake of the good, and it is the
cause of every thing beautiful.” This dogma animates and impersonates his philosophy.

The synthesis which makes the character of his mind appears in all his talents. Where
there is great compass of wit, we usually find excellencies that combine easily in the
living man, but in description appear incompatible. The mind of Plato is not to be
exhibited by a Chinese catalogue, but is to be apprehended by an original mind in the
exercise of its original power. In him the freest abandonment is united with the precision
of a geometer. His daring imagination gives him the more solid grasp of facts; as the
birds of highest flight have the strongest alar bones. His patrician polish, his intrinsic
elegance, edged by an irony so subtle that it stings and paralyzes, adorn the soundest
health and strength of frame. According to the old sentence, “If Jove should descend
to the earth, he would speak in the style of Plato.”

With this palatial air there is, for the direct aim of several of his works and running
through the tenor of them all, a certain earnestness, which mounts, in the Republic and in
the Phaedo, to piety. He has been charged with feigning sickness at the time of the death
of Socrates. But the anecdotes that have come down from the times attest his manly
interference before the people in his master’s behalf, since even the savage cry of the
assembly to Plato is preserved; and the indignation towards popular government, in many of
his pieces, expresses a personal exasperation. He has a probity, a native reverence for
justice and honor, and a humanity which makes him tender for the superstitions of the
people. Add to this, he believes that poetry, prophecy and the high insight are from a
wisdom of which man is not master; that the gods never philosophize, but by a celestial
mania these miracles are accomplished. Horsed on these winged steeds, he sweeps the dim
regions, visits worlds which flesh cannot enter; he saw the souls in pain, he hears the
doom of the judge, he beholds the penal metempsychosis, the Fates, with the rock and
shears, and hears the intoxicating hum of their spindle.

But his circumspection never forsook him. One would say he had read the inscription on
the gates of Busyrane,- “Be bold”; and on the second gate,- “Be bold, be
bold, and evermore be bold”; and then again had paused well at the third gate,-
“Be not too bold.” His strength is like the momentum of a falling planet, and
his discretion the return of its due and perfect curve,- so excellent is his Greek love of
boundary and his skill in definition. In reading logarithms one is not more secure than in
following Plato in his flights. Nothing can be colder than his head, when the lightnings
of his imagination are playing in the sky. He has finished his thinking before he brings
it to the reader, and he abounds in the surprises of a literary master. He has that
opulence which furnishes, at every turn, the precise weapon he needs. As the rich man
wears no more garments, drives no more horses, sits in no more chambers than the poor,-
but has that one dress, or equipage, or instrument, which is fit for the hour and the
need; so Plato, in his plenty, is never restricted, but has the fit word. There is indeed
no weapon in all the armory of wit which he did not possess and use,- epic, analysis,
mania, intuition, music, satire and irony, down to the customary and polite. His
illustrations are poetry and his jests illustrations. Socrates’ profession of obstetric
art (*10) is good philosophy; and his finding that word
“cookery,” and “adulatory art,” for rhetoric, in the Gorgias, does us
a substantial service still. No orator can measure in effect with him who can give good
nicknames.

What moderation and understatement and checking his thunder in mid volley! He has
good-naturedly furnished the courtier and citizen with all that can be said against the
schools. “For philosophy is an elegant thing, if any one modestly meddles with it;
but if he is conversant with it more than is becoming, it corrupts the man.” He could
well afford to be generous,- he, who from the sunlike centrality and reach of his vision,
had a faith without cloud. Such as his perception, was his speech: he plays with the doubt
and makes the most of it: he paints and quibbles; and by and by comes a sentence that
moves the sea and land. The admirable earnest comes not only at intervals, in the perfect
yes and no of the dialogue, but in bursts of light. “I, therefore, Callicles, am
persuaded by these accounts, and consider how I may exhibit my soul before the judge in a
healthy condition. Wherefore, disregarding the honors that most men value, and looking to
the truth, I shall endeavor in reality to live as virtuously as I can; and when I die, to
die so. And I invite all other men, to the utmost of my power; and you too I in turn
invite to this contest, which, I affirm, surpasses all contests here.” (*11)

He is a great average man; one who, to the best thinking, adds a proportion and
equality in his faculties, so that men see in him their own dreams and glimpses made
available and made to pass for what they are. A great common-sense is his warrant and
qualification to be the world’s interpreter. He has reason, as all the philosophic and
poetic class have: but he has also what they have not,- this strong solving sense to
reconcile his poetry with the appearances of the world, and build a bridge from the
streets of cities to the Atlantis. He omits never this graduation, but slopes his thought,
however picturesque the precipice on one side, to an access from the plain. He never
writes in ecstasy, or catches us up into poetic raptures.

Plato apprehended the cardinal facts. He could prostrate himself on the earth and cover
his eyes whilst he adored that which cannot be numbered, or gauged, or known, or named:
that of which every thing can be affirmed and denied: that “which is entity and
nonentity.” He called it super-essential. He even stood ready, as in the Parmenides,
to demonstrate that it was so,- that this Being exceeded the limits of intellect. No man
ever more fully acknowledged the Ineffable. Having paid his homage, as for the human race,
to the Illimitable, he then stood erect, and for the human race affirmed, “And yet
things are knowable!”- that is, the Asia in his mind was first heartily honored,- the
ocean of love and power, before form, before will, before knowledge, the Same, the Good,
the One; and now, refreshed and empowered by this worship, the instinct of Europe, namely,
culture, returns; and he cries, “Yet things are knowable!” They are knowable,
because being from one, things correspond. There is a scale; and the correspondence of
heaven to earth, of matter to mind, of the part to the whole, is our guide. As there is a
science of stars, called astronomy; a science of quantities, called mathematics; a science
of qualities, called chemistry; so there is a science of sciences,- I call it Dialectic,-
which is the Intellect discriminating the false and the true. It rests on the observation
of identity and diversity; for to judge is to unite to an object the notion which belongs
to it. The sciences, even the best,- mathematics and astronomy,- are like sportsmen, who
seize whatever prey offers, even without being able to make any use of it. Dialectic must
teach the use of them. “This is of that rank that no intellectual man will enter on
any study for its own sake, but only with a view to advance himself in that one sole
science which embraces all.” (*12)

“The essence or peculiarity of man is to comprehend a whole; or that which in the
diversity of sensations can be comprised under a rational unity.” “The soul
which has never perceived the truth, cannot pass into the human form.” (*13)  I announce to men the Intellect. I announce the good of
being interpenetrated by the mind that made nature: this benefit, namely, that it can
understand nature, which it made and maketh. Nature is good, but intellect is better: as
the lawgiver is before the law-receiver. I give you joy, O sons of men! that truth is
altogether wholesome; that we have hope to search out what might be the very self of
everything. The misery of man is to be baulked of the sight of essence and to be stuffed
with conjectures; but the supreme good is reality; the supreme beauty is reality; and all
virtue and all felicity depend on this science of the real: for courage is nothing else
than knowledge; the fairest fortune that can befall man is to be guided by his daemon to
that which is truly his own. This also is the essence of justice,- to attend every one his
own: nay, the notion of virtue is not to be arrived at except through direct contemplation
of the divine essence. Courage then for “the persuasion that we must search that
which we do not know, will render us, beyond comparison, better, braver and more
industrious than if we thought it impossible to discover what we do not know, and useless
to search for it.” He secures a position not to be commanded, by his passion for
reality; valuing philosophy only as it is the pleasure of conversing with real being.

Thus, full of the genius of Europe, he said, Culture. He saw the institutions of Sparta
and recognized, more genially one would say than any since, the hope of education. He
delighted in every accomplishment, in every graceful and useful and truthful performance;
above all in the splendors of genius and intellectual achievement. “The whole of
life, O Socrates,” said Glauco, “is, with the wise, the measure of hearing such
discourses as these.” What a price he sets on the feats of talent, on the powers of
Pericles, of Isocrates, of Parmenides! What price above price on the talents themselves!
He called the several faculties, gods, in his beautiful personation. What value he gives
to the art of gymnastic in education; what to geometry; what to music; what to astronomy,
whose appeasing and medicinal power he celebrates! In the Timaeus he indicates the highest
employment of the eyes. “By us it is asserted that God invented and bestowed sight on
us for this purpose,- that on surveying the circles of intelligence in the heavens, we
might properly employ those of our own minds, which, though disturbed when compared with
the others that are uniform, are still allied to their circulations; and that having thus
learned, and being naturally possessed of a correct reasoning faculty, we might, by
imitating the uniform revolutions of divinity, set right our own wanderings and
blunders.” And in the Republic,- “By each of these disciplines a certain organ
of the soul is both purified and reanimated which is blinded and buried by studies of
another kind; an organ better worth saving than ten thousand eyes, since truth is
perceived by this alone.”

He said, Culture; but he first admitted its basis, and gave immeasurably the first
place to advantages of nature. His patrician tastes laid stress on the distinctions of
birth. In the doctrine of the organic character and disposition is the origin of caste.
“Such as were fit to govern, into their composition the informing Deity mingled gold;
into the military, silver; iron and brass for husbandmen and artificers.” The East
confirms itself, in all ages, in this faith. The Koran is explicit on this point of caste.
“Men have their metal, as of gold and silver. Those of you who were the worthy ones
in the state of ignorance, will be the worthy ones in the state of faith, as soon as you
embrace it.” Plato was not less firm. “Of the five orders of things, only four
can be taught to the generality of men.” In the Republic he insists on the
temperaments of the youth, as first of the first.

A happier example of the stress laid on nature is in the dialogue with the young
Theages, who wishes to receive lessons from Socrates. Socrates declares that if some have
grown wise by associating with him, no thanks are due to him; but, simply, whilst they
were with him they grew wise, not because of him; he pretends not to know the way of it.
“It is adverse to many, nor can those be benefited by associating with me whom the
Daemon opposes; so that it is not possible for me to live with these. With many however he
does not prevent me from conversing, who yet are not at all benefited by associating with
me. Such, O Theages, is the association with me; for, if it pleases the God, you will make
great and rapid proficiency: you will not, if he does not please. Judge whether it is not
safer to be instructed by some one of those who have power over the benefit which they
impart to men, than by me, who benefit or not, just as it may happen.” As if he had
said, “I have no system. I cannot be answerable for you. You will be what you must.
If there is love between us, inconceivably delicious and profitable will our intercourse
be; if not, your time is lost and you will only annoy me. I shall seem to you stupid, and
the reputation I have, false. Quite above us, beyond the will of you or me, is this secret
affinity or repulsion laid. All my good is magnetic, and I educate, not by lessons, but by
going about my business.”

He said, Culture; he said, Nature; and he failed not to add, “There is also the
divine.” There is no thought in any mind but it quickly tends to convert itself into
a power and organizes a huge instrumentality of means. Plato, lover of limits, loved the
illimitable, saw the enlargement and nobility which come from truth itself and good
itself, and attempted as if on the part of the human intellect, once for all to do it
adequate homage,- homage fit for the immense soul to receive, and yet homage becoming the
intellect to render. He said then, “Our faculties run out into infinity, and return
to us thence. We can define but a little way; but here is a fact which will not be
skipped, and which to shut our eyes upon is suicide. All things are in a scale; and, begin
where we will, ascend and ascend. All things are symbolical; and what we call results are
beginnings.”

A key to the method and completeness of Plato is his twice bisected line. After he has
illustrated the relation between the absolute good and true and the forms of the
intelligible world, he says: “Let there be a line cut in two unequal parts. Cut again
each of these two main parts,- one representing the visible, the other the intelligible
world,- and let these two new sections represent the bright part and the dark part of each
of these worlds. You will have, for one of the sections of the visible world, images, that
is, both shadows and reflections;- for the other section, the objects of these images,
that is, plants, animals, and the works of art and nature. Then divide the intelligible
world in like manner; the one section will be of opinions and hypotheses, and the other
section of truths.” (*14)  To these four sections, the four
operations of the soul correspond,- conjecture, faith, understanding, reason. As every
pool reflects the image of the sun, so every thought and thing restores us an image and
creature of the supreme Good. The universe is perforated by a million channels for his
activity. All things mount and mount.

All his thought has this ascension; in Phaedrus, teaching that beauty is the most
lovely of all things, exciting hilarity and shedding desire and confidence through the
universe wherever it enters, and it enters in some degree into all things:- but that there
is another, which is as much more beautiful than beauty as beauty is than chaos; namely,
wisdom, which our wonderful organ of sight cannot reach unto, but which, could it be seen,
would ravish us with its perfect reality. He has the same regard to it as the source of
excellence in works of art. When an artificer, he says, in the fabrication of any work,
looks to that which always subsists according to the same; and, employing a model of this
kind, expresses its idea and power in his work,- it must follow that his production should
be beautiful. But when he beholds that which is born and dies, it will be far from
beautiful.

Thus ever: the Banquet is a teaching in the same spirit, familiar now to all the poetry
and to all the sermons of the world, that the love of the sexes is initial, and symbolizes
at a distance the passion of the soul for that immense lake of beauty it exists to seek.
This faith in the Divinity is never out of mind, and constitutes the ground of all his
dogmas. Body cannot teach wisdom;- God only. In the same mind he constantly affirms that
virtue cannot be taught; that it is not a science, but an inspiration; that the greatest
goods are produced to us through mania and are assigned to us by a divine gift.

This leads me to that central figure which he has established in his Academy as the
organ through which every considered opinion shall be announced, and whose biography he
has likewise so labored that the historic facts are lost in the light of Plato’s mind.
Socrates and Plato are the double star which the most powerful instruments will not
entirely separate. Socrates again, in his traits and genius, is the best example of that
synthesis which constitutes Plato’s extraordinary power. Socrates, a man of humble stem,
but honest enough; of the commonest history; of a personal homeliness so remarkable as to
be a cause of wit in others:- the rather that his broad good nature and exquisite taste
for a joke invited the sally, which was sure to be paid. The players personated him on the
stage; the potters copied his ugly face on their stone jugs. He was a cool fellow, adding
to his humor a perfect temper and a knowledge of his man, be he who he might whom he
talked with, which laid the companion open to certain defeat in any debate,- and in debate
he immoderately delighted. The young men are prodigiously fond of him and invite him to
their feasts, whither he goes for conversation. He can drink, too; has the strongest head
in Athens; and after leaving the whole party under the table, goes away as if nothing had
happened, to begin new dialogues with somebody that is sober. In short, he was what our
country-people call an old one.

He affected a good many citizen-like tastes, was monstrously fond of Athens, hated
trees, never willingly went beyond the walls, knew the old characters, valued the bores
and philistines, thought every thing in Athens a little better than anything in any other
place. He was plain as a Quaker in habit and speech, affected low phrases, and
illustrations from cocks and quails, soup-pans and sycamore-spoons, grooms and farriers,
and unnamable offices,- especially if he talked with any superfine person. He had a
Franklin-like wisdom. Thus he showed one who was afraid to go on foot to Olympia, that it
was no more than his daily walk within doors, if continuously extended, would easily
reach.

Plain old uncle as he was, with his great ears, an immense talker,- the rumor ran that
on one or two occasions, in the war with Boeotia, he had shown a determination which had
covered the retreat of a troop; and there was some story that under cover of folly, he
had, in the city government, when one day he chanced to hold a seat there, evinced a
courage in opposing singly the popular voice, which had well-nigh ruined him. He is very
poor; but then he is hardy as a soldier, and can live on a few olives; usually, in the
strictest sense, on bread and water, except when entertained by his friends. His necessary
expenses were exceedingly small, and no one could live as he did. He wore no under
garment; his upper garment was the same for summer and winter, and he went barefooted; and
it is said that to procure the pleasure, which he loves, of talking at his ease all day
with the most elegant and cultivated young men, he will now and then return to his shop
and carve statues, good or bad, for sale. However that be, it is certain that he had grown
to delight in nothing else than this conversation; and that, under his hypocritical
pretence of knowing nothing, he attacks and brings down all the fine speakers, all the
fine philosophers of Athens, whether natives or strangers from Asia Minor and the islands.
Nobody can refuse to talk with him, he is so honest and really curious to know; a man who
was willingly confuted if he did not speak the truth, and who willingly confuted others
asserting what was false; and not less pleased when confuted than when confuting; for he
thought not any evil happened to men of such a magnitude as false opinion respecting the
just and unjust. A pitiless disputant, who knows nothing, but the bounds of whose
conquering intelligence no man had ever reached; whose temper was imperturbable; whose
dreadful logic was always leisurely and sportive; so careless and ignorant as to disarm
the wariest and draw them, in the pleasantest manner, into horrible doubts and confusion.
But he always knew the way out; knew it, yet would not tell it. No escape; he drives them
to terrible choices by his dilemmas, and tosses the Hippiases and Gorgiases with their
grand reputations, as a boy tosses his balls. The tyrannous realist!- Meno has discoursed
a thousand times, at length, on virtue, before many companies, and very well, as it
appeared to him; but at this moment he cannot even tell what it is,- this cramp-fish of a
Socrates has so bewitched him.

This hard-headed humorist, whose strange conceits, drollery and bonhommie diverted the
young patricians, whilst the rumor of his sayings and quibbles gets abroad every day,-
turns out, in the sequel, to have a probity as invincible as his logic, and to be either
insane, or at least, under cover of this play, enthusiastic in his religion. When accused
before the judges of subverting the popular creed, he affirms the immortality of the soul,
the future reward and punishment; and refusing to recant, in a caprice of the popular
government was condemned to die, and sent to the prison. Socrates entered the prison and
took away all ignominy from the place, which could not be a prison whilst he was there.
Crito bribed the jailer; but Socrates would not go out by treachery. “Whatever
inconvenience ensue, nothing is to be preferred before justice. These things I hear like
pipes and drums, whose sound makes me deaf to every thing you say.” The fame of this
prison, the fame of the discourses there and the drinking of the hemlock are one of the
most precious passages in the history of the world.

The rare coincidence, in one ugly body, of the droll and the martyr, the keen street
and market debater with the sweetest saint known to any history at that time, had forcibly
struck the mind of Plato, so capacious of these contrasts; and the figure of Socrates by a
necessity placed itself in the foreground of the scene, as the fittest dispenser of the
intellectual treasures he had to communicate. It was a rare fortune that this Aesop of the
mob and this robed scholar should meet, to make each other immortal in their mutual
faculty. The strange synthesis in the character of Socrates capped the synthesis in the
mind of Plato. Moreover by this means he was able, in the direct way and without envy to
avail himself of the wit and weight of Socrates, to which unquestionably his own debt was
great; and these derived again their principal advantage from the perfect art of Plato.

It remains to say that the defect of Plato in power is only that which results
inevitably from his quality. He is intellectual in his aim; and therefore, in expression,
literary. Mounting into heaven, diving into the pit, expounding the laws of the state, the
passion of love, the remorse of crime, the hope of the parting soul,- he is literary, and
never otherwise. It is almost the sole deduction from the merit of Plato that his writings
have not,- what is no doubt incident to this regnancy of intellect in his work,- the vital
authority which the screams of prophets and the sermons of unlettered Arabs and Jews
possess. There is an interval; and to cohesion, contact is necessary.

I know not what can be said in reply to this criticism but that we have come to a fact
in the nature of things: an oak is not an orange. The qualities of sugar remain with
sugar, and those of salt with salt.

In the second place, he has not a system. The dearest defenders and disciples are at
fault. He attempted a theory of the universe, and his theory is not complete or
self-evident. One man thinks he means this, and another that; he has said one thing in one
place, and the reverse of it in another place. He is charged with having failed to make
the transition from ideas to matter. Here is the world, sound as a nut, perfect, not the
smallest piece of chaos left, never a stitch nor an end, not a mark of haste, or botching,
or second thought; but the theory of the world is a thing of shreds and patches.

The longest wave is quickly lost in the sea. Plato would willingly have a Platonism, a
known and accurate expression for the world, and it should be accurate. It shall be the
world passed through the mind of Plato,- nothing less. Every atom shall have the Platonic
tinge; every atom, every relation or quality you knew before, you shall know again and
find here, but now ordered; not nature, but art. And you shall feel that Alexander indeed
overran, with men and horses, some countries of the planet; but countries, and things of
which countries are made, elements, planet itself, laws of planet and of men, have passed
through this man as bread into his body, and become no longer bread, but body: so all this
mammoth morsel has become Plato. He has clapped copyright on the world. This is the
ambition of individualism. But the mouthful proves too large. Boa constrictor has good
will to eat it, but he is foiled. He falls abroad in the attempt; and biting, gets
strangled: the bitten world holds the biter fast by his own teeth. There he perishes:
unconquered nature lives on and forgets him. So it fares with all: so must it fare with
Plato. In view of eternal nature, Plato turns out to be philosophical exercitations. He
argues on this side and on that. The acutest German, the lovingest disciple, could never
tell what Platonism was; indeed, admirable texts can be quoted on both sides of every
great question from him. (*15)

These things we are forced to say if we must consider the effort of Plato or of any
philosopher to dispose of nature,- which will not be disposed of. No power of genius has
ever yet had the smallest success in explaining existence. The perfect enigma remains. But
there is an injustice in assuming this ambition for Plato. Let us not seem to treat with
flippancy his venerable name. Men, in proportion to their intellect, have admitted his
transcendent claims. The way to know him is to compare him, not with nature, but with
other men. How many ages have gone by, and he remains unapproached! A chief structure of
human wit, like Karnac, or the medieval cathedrals, or the Etrurian remains, it requires
all the breath of human faculty to know it. I think it is trueliest seen when seen with
the most respect. His sense deepens, his merits multiply, with study. When we say, Here is
a fine collection of fables; or when we praise the style, or the common sense, or
arithmetic, we speak as boys, and much of our impatient criticism of the dialectic, I
suspect, is no better.

The criticism is like our impatience of miles, when we are in a hurry; but it is still
best that a mile should have seventeen hundred and sixty yards. The great-eyed Plato
proportioned the lights and shades after the genius of our life.

[Notes from the Centenary Edition of Emerson’s Complete Works, edited by his son,
Edward Waldo Emerson:]

*(7) The less usual use of “secular,” in its strict classical
sense, to mean “that live through the ages.”

*(8) Omar the Caliph was Mahomet’s cousin and second successor.

*(9) From the Timaeus.

*(10) From the Theaetetus.

*(11) From the Gorgias.

*(12) Compare the Republic, Book VII.

*(13) From the Phaedrus.

*(14) See the Republic, Book VI.

*(15) What Mr. Emerson says here of Plato, and also earlier, “He
cannot forgive in himself a partiality, but is resolved that the two poles of thought
shall appear in his statement,” cannot but recall his own method of presenting in
turn different facets of the gem of truth. Churchman and Agnostic can easily find good
weapons for argument in his works. Dr. Holmes says of this passage, “Some will smile
at hearing him say this of another.” It illustrates the felicity of the Doctor’s
remark that Emerson holds up the mirror to his characters at just such an angle that we
see his own face as well as that of his hero.

* * *

Plato: New Readings (by Ralph Waldo Emerson)

04 Monday Jan 2010

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in 1800s, American, Emerson (Ralph Waldo), Essays, Plato

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Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
25 May 1803 – 27 April 1882

Plato: New Readings
by Ralph Waldo Emerson
from Representative Men, 1850

The publication, in Mr. Bohn’s “Serial Library,” of the excellent
translations of Plato, which we esteem one of the chief benefits the cheap press has
yielded, gives us an occasion to take hastily a few more notes of the elevation and
bearings of this fixed star; or to add a bulletin, like the journals, of Plato at the
latest dates
.

Modern science, by the extent of its generalization, has learned to indemnify the
student of man for the defects of individuals by tracing growth and ascent in races; and,
by the simple expedient of lighting up the vast background, generates a feeling of
complacency and hope. The human being has the saurian and the plant in his rear. His arts
and sciences, the easy issue of his brain, look glorious when prospectively beheld from
the distant brain of ox, crocodile and fish. It seems as if nature, in regarding the
geologic night behind her, when, in five or six millenniums, she had turned out five or
six men, as Homer, Phidias, Menu and Columbus, was no wise discontented with the result.
These samples attested the virtue of the tree. These were a clear amelioration of
trilobite and saurus, and a good basis for further proceeding. With this artist, time and
space are cheap, and she is insensible to what you say of tedious preparation. She waited
tranquilly the flowing periods of paleontology, for the hour to be struck when man should
arrive. Then periods must pass before the motion of the earth can be suspected; then
before the map of the instincts and the cultivable powers can be drawn. But as of races,
so the succession of individual men is fatal and beautiful, and Plato has the fortune in
the history of mankind to mark an epoch.

Plato’s fame does not stand on a syllogism, or on any masterpieces of the Socratic
reasoning, or on any thesis, as for example the immortality of the soul. He is more than
an expert, or a schoolman, or a geometer, or the prophet of a peculiar message. He
represents the privilege of the intellect, the power, namely, of carrying up every fact to
successive platforms and so disclosing in every fact a germ of expansion. These expansions
are in the essence of thought. The naturalist would never help us to them by any
discoveries of the extent of the universe, but is as poor when cataloguing the resolved
nebula of Orion, as when measuring the angles of an acre. But the Republic of Plato, by
these expansions, may be said to require and so to anticipate the astronomy of Laplace.
The expansions are organic. The mind does not create what it perceives, any more than the
eye creates the rose. In ascribing to Plato the merit of announcing them, we only say,
Here was a more complete man, who could apply to nature the whole scale of the senses, the
understanding and the reason. These expansions or extensions consist in continuing the
spiritual sight where the horizon falls on our natural vision, and by this second sight
discovering the long lines of law which shoot in every direction. Everywhere he stands on
a path which has no end, but runs continuously round the universe. Therefore every word
becomes an exponent of nature. Whatever he looks upon discloses a second sense, and
ulterior senses. His perception of the generation of contraries, of death out of life and
life out of death,- that law by which, in nature, decomposition is recomposition, and
putrefaction and cholera are only signals of a new creation; his discernment of the little
in the large and the large in the small; studying the state in the citizen and the citizen
in the state; and leaving it doubtful whether he exhibited the Republic as an allegory on
the education of the private soul; his beautiful definitions of ideas, of time, of form,
of figure, of the line, sometimes hypothetically given, as his defining of virtue,
courage, justice, temperance; his love of the apologue, and his apologues themselves; the
cave of Trophonius; the ring of Gyges; the charioteer and two horses; the golden, silver,
brass and iron temperaments; Theuth and Thamus; and the visions of Hades and the Fates,-
fables which have imprinted themselves in the human memory like the signs of the zodiac;
his soliform eye and his boniform soul; (*16) his doctrine of
assimilation; his doctrine of reminiscence; his clear vision of the laws of return, or
reaction, which secure instant justice throughout the universe, instanced everywhere, but
specially in the doctrine, “what comes from God to us, returns from us to God,”
and in Socrates’ belief that the laws below are sisters of the laws above.

More striking examples are his moral conclusions. Plato affirms the coincidence of
science and virtue; for vice can never know itself and virtue, but virtue knows both
itself and vice. The eye attested that justice was best, as long as it was profitable;
Plato affirms that it is profitable throughout; that the profit is intrinsic, though the
just conceal his justice from gods and men; that it is better to suffer injustice than to
do it; that the sinner ought to covet punishment; that the lie was more hurtful than
homicide; and that ignorance, or the involuntary lie, was more calamitous than involuntary
homicide; that the soul is unwillingly deprived of true opinions, and that no man sins
willingly; that the order or proceeding of nature was from the mind to the body, and,
though a sound body cannot restore an unsound mind, yet a good soul can, by its virtue,
render the body the best possible. The intelligent have a right over the ignorant, namely,
the right of instructing them. The right punishment of one out of tune is to make him play
in tune; the fine which the good, refusing to govern, ought to pay, is, to be governed by
a worse man; that his guards shall not handle gold and silver, but shall be instructed
that there is gold and silver in their souls, which will make men willing to give them
every thing which they need.

This second sight explains the stress laid on geometry. He saw that the globe of earth
was not more lawful and precise than was the supersensible; that a celestial geometry was
in place there, as a logic of lines and angles here below; that the world was throughout
mathematical; the proportions are constant of oxygen, azote and lime; there is just so
much water and slate and magnesia; not less are the proportions constant of the moral
elements.

This eldest Goethe, hating varnish and falsehood, delighted in revealing the real at
the base of the accidental; in discovering connection, continuity and representation
everywhere, hating insulation; and appears like the god of wealth among the cabins of
vagabonds, opening power and capability in everything he touches. Ethical science was new
and vacant when Plato could write thus:- “Of all whose arguments are left to the men
of the present time, no one has ever yet condemned injustice, or praised justice,
otherwise than as respects the repute, honors and emoluments arising therefrom; while, as
respects either of them in itself, and subsisting by its own power in the soul of the
possessor, and concealed both from gods and men, no one has yet sufficiently investigated,
either in poetry or prose writings,- how, namely, that injustice is the greatest of all
the evils that the soul has within it, and justice the greatest good.”

His definition of ideas, as what is simple, permanent, uniform and self-existent,
forever discriminating them from the notions of the understanding, marks an era in the
world. He was born to behold the self-evolving power of spirit, endless, generator of new
ends; a power which is the key at once to the centrality and the evanescence of things.
Plato is so centred that he can well spare all his dogmas. Thus the fact of knowledge and
ideas reveals to him the fact of eternity; and the doctrine of reminiscence he offers as
the most probable particular explication. Call that fanciful,- it matters not: the
connection between our knowledge and the abyss of being is still real, and the explication
must be not less magnificent.

He has indicated every eminent point in speculation. He wrote on the scale of the mind
itself, so that all things have symmetry in his tablet. He put in all the past, without
weariness, and descended into detail with a courage like that he witnessed in nature. One
would say that his forerunners had mapped out each a farm or a district or an island, in
intellectual geography, but that Plato first drew the sphere. He domesticates the soul in
nature: man is the microcosm. All the circles of the visible heaven represent as many
circles in the rational soul. There is no lawless particle, and there is nothing casual in
the action of the human mind. The names of things, too, are fatal, following the nature of
things. All the gods of the Pantheon are, by their names, significant of a profound sense.
The gods are the ideas. Pan is speech, or manifestation; Saturn, the contemplative; Jove,
the regal soul; and Mars, passion. Venus is proportion; Calliope, the soul of the world;
Aglaia, intellectual illustration.

These thoughts, in sparkles of light, had appeared often to pious and to poetic souls;
but this well-bred, all-knowing Greek geometer comes with command, gathers them all up
into rank and gradation, the Euclid of holiness, and marries the two parts of nature.
Before all men, he saw the intellectual values of the moral sentiment. He describes his
own ideal, when he paints, in Timaeus, a god leading things from disorder into order. He
kindled a fire so truly in the centre that we see the sphere illuminated, and can
distinguish poles, equator and lines of latitude, every arc and node: a theory so
averaged, so modulated, that you would say the winds of ages had swept through this
rhythmic structure, and not that it was the brief extempore blotting of one short-lived
scribe. Hence it has happened that a very well-marked class of souls, namely those who
delight in giving a spiritual, that is, an ethico-intellectual expression to every truth,
by exhibiting an ulterior end which is yet legitimate to it,- are said to Platonize. Thus,
Michael Angelo is a Platonist in his sonnets: Shakespeare is a Platonist when he writes,-

“Nature is made better by no mean,
But nature makes that mean,”

or,-

          “He, that can endure
To follow with allegiance a fallen lord,
Does conquer him that did his master conquer,
And earns a place in the story.”

Hamlet is a pure Platonist, and ’tis the magnitude only of Shakespeare’s proper genius
that hinders him from being classed as the most eminent of this school. Swedenborg,
throughout his prose poem of “Conjugal Love,” is a Platonist.

His subtlety commended him to men of thought. The secret of his popular success is the
moral aim which endeared him to mankind. “Intellect,” he said, “is king of
heaven and of earth”; but in Plato, intellect is always moral. His writings have also
the sempiternal youth of poetry. For their arguments, most of them, might have been
couched in sonnets: and poetry has never soared higher than in the Timaeus and the
Phaedrus. As the poet, too, he is only contemplative. He did not, like Pythagoras, break
himself with an institution. All his painting in the Republic must be esteemed mythical,
with intent to bring out, sometimes in violent colors, his thought. You cannot institute,
without peril of charlatanism.

It was a high scheme, his absolute privilege for the best (which, to make emphatic, he
expressed by community of women), as the premium which he would set on grandeur. There
shall be exempts of two kinds: first, those who by demerit have put themselves below
protection,- outlaws; and secondly, those who by eminence of nature and desert are out of
the reach of your rewards. Let such be free of the city and above the law. We confide them
to themselves; let them do with us as they will. Let none presume to measure the
irregularities of Michael Angelo and Socrates by village scales.

In his eighth book of the Republic, he throws a little mathematical dust in our eyes. I
am sorry to see him, after such noble superiorities, permitting the lie to governors.
Plato plays Providence a little with the baser sort, as people allow themselves with their
dogs and cats.

[Notes from the Centenary Edition of Emerson’s Complete Works, edited by his son,
Edward Waldo Emerson:]

*(16) …his soliform eye and his boniform soul: Dr. Holmes says,
“These two quaint adjectives are from the mint of Cudworth.”

* * *

Philebus – a Dialogue by Plato

01 Monday Jun 2009

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in BC, Greek, Philosophy, Plato

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Photobucket
Plato  [image by Leonardo da Vinci]


Philebus
by Plato
translated by Benjamin Jowett


Persons of the Dialogue:
SOCRATES;
PROTARCHUS;
PHILEBUS.


[Socrates.] Observe, Protarchus, the nature of the position which you are now going to take from Philebus, and what the other position is which I maintain, and which, if you do not approve of it, is to be controverted by you. Shall you and I sum up the two sides?

[Protarchus.] By all means.

[Soc.] Philebus was saying that enjoyment and pleasure and delight, and the class of feelings akin to them, are a good to every living being, whereas I contend, that not these, but wisdom and intelligence and memory, and their kindred, right opinion and true reasoning, are better and more desirable than pleasure for all who are able to partake of them, and that to all such who are or ever will be they are the most advantageous of all things. Have I not given, Philebus, a fair statement of the two sides of the argument?

[Philebus] Nothing could be fairer, Socrates.

[Soc.] And do you, the position which is assigned to you?

[Pro.] I cannot do otherwise, since our excellent Philebus has left the field.

[Soc.] Surely the truth about these matters ought, by all means, to be ascertained.

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] Shall we further agree-

[Pro.] To what?

[Soc.] That you and I must now try to indicate some state and disposition of the soul, which has the property of making all men happy.

[Pro.] Yes, by all means.

[Soc.] And you say that pleasure and I say that wisdom, is such a state?

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] And what if there be a third state, which is better than either? Then both of us are vanquished-are we not? But if this life, which really has the power of making men happy, turn out to be more akin to pleasure than to wisdom, the life of pleasure may still have the advantage over the life of wisdom.

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] Or suppose that the better life is more nearly allied to wisdom, then wisdom conquers, and pleasure is defeated;-do you agree?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And what do you say, Philebus?

[Phi.] I say; and shall always say, that pleasure is easily the conqueror; but you must decide for yourself, Protarchus.

[Pro.] You, Philebus, have handed over the argument to me, and have no longer a voice in the matter?

[Phi.] True enough. Nevertheless I would dear myself and deliver my soul of you; and I call the goddess herself to witness that I now do so.

[Pro.] You may appeal to us; we too be the witnesses of your words. And now, Socrates, whether Philebus is pleased or displeased, we will proceed with the argument.

[Soc.] Then let us begin with the goddess herself, of whom Philebus says that she is called Aphrodite, but that her real name is Pleasure.

[Pro.] Very good.

[Soc.] The awe which I always feel, Protarchus, about the names of the gods is more than human-it exceeds all other fears. And now I would not sin against Aphrodite by naming her amiss; let her be called what she pleases. But Pleasure I know to be manifold, and with her, as I was just now saying, we must begin, and consider what her nature is. She has one name, and therefore you would imagine that she is one; and yet surely she takes the most varied and even unlike forms. For do we not say that the intemperate has pleasure, and that the temperate has pleasure in his very temperance-that the fool is pleased when he is full of foolish fancies and hopes, and that the wise man has pleasure in his wisdom? and how foolish would any one be who affirmed that all these opposite pleasures are severally alike!

[Pro.] Why, Socrates, they are opposed in so far as they spring from opposite sources, but they are not in themselves opposite. For must not pleasure be of all things most absolutely like pleasure-that is, like himself?

[Soc.] Yes, my good friend, just as colour is like colour;-in so far as colours are colours, there is no difference between them; and yet

we all know that black is not only unlike, but even absolutely opposed to white: or again, as figure is like figure, for all figures are comprehended under one class; and yet particular figures may be absolutely opposed to one another, and there is an infinite diversity of them. And we might find similar examples in many other things; therefore do not rely upon this argument, which would go to prove the unity of the most extreme opposites. And I suspect that we shall find a similar opposition among pleasures.

[Pro.] Very likely; but how will this invalidate the argument?

[Soc.] Why, I shall reply, that dissimilar as they are, you apply to them a now predicate, for you say that all pleasant things are good; now although no one can argue that pleasure is not pleasure, he may argue, as we are doing, that pleasures are oftener bad than good; but you call them all good, and at the same time are compelled, if you are pressed, to acknowledge that they are unlike. And so you must tell us what is the identical quality existing alike in good and bad pleasures, which makes. you designate all of them as good.

[Pro.] What do you mean, Socrates? Do you think that any one who asserts pleasure to be the good, will tolerate the notion that some Pleasures are good and others bad?

[Soc.] And yet you will acknowledge that they are different from one another, and sometimes opposed?

[Pro.] Not in so far as they are pleasures.

[Soc.] That is a return to the old position, Protarchus, and so we are to say (are we?) that there is no difference in pleasures, but that they are all alike; and the examples which have just been cited do not pierce our dull minds, but we go on arguing all the same, like the weakest and most inexperienced reasoners?

[Pro.] What do you mean?

[Soc.] Why, I mean to say, that in self-defence I may, if I like, follow your example, and assert boldly that the two things most unlike are most absolutely alike; and the result will be that you and I will prove ourselves to be very tyros in the art of disputing; and the argument will be blown away and lost. Suppose that we put back, and return to the old position; then perhaps we may come to an understanding with one another.

[Pro.] How do you mean?

[Soc.] Shall I, Protarchus, have my own question asked of me by you?

[Pro.] What question?

[Soc.] Ask me whether wisdom and science and mind, and those other qualities which I, when asked by you at first what is the nature of the good, affirmed to be good, are not in the same case with the pleasures of which you spoke.

[Pro.] What do you mean?

[Soc.] The sciences are a numerous class, and will be found to present great differences. But even admitting that, like the pleasures, they are opposite as well as different, should I be worthy of the name of dialectician if, in order to avoid this difficulty, I were to say (as you are saying of pleasure) that there is no difference between one science and another;-would not the argument founder and disappear like an idle tale, although we might ourselves escape drowning by clinging to a fallacy?

[Pro.] May none of this befall us, except the deliverance! Yet I like the even-handed justice which is applied to both our arguments. Let us assume, then, that there are many and diverse pleasures, and many and different sciences.

[Soc.] And let us have no concealment, Protarchus, of the differences between my good and yours; but let us bring them to the light in the hope that, in the process of testing them, they may show whether pleasure is to be called the good, or wisdom, or some third quality; for surely we are not now simply contending in order that my view or that yours may prevail, but I presume that we ought both of us to be fighting for the truth.

[Pro.] Certainly we ought.

[Soc.] Then let us have a more definite understanding and establish the principle on which the argument rests.

[Pro.] What principle?

[Soc.] A principle about which all men are always in a difficulty, and some men sometimes against their will.

[Pro.] Speak plainer.

[Soc.] The principle which has just turned up, which is a marvel of nature; for that one should be many or many one, are wonderful propositions; and he who affirms either is very open to attack.

[Pro.] Do you mean, when a person says that I, Protarchus, am by nature one and also many, dividing the single “me” into many “mens,” and even opposing them as great and small, light and heavy, and in ten thousand other ways?

[Soc.] Those, Protarchus, are the common and acknowledged paradoxes about the one and many, which I may say that everybody has by this time agreed to dismiss as childish and obvious and detrimental to the true course of thought; and no more favour is shown to that other puzzle, in which a person proves the members and parts of anything to be divided, and then confessing that they are all one, says laughingly in disproof of his own words: Why, here is a miracle, the one is many and infinite, and the many are only one.

[Pro.] But what, Socrates, are those other marvels connected with this subject which, as you imply, have not yet become common and acknowledged?

[Soc.] When, my boy, the one does not belong to the class of things that are born and perish, as in the instances which we were giving, for in those cases, and when unity is of this concrete nature, there is, as I was saying, a universal consent that no refutation is needed; but when the assertion is made that man is one, or ox is one, or beauty one, or the good one, then the interest which attaches to these and similar unities and the attempt which is made to divide them gives birth to a controversy.

[Pro.] Of what nature?

[Soc.] In the first place, as to whether these unities have a real existence; and then how each individual unity, being always the same, and incapable either of generation of destruction, but retaining a permanent individuality, can be conceived either as dispersed and multiplied in the infinity of the world of generation, or as still entire and yet divided from itself, which latter would seem to be the greatest impossibility of all, for how can one and the same thing be at the same time in one and in many things? These, Protarchus, are the real difficulties, and this is the one and many to which they relate; they are the source of great perplexity if ill decided, and the right determination of them is very helpful.

[Pro.] Then, Socrates, let us begin by clearing up these questions.

[Soc.] That is what I should wish.

[Pro.] And I am sure that all my other friends will be glad to hear them discussed; Philebus, fortunately for us, is not disposed to move, and we had better not stir him up with questions.

[Soc.] Good; and where shall we begin this great and multifarious battle, in which such various points are at issue? Shall begin thus?

[Pro.] How?

[Soc.] We say that the one and many become identified by thought, and that now, as in time past, they run about together, in and out of every word which is uttered, and that this union of them will never cease, and is not now beginning, but is, as I believe, an everlasting quality of thought itself, which never grows old. Any young man, when he first tastes these subtleties, is delighted, and fancies that he has found a treasure of wisdom; in the first enthusiasm of his joy he leaves no stone, or rather no thought unturned, now rolling up the many into the one, and kneading them together, now unfolding and dividing them; he puzzles himself first and above all, and then he proceeds to puzzle his neighbours, whether they are older or younger, or of his own age-that makes no difference; neither father nor mother does he spare; no human being who has ears is safe from him, hardly even his dog, and a barbarian would have no chance of escaping him, if an interpreter could only be found.

[Pro.] Considering, Socrates, how many we are, and that all of us are young men, is there not a danger that we and Philebus may all set upon you, if you abuse us? We understand what you mean; but is there no charm by which we may dispel all this confusion, no more excellent way of arriving at the truth? If there is, we hope that you will guide us into that way, and we will do our best to follow, for the enquiry in which we are engaged, Socrates, is not unimportant.

[Soc.] The reverse of unimportant, my boys, as Philebus calls you, and there neither is nor ever will be a better than my own favourite way, which has nevertheless already often deserted me and left me helpless in the hour of need.

[Pro.] Tell us what that is.

[Soc.] One which may be easily pointed out, but is by no means easy of application; it is the parent of all the discoveries in the arts.

[Pro.] Tell us what it is.

[Soc.] A gift of heaven, which, as I conceive, the gods tossed among men by the hands of a new Prometheus, and therewith a blaze of light; and the ancients, who were our betters and nearer the gods than we are, handed down the tradition, that whatever things are said to be are composed of one and many, and have the finite, and infinite implanted in them: seeing, then, that such is the order of the world, we too ought in every enquiry to begin by laying down one idea of that which is the subject of enquiry; this unity we shall find in everything. Having found it, we may next proceed to look for two, if there be two, or, if not, then for three or some other number, subdividing each of these units, until at last the unity with which we began is seen not only to be one and many and infinite, but also a definite number; the infinite must not be suffered to approach the many until the entire number of the species intermediate between unity and infinity has been discovered-then, and not till then, we may, rest from division, and without further troubling ourselves about the endless individuals may allow them to drop into infinity. This, as I was saying, is the way of considering and learning and teaching one another, which the gods have handed down to us. But the wise men of our time are either too quick or too slow, in conceiving plurality in unity. Having no method, they make their one and many anyhow, and from unity pass at once to infinity; the intermediate steps never occur to them. And this, I repeat, is what makes the difference between the mere art of disputation and true dialectic.

[Pro.] I think that I partly understand you Socrates, but I should like to have a clearer notion of what you are saying.

[Soc.] I may illustrate my meaning by the letters of the alphabet, Protarchus, which you were made to learn as a child.

[Pro.] How do they afford an illustration?

[Soc.] The sound which passes through the lips whether of an individual or of all men is one and yet infinite.

[Pro.] Very true.

[Soc.] And yet not by knowing either that sound is one or that sound is infinite are we perfect in the art of speech, but the knowledge of the number and nature of sounds is what makes a man a grammarian.

[Pro.] Very true.

[Soc.] And the knowledge which makes a man a musician is of the same kind.

[Pro.] How so?

[Soc.] Sound is one in music as well as in grammar?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And there is a higher note and a lower note, and a note of equal pitch:-may we affirm so much?

[Pro.] Yes.

[Soc.] But you would not be a real musician if this was all that you knew; though if you did not know this you would know almost nothing of music.

[Pro.] Nothing.

[Soc.] But when you have learned what sounds are high and what low, and the number and nature of the intervals and their limits or proportions, and the systems compounded out of them, which our fathers discovered, and have handed down to us who are their descendants under the name of harmonies; and the affections corresponding to them in the movements of the human body, which when measured by numbers ought, as they say, to be called rhythms and measures; and they tell us that the same principle should be applied to every one and many;-when, I say, you have learned all this, then, my dear friend, you are perfect; and you may be said to understand any other subject, when you have a similar grasp of it. But the, infinity of kinds and the infinity of individuals which there is in each of them, when not classified, creates in every one of us a state of infinite ignorance; and he who never looks for number in anything, will not himself be looked for in the number of famous men.

[Pro.] I think that what Socrates is now saying is excellent, Philebus.

[Phi.] I think so too, but how do his words bear upon us and upon the argument?

[Soc.] Philebus is right in asking that question of us, Protarchus.

[Pro.] Indeed he is, and you must answer him.

[Soc.] I will; but you must let me make one little remark first about these matters; I was saying, that he who begins with any individual unity, should proceed from that, not to infinity, but to a definite number, and now I say conversely, that he who has to begin with infinity should not jump to unity, but he should look about for some number, representing a certain quantity, and thus out of all end in one. And now let us return for an illustration of our principle to the case of letters.

[Pro.] What do you mean?

[Soc.] Some god or divine man, who in the Egyptian legend is said to have been Theuth, observing that the human voice was infinite, first distinguished in this infinity a certain number of vowels, and then other letters which had sound, but were not pure vowels (i.e., the semivowels); these too exist in a definite number; and lastly, he distinguished a third class of letters which we now call mutes, without voice and without sound, and divided these, and likewise the two other classes of vowels and semivowels, into the individual sounds, told the number of them, and gave to each and all of them the name of letters; and observing that none of us could learn any one of them and not learn them all, and in consideration of this common bond which in a manner united them, he assigned to them all a single art, and this he called the art of grammar or letters.

[Phi.] The illustration, Protarchus, has assisted me in understanding the original statement, but I still feel the defect of which I just now complained.

[Soc.] Are you going to ask, Philebus, what this has to do with the argument?

[Phi.] Yes, that is a question which Protarchus and I have been long asking.

[Soc.] Assuredly you have already arrived at the answer to the question which, as you say, you have been so long asking?

[Phi.] How so?

[Soc.] Did we not begin by enquiring into the comparative eligibility of pleasure and wisdom?

[Phi.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And we maintain that they are each of them one?

[Phi.] True.

[Soc.] And the precise question to which the previous discussion desires an answer is, how they are one and also many [i.e., how they have one genus and many species], and are not at once infinite, and what number of species is to be assigned to either of them before they pass into infinity.

[Pro.] That is a very serious question, Philebus, to which Socrates has ingeniously brought us round, and please to consider which of us shall answer him; there may be something ridiculous in my being unable to answer, and therefore imposing the task upon you, when I have undertaken the whole charge of the argument, but if neither of us were able to answer, the result methinks would be still more ridiculous. Let us consider, then, what we are to do:-Socrates, if I understood him rightly, is asking whether there are not kinds of pleasure, and what is the number and nature of them, and the same of wisdom.

[Soc.] Most true, O son of Callias; and the previous argument showed that if we are not able to tell the kinds of everything that has unity, likeness, sameness, or their opposites, none of us will be of the smallest use in any enquiry.

[Pro.] That seems to be very near the truth, Socrates. Happy would the wise man be if he knew all things, and the next best thing for him is that he should know himself. Why do I say so at this moment? I will tell you. You, Socrates, have granted us this opportunity of conversing with you, and are ready to assist us in determining what is the best of human goods. For when Philebus said that pleasure and delight and enjoyment and the like were the chief good, you answered-No, not those, but another class of goods; and we are constantly reminding ourselves of what you said, and very properly, in order that we may not forget to examine and compare the two. And these goods, which in your opinion are to be designated as superior to pleasure, and are the true objects of pursuit, are mind and knowledge and understanding and art and the like. There was a dispute about which were the best, and we playfully threatened that you should not be allowed to go home until the question was settled; and you agreed, and placed yourself at our disposal. And now, as children say, what has been fairly given cannot be taken back; cease then to fight against us in this way.

[Soc.] In what way?

[Phi.] Do not perplex us, and keep asking questions of us to which we have not as yet any sufficient answer to give; let us not imagine that a general puzzling of us all is to be the end of our discussion, but if we are unable to answer, do you answer, as you have promised. Consider, then, whether you will divide pleasure and knowledge according to their kinds; or you may let the matter drop, if you are able and willing to find some other mode of clearing up our controversy.

[Soc.] If you say that, I have nothing to apprehend, for the words “if you are willing” dispel all my fear; and, moreover, a god seems to have recalled something to my mind.

[Phi.] What is that?

[Soc.] I remember to have heard long ago certain discussions about pleasure and wisdom, whether awake or in a dream I cannot tell; they were to the effect that neither the one nor the other of them was the good, but some third thing, which was different from them, and better than either. If this be clearly established, then pleasure will lose the victory, for the good will cease to be identified with her:-Am I not right?

[Pro.] Yes.

[Soc.] And there will cease to be any need of distinguishing the kinds of pleasures, as I am inclined to think, but this will appear more clearly as we proceed.

[Pro.] Capital, Socrates; pray go on as you propose.

[Soc.] But, let us first agree on some little points.

[Pro.] What are they?

[Soc.] Is the good perfect or imperfect?

[Pro.] The most perfect, Socrates, of all things.

[Soc.] And is the good sufficient?

[Pro.] Yes, certainly, and in a degree surpassing all other things.

[Soc.] And no one can deny that all percipient beings desire and hunt after good, and are eager to catch and have the good about them, and care not for the attainment of anything which its not accompanied by good.

[Pro.] That is undeniable.

[Soc.] Now let us part off the life of pleasure from the life of wisdom, and pass them in review.

[Pro.] How do you mean?

[Soc.] Let there be no wisdom in the life of pleasure, nor any pleasure in the life of wisdom, for if either of them is the chief good, it cannot be supposed to want anything, but if either is shown to want anything, then it cannot really be the chief good.

[Pro.] Impossible.

[Soc.] And will you help us to test these two lives?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] Then answer.

[Pro.] Ask.

[Soc.] Would you choose, Protarchus, to live all your life long in the enjoyment of the greatest pleasures?

[Pro.] Certainly I should.

[Soc.] Would you consider that there was still anything wanting to you if you had perfect pleasure?

[Pro.] Certainly not.

[Soc.] Reflect; would you not want wisdom and intelligence and forethought, and similar qualities? would you not at any rate want sight?

[Pro.] Why should I? Having pleasure I should have all things.

[Soc.] Living thus, you would always throughout your life enjoy the greatest pleasures?

[Pro.] I should.

[Soc.] But if you had neither mind, nor memory, nor knowledge, nor true opinion, you would in the first place be utterly ignorant of whether you were pleased or not, because you would be entirely devoid of intelligence.

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And similarly, if you had no memory you would not recollect that you had ever been pleased, nor would the slightest recollection of the pleasure which you feel at any moment remain with you; and if you had no true opinion you would not think that you were pleased when you were; and if you had no power of calculation you would not be able to calculate on future pleasure, and your life would be the life, not of a man, but of an oyster or pulmo marinus. Could this be otherwise?

[Pro.] No.

[Soc.] But is such a life eligible?

[Pro.] I cannot answer you, Socrates; the argument has taken away from me the power of speech.

[Soc.] We must keep up our spirits;-let us now take the life of mind and examine it in turn.

[Pro.] And what is this life of mind?

[Soc.] I want to know whether any one of us would consent to live, having wisdom and mind and knowledge and memory of all things, but having no sense of pleasure or pain, and wholly unaffected by these and the like feelings?

[Pro.] Neither life, Socrates, appears eligible to me, or is likely, as I should imagine, to be chosen by any one else.

[Soc.] What would you say, Protarchus, to both of these in one, or to one that was made out of the union of the two?

[Pro.] Out of the union, that is, of pleasure with mind and wisdom?

[Soc.] Yes, that is the life which I mean.

[Pro.] There can be no difference of opinion; not some but all would surely choose this third rather than either of the other two, and in addition to them.

[Soc.] But do you see the consequence?

[Pro.] To be sure I do. The consequence is, that two out of the three lives which have been proposed are neither sufficient nor eligible for man or for animal.

[Soc.] Then now there can be no doubt that neither of them has the good, for the one which had would certainly have been sufficient and perfect and eligible for every living creature or thing that was able to live such a life; and if any of us had chosen any other, he would have chosen contrary to the nature of the truly eligible, and not of his own free will, but either through ignorance or from some unhappy necessity.

[Pro.] Certainly that seems to be true.

[Soc.] And now have I not sufficiently shown that Philebus, goddess is not to be regarded as identical with the good?

[Phi.] Neither is your “mind” the good, Socrates, for that will be open to the same objections.

[Soc.] Perhaps, Philebus, you may be right in saying so of my “mind”; but of the true, which is also the divine mind, far otherwise. However, I will not at present claim the first place for mind as against the mixed life; but we must come to some understanding about the second place. For you might affirm pleasure and I mind to be the cause of the mixed life; and in that case although neither of them would be the good, one of them might be imagined to be the cause of the good. And I might proceed further to argue in opposition to Phoebus, that the element which makes this mixed life eligible and good, is more akin and more similar to mind than to pleasure. And if this is true, pleasure cannot be truly said to share either in the first or second place, and does not, if I may trust my own mind, attain even to the third.

[Pro.] Truly, Socrates, pleasure appears to me to have had a fall; in fighting for the palm, she has been smitten by the argument, and is laid low. I must say that mind would have fallen too, and may therefore be thought to show discretion in not putting forward a similar claim. And if pleasure were deprived not only of the first but of the second place, she would be terribly damaged in the eyes of her admirers, for not even to them would she still appear as fair as before.

[Soc.] Well, but had we not better leave her now, and not pain her by applying the crucial test, and finally detecting her?

[Pro.] Nonsense, Socrates.

[Soc.] Why? because I said that we had better not pain pleasure, which is an impossibility?

[Pro.] Yes, and more than that, because you do not seem to be aware that none of us will let you go home until you have finished the argument.

[Soc.] Heavens! Protarchus, that will be a tedious business, and just at present not at all an easy one. For in going to war in the cause of mind, who is aspiring to the second prize, I ought to have weapons of another make from those which I used before; some, however, of the old ones may do again. And must I then finish the argument?

[Pro.] Of course you must.

[Soc.] Let us be very careful in laying the foundation.

[Pro.] What do you mean?

[Soc.] Let us divide all existing things into two, or rather, if you do not object, into three classes.

[Pro.] Upon what principle would you make the division?

[Soc.] Let us take some of our newly-found notions.

[Pro.] Which of them?

[Soc.] Were we not saying that God revealed a finite element of existence, and also an infinite?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] Let us assume these two principles, and also a third, which is compounded out of them; but I fear that am ridiculously clumsy at these processes of division and enumeration.

[Pro.] What do you mean, my good friend?

[Soc.] I say that a fourth class is still wanted.

[Pro.] What will that be?

[Soc.] Find the cause of the third or compound, and add this as a fourth class to the three others.

[Pro.] And would you like to have a fifth dass or cause of resolution as well as a cause of composition?

[Soc.] Not, I think, at present; but if I want a fifth at some future time you shall allow me to have it.

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] Let us begin with the first three; and as we find two out of the three greatly divided and dispersed, let us endeavour to reunite them, and see how in each of them there is a one and many.

[Pro.] If you would explain to me a little more about them, perhaps I might be able to follow you.

[Soc.] Well, the two classes are the same which I mentioned before, one the finite, and the other the infinite; I will first show that the infinite is in a certain sense many, and the finite may be hereafter discussed.

[Pro.] I agree.

[Soc.] And now consider well; for the question to which I invite your attention is difficult and controverted. When you speak of hotter and colder, can you conceive any limit in those qualities? Does not the more and less, which dwells in their very nature, prevent their having any end? for if they had an end, the more and less would themselves have an end.

[Pro.] That is most true.

[Soc.] Ever, as we say, into the hotter and the colder there enters a more and a less.

[Pro.] Yes.

[Soc.] Then, says the argument, there is never any end of them, and being endless they must also be infinite.

[Pro.] Yes, Socrates, that is exceedingly true.

[Soc.] Yes, my dear Protarchus, and your answer reminds me that such an expression as “exceedingly,” which you have just uttered, and also the term “gently,” have the same significance as more or less; for whenever they occur they do not allow of the existence of quantity-they are always introducing degrees into actions, instituting a comparison of a more or a less excessive or a more or a less gentle, and at each creation of more or less, quantity disappears. For, as I was just now saying, if quantity and measure did not disappear, but were allowed to intrude in the sphere of more and less and the other comparatives, these last would be driven out of their own domain. When definite quantity is once admitted, there can be no longer a “hotter” or a “colder” (for these are always progressing, and are never in one stay); but definite quantity is at rest, and has ceased to progress. Which proves that comparatives, such as the hotter, and the colder, are to be ranked in the class of the infinite.

[Pro.] Your remark certainly, has the look of truth, Socrates; but these subjects, as you were saying, are difficult to follow at first. I think however, that if I could hear the argument repeated by you once or twice, there would be a substantial agreement between us.

[Soc.] Yes, and I will try to meet your wish; but, as I would rather not waste time in the enumeration of endless particulars, let me know whether I may not assume as a note of the infinite-

[Pro.] What?

[Soc.] I want to know whether such things as appear to us to admit of more or less, or are denoted by the words “exceedingly,” “gently,” “extremely,” and the like, may not be referred to the class of the infinite, which is their unity, for, as was asserted in the previous argument, all things that were divided and dispersed should be brought together, and have the mark or seal of some one nature, if possible, set upon them-do you remember?

[Pro.] Yes.

[Soc.] And all things which do not admit of more or less, but admit their opposites, that is to say, first of all, equality, and the equal, or again, the double, or any other ratio of number and measure-all these may, I think, be rightly reckoned by us in the class of the limited or finite; what do you say?

[Pro.] Excellent, Socrates.

[Soc.] And now what nature shall we ascribe to the third or compound kind?

[Pro.] You, I think, will have to tell me that.

[Soc.] Rather God will tell you, if there be any God who will listen to my prayers.

[Pro.] Offer up a prayer, then, and think.

[Soc.] I am thinking, Protarchus, and I believe that some God has befriended us.

[Pro.] What do you mean, and what proof have you to offer of what you are saying?

[Soc.] I will tell you, and do you listen to my words.

[Pro.] Proceed.

[Soc.] Were we not speaking just now of hotter and colder?

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] Add to them drier, wetter, more, less, swifter, slower, greater, smaller, and all that in the preceding argument we placed under the unity of more and less.

[Pro.] In the class of the infinite, you mean?

[Soc.] Yes; and now mingle this with the other.

[Pro.] What is the other.

[Soc.] The class of the finite which we ought to have brought together as we did the infinite; but, perhaps, it will come to the same thing if we do so now;-when the two are combined, a third will appear.

[Pro.] What do you mean by the class of the finite?

[Soc.] The class of the equal and the double, and any class which puts an end to difference and opposition, and by introducing number creates harmony and proportion among the different elements.

[Pro.] I understand; you seem to me to mean that the various opposites, when you mingle with them the class of the finite, takes certain forms.

[Soc.] Yes, that is my meaning.

[Pro.] Proceed.

[Soc.] Does not the right participation in the finite give health-in disease, for instance?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And whereas the high and low, the swift and the slow are infinite or unlimited, does not the addition of the principles aforesaid introduce a limit, and perfect the whole frame of music?

[Pro.] Yes, certainly.

[Soc.] Or, again, when cold and heat prevail, does not the introduction of them take away excess and indefiniteness, and infuse moderation and harmony?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And from a like admixture of the finite and infinite come the seasons, and all the delights of life?

[Pro.] Most true.

[Soc.] I omit ten thousand other things, such as beauty and health and strength, and the many beauties and high perfections of the soul: O my beautiful Philebus, the goddess, methinks, seeing the universal wantonness and wickedness of all things, and that there was in them no limit to pleasures and self-indulgence, devised the limit of law and order, whereby, as you say, Philebus, she torments, or as I maintain, delivers the soul-What think you, Protarchus?

[Pro.] Her ways are much to my mind, Socrates.

[Soc.] You will observe that I have spoken of three classes?

[Pro.] Yes, I think that I understand you: you mean to say that the infinite is one class, and that the finite is a second class of existences; but what you would make the third I am not so certain.

[Soc.] That is because the amazing variety of the third class is too much for you, my dear friend; but there was not this difficulty with the infinite, which also comprehended many classes, for all of them were sealed with the note of more and less, and therefore appeared one.

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] And the finite or limit had not many divisions, and we ready acknowledged it to be by nature one?

[Pro.] Yes.

[Soc.] Yes, indeed; and when I speak of the third class, understand me to mean any offspring of these, being a birth into true being, effected by the measure which the limit introduces.

[Pro.] I understand.

[Soc.] Still there was, as we said, a fourth class to be investigated, and you must assist in the investigation; for does not everything which comes into being, of necessity come into being through a cause?

[Pro.] Yes, certainly; for how can there be anything which has no cause?

[Soc.] And is not the agent the same as the cause in all except name; the agent and the cause may be rightly called one?

[Pro.] Very true.

[Soc.] And the same may be said of the patient, or effect; we shall find that they too differ, as I was saying, only in name-shall we not?

[Pro.] We shall.

[Soc.] The agent or cause always naturally leads, and the patient or effect naturally follows it?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] Then the cause and what is subordinate to it in generation are not the same, but different?

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] Did not the things which were generated, and the things out of which they were generated, furnish all the three classes?

[Pro.] Yes.

[Soc.] And the creator or cause of them has been satisfactorily proven to be distinct from them-and may therefore be called a fourth principle?

[Pro.] So let us call it.

[Soc.] Quite right; but now, having distinguished the four, I think that we had better refresh our memories by recapitulating each of them in order.

[Pro.] By all means.

[Soc.] Then the first I will call the infinite or unlimited, and the second the finite or limited; then follows the third, an essence compound and generated; and I do not think that I shall be far wrong in speaking of the cause of mixture and generation as the fourth.

[Pro.] Certainly not.

[Soc.] And now what is the next question, and how came we hither? Were we not enquiring whether the second place belonged to pleasure or wisdom?

[Pro.] We were.

[Soc.] And now, having determined these points, shall we not be better able to decide about the first and second place, which was the original subject of dispute?

[Pro.] I dare say.

[Soc.] We said, if you remember, that the mixed life of pleasure and wisdom was the conqueror-did we not?

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] And we see what is the place and nature of this life and to what class it is to be assigned?

[Pro.] Beyond a doubt.

[Soc.] This is evidently comprehended in the third or mixed class; which is not composed of any two particular ingredients, but of all the elements of infinity, bound down by the finite, and may therefore be truly said to comprehend the conqueror life.

[Pro.] Most true.

[Soc.] And what shall we say, Philebus, of your life which is all sweetness; and in which of the aforesaid classes is that to be placed? Perhaps you will allow me to ask you a question before you answer?

[Phi.] Let me hear.

[Soc.] Have pleasure and pain a limit, or do they belong to the class which admits of more and less?

[Phi.] They belong to the class which admits of more, Socrates; for pleasure would not be perfectly good if she were not infinite in quantity and degree.

[Soc.] Nor would pain, Philebus, be perfectly evil. And therefore the infinite cannot be that element which imparts to pleasure some degree of good. But now-admitting, if you like, that pleasure is of the nature of the infinite-in which of the aforesaid classes, O Protarchus and Philebus, can we without irreverence place wisdom and knowledge and mind? And let us be careful, for I think that the danger will be very serious if we err on this point.

[Phi.] You magnify, Socrates, the importance of your favourite god.

[Soc.] And you, my friend, are also magnifying your favourite goddess; but still I must beg you to answer the question.

[Pro.] Socrates is quite right, Philebus, and we must submit to him.

[Phi.] And did not you, Protarchus, propose to answer in my place?

[Pro.] Certainly I did; but I am now in a great strait, and I must entreat you, Socrates, to be our spokesman, and then we shall not say anything wrong or disrespectful of your favourite.

[Soc.] I must obey you, Protarchus; nor is the task which you impose a difficult one; but did I really, as Philebus implies, disconcert you with my playful solemnity, when I asked the question to what class mind and knowledge belong?

[Pro.] You did, indeed, Socrates.

[Soc.] Yet the answer is easy, since all philosophers assert with one voice that mind is the king of heaven and earth-in reality they are magnifying themselves. And perhaps they are right. But still I should like to consider the class of mind, if you do not object, a little more fully.

[Phi.] Take your own course, Socrates, and never mind length; we shall not tire of you.

[Soc.] Very good; let us begin then, Protarchus, by asking a question.

[Pro.] What question?

[Soc.] Whether all this which they call the universe is left to the guidance of unreason and chance medley, or, on the contrary, as our fathers have declared, ordered and governed by a marvellous intelligence and wisdom.

[Pro.] Wide asunder are the two assertions, illustrious Socrates, for that which you were just now saying to me appears to be blasphemy; but the other assertion, that mind orders all things, is worthy of the aspect of the world, and of the sun, and of the moon, and of the stars and of the whole circle of the heavens; and never will I say or think otherwise.

[Soc.] Shall we then agree with them of old time in maintaining this doctrine-not merely reasserting the notions of others, without risk to ourselves,-but shall we share in the danger, and take our part of the reproach which will await us, when an ingenious individual declares that all is disorder?

[Pro.] That would certainly be my wish.

[Soc.] Then now please to consider the next stage of the argument.

[Pro.] Let me hear.

[Soc.] We see that the elements which enter into the nature of the bodies of all animals, fire, water, air, and, as the storm-tossed sailor cries, “land” [i.e., earth], reappear in the constitution of the world.

[Pro.] The proverb may be applied to us; for truly the storm gathers over us, and we are at our wit’s end.

[Soc.] There is something to be remarked about each of these elements.

[Pro.] What is it?

[Soc.] Only a small fraction of any one of them exists in us, and that of a mean sort, and not in any way pure, or having any power worthy of its nature. One instance will prove this of all of them; there is fire within us, and in the universe.

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] And is not our fire small and weak and mean? But the fire in the universe is wonderful in quantity and beauty, and in every power that fire has.

[Pro.] Most true.

[Soc.] And is the fire in the universe nourished and generated and ruled by the fire in us, or is the fire in you and me, and in other animals, dependent on the universal fire?

[Pro.] That is a question which does not deserve an answer.

[Soc.] Right; and you would say the same, if I am not mistaken, of the earth which is in animals and the earth which is in the universe, and you would give a similar reply about all the other elements?

[Pro.] Why, how could any man who gave any other be deemed in his senses?

[Soc.] I do not think that he could-but now go on to the next step. When we saw those elements of which we have been speaking gathered up in one, did we not call them a body?

[Pro.] We did.

[Soc.] And the same may be said of the cosmos, which for the same reason may be considered to be a body, because made up of the same elements.

[Pro.] Very true.

[Soc.] But is our body nourished wholly by this body, or is this body nourished by our body, thence deriving and having the qualities of which we were just now speaking?

[Pro.] That again, Socrates, is a question which does not deserve to be asked.

[Soc.] Well, tell me, is this question worth asking?

[Pro.] What question?

[Soc.] May our body be said to have a soul?

[Pro.] Clearly.

[Soc.] And whence comes that soul, my dear Protarchus, unless the body of the universe, which contains elements like those in our bodies but in every way fairer, had also a soul? Can there be another source?

[Pro.] Clearly, Socrates, that is the only source.

[Soc.] Why, yes, Protarchus; for surely we cannot imagine that of the four classes, the finite, the infinite, the composition of the two, and the cause, the fourth, which enters into all things, giving to our bodies souls, and the art of self-management, and of healing disease, and operating in other ways to heal and organize, having too all the attributes of wisdom;-we cannot, I say, imagine that whereas the self-same elements exist, both in the entire heaven and in great provinces of the heaven, only fairer and purer, this last should not also in that higher sphere have designed the noblest and fairest things?

[Pro.] Such a supposition is quite unreasonable.

[Soc.] Then if this be denied, should we not be wise in adopting the other view and maintaining that there is in the universe a mighty infinite and an adequate limit, of which we have often spoken, as well as a presiding cause of no mean power, which orders and arranges years and seasons and months, and may be justly called wisdom and mind?

[Pro.] Most justly.

[Soc.] And wisdom and mind cannot exist without soul?

[Pro.] Certainly not.

[Soc.] And in the divine nature of Zeus would you not say that there is the soul and mind of a king, because there is in him the power of the cause? And other gods have other attributes, by which they are pleased to be called.

[Pro.] Very true.

[Soc.] Do not then suppose that these words are rashly spoken by us, O Protarchus, for they are in harmony with the testimony of those who said of old time that mind rules the universe.

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] And they furnish an answer to my enquiry; for they imply that mind is the parent of that class of the four which we called the cause of all; and I think that you now have my answer.

[Pro.] I have indeed, and yet I did not observe that you had answered.

[Soc.] A jest is sometimes refreshing, Protarchus, when it interrupts earnest.

[Pro.] Very true.

[Soc.] I think, friend, that we have now pretty clearly set forth the class to which mind belongs and what is the power of mind.

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] And the class to which pleasure belongs has also been long ago discovered?

[Pro.] Yes.

[Soc.] And let us remember, too, of both of them, (1) that mind was akin to the cause and of this family; and (2) that pleasure is infinite and belongs to the class which neither has, nor ever will have in itself, a beginning, middle, or end of its own.

[Pro.] I shall be sure to remember.

[Soc.] We must next examine what is their place and under what conditions they are generated. And we will begin with pleasure, since her class was first examined; and yet pleasure cannot be rightly tested apart from pain ever

[Pro.] If this is the road, let us take it.

[Soc.] I wonder whether you would agree with me about the origin of pleasure and pain.

[Pro.] What do you mean?

[Soc.] I mean to say that their natural seat is in the mixed class.

[Pro.] And would you tell me again, sweet Socrates, which of the aforesaid classes is the mixed one?

[Soc.] I will my fine fellow, to the best of my ability.

[Pro.] Very good.

[Soc.] Let us then understand the mixed class to be that which we placed third in the list of four.

[Pro.] That which followed the infinite and the finite; and in which you ranked health, and, if I am not mistaken, harmony.

[Soc.] Capital; and now will you please to give me your best attention?

[Pro.] Proceed; I am attending.

[Soc.] I say that when the harmony in animals is dissolved, there is also a dissolution of nature and a generation of pain.

[Pro.] That is very probable.

[Soc.] And the restoration of harmony and return to nature is the source of pleasure, if I may be allowed to speak in the fewest and shortest words about matters of the greatest moment.

[Pro.] I believe that you are right, Socrates; but will you try to be a little plainer?

[Soc.] Do not obvious and every-day phenomena furnish the simplest illustration?

[Pro.] What phenomena do you mean?

[Soc.] Hunger, for example, is a dissolution and a pain.

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] Whereas eating is a replenishment and a pleasure?

[Pro.] Yes.

[Soc.] Thirst again is a destruction and a pain, but the effect of moisture replenishing the dry Place is a pleasure: once more, the unnatural separation and dissolution caused by heat is painful, and the natural restoration and refrigeration is pleasant.

[Pro.] Very true.

[Soc.] And the unnatural freezing of the moisture in an animal is pain, and the natural process of resolution and return of the elements to their original state is pleasure. And would not the general proposition seem to you to hold, that the destroying of the natural union of the finite and infinite, which, as I was observing before, make up the class of living beings, is pain, and that the process of return of all things to their own nature is pleasure?

[Pro.] Granted; what you say has a general truth.

[Soc.] Here then is one kind of pleasures and pains originating severally in the two processes which we have described?

[Pro.] Good.

[Soc.] Let us next assume that in the soul herself there is an antecedent hope of pleasure which is sweet and refreshing, and an expectation of pain, fearful and anxious.

[Pro.] Yes; this is another class of pleasures and pains, which is of the soul only, apart from the body, and is produced by expectation.

[Soc.] Right; for in the analysis of these, pure, as I suppose them to be, the pleasures being unalloyed with pain and the pains with pleasure, methinks that we shall see clearly whether the whole class of pleasure is to be desired, or whether this quality of entire desirableness is not rather to be attributed to another of the classes which have been mentioned; and whether pleasure and pain, like heat and cold, and other things of the same kind, are not sometimes to be desired and sometimes not to be desired, as being not in themselves good, but only sometimes and in some instances admitting of the nature of good.

[Pro.] You say most truly that this is the track which the investigation should pursue.

[Soc.] Well, then, assuming that pain ensues on the dissolution, and pleasure on the restoration of the harmony, let us now ask what will be the condition of animated beings who are neither in process of restoration nor of dissolution. And mind what you say: I ask whether any animal who is in that condition can possibly have any feeling of pleasure or pain, great or small?

[Pro.] Certainly not.

[Soc.] Then here we have a third state, over and above that of pleasure and of pain?

[Pro.] Very true.

[Soc.] And do not forget that there is such a state; it will make a great difference in our judgment of pleasure, whether we remember this or not. And I should like to say a few words about it.

[Pro.] What have you to say?

[Soc.] Why, you know that if a man chooses the life of wisdom, there is no reason why he should not live in this neutral state.

[Pro.] You mean that he may live neither rejoicing nor sorrowing?

[Soc.] Yes; and if I remember rightly, when the lives were compared, no degree of pleasure, whether great or small, was thought to be necessary to him who chose the life of thought and wisdom.

[Pro.] Yes, certainly, we said so.

[Soc.] Then he will live without pleasure; and who knows whether this may not be the most divine of all lives?

[Pro.] If so, the gods, at any rate, cannot be supposed to have either joy or sorrow.

[Soc.] Certainly not-there would be a great impropriety in the assumption of either alternative. But whether the gods are or are not indifferent to pleasure is a point which may be considered hereafter if in any way relevant to the argument, and whatever is the conclusion we will place it to the account of mind in her contest for the second place, should she have to resign the first.

[Pro.] Just so.

[Soc.] The other class of pleasures, which as we were saying is purely mental, is entirely derived from memory.

[Pro.] What do you mean?

[Soc.] I must first of all analyse memory, or rather perception which is prior to, memory, if the subject of our discussion is ever to be properly cleared up.

[Pro.] How will you proceed?

[Soc.] Let us imagine affections of the body which are extinguished before they reach the soul, and leave her unaffected; and again, other affections which vibrate through both soul and body, and impart a shock to both and to each of them.

[Pro.] Granted.

[Soc.] And the soul may be truly said to be oblivious of the first but not of the second?

[Pro.] Quite true.

[Soc.] When I say oblivious, do not suppose that I mean forgetfulness in a literal sense; for forgetfulness is the exit of memory, which in this case has not yet entered; and to speak of the loss of that which is not yet in existence, and never has been, is a contradiction; do you see?

[Pro.] Yes.

[Soc.] Then just be so good as to change the terms.

[Pro.] How shall I change them?

[Soc.] Instead of the oblivion of the soul, when you are describing the state in which she is unaffected by the shocks of the body, say unconsciousness.

[Pro.] I see.

[Soc.] And the union or communion of soul and body in one feeling and motion would be properly called consciousness?

[Pro.] Most true.

[Soc.] Then now we know the meaning of the word?

[Pro.] Yes.

[Soc.] And memory may, I think, be rightly described as the preservation of consciousness?

[Pro.] Right.

[Soc.] But do we not distinguish memory from recollection?

[Pro.] I think so.

[Soc.] And do we not mean by recollection the power which the soul has of recovering, when by herself, some feeling which she experienced when in company with the body?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And when she recovers of herself the lost recollection of some consciousness or knowledge, the recovery is termed recollection and reminiscence?

[Pro.] Very true.

[Soc.] There is a reason why I say all this.

[Pro.] What is it?

[Soc.] I want to attain the plainest possible notion of pleasure and desire, as they exist in the mind only, apart from the body; and the previous analysis helps to show the nature of both.

[Pro.] Then now, Socrates, let us proceed to the next point.

[Soc.] There are certainly many things to be considered in discussing the generation and whole complexion of pleasure. At the outset we must determine the nature and seat of desire.

[Pro.] Ay; let us enquire into that, for we shall lose nothing.

[Soc.] Nay, Protarchus, we shall surely lose the puzzle if we find the answer.

[Pro.] A fair retort; but let us proceed.

[Soc.] Did we not place hunger, thirst, and the like, in the class of desires?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And yet they are very different; what common nature have we in view when we call them by a single name?

[Pro.] By heavens, Socrates, that is a question which is, not easily answered; but it must be answered.

[Soc.] Then let us go back to our examples.

[Pro.] Where shall we begin?

[Soc.] Do we mean anything when we say “a man thirsts”?

[Pro.] Yes.

[Soc.] We mean to say that he “is empty”?

[Pro.] Of course.

[Soc.] And is not thirst desire?

[Pro.] Yes, of drink.

[Soc.] Would you say of drink, or of replenishment with drink?

[Pro.] I should say, of replenishment with drink.

[Soc.] Then he who is empty desires, as would appear, the opposite of what he experiences; for he is empty and desires to be full?

[Pro.] Clearly so.

[Soc.] But how can a man who is empty for the first time, attain either by perception or memory to any apprehension of replenishment, of which he has no present or past experience?

[Pro.] Impossible.

[Soc.] And yet he who desires, surely desires something?

[Pro.] Of course.

[Soc.] He does not desire that which he experiences, for he experiences thirst, and thirst is emptiness; but he desires replenishment?

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] Then there must be something in the thirsty man which in some way apprehends replenishment?

[Pro.] There must.

[Soc.] And that cannot be the body, for the body is supposed to be emptied?

[Pro.] Yes.

[Soc.] The only remaining alternative is that the soul apprehends the replenishment by the help of memory; as is obvious, for what other way can there be?

[Pro.] I cannot imagine any other.

[Soc.] But do you see the consequence?

[Pro.] What is it?

[Soc.] That there is no such thing as desire of the body.

[Pro.] Why so?

[Soc.] Why, because the argument shows that the endeavour of every animal is to the reverse of his bodily state.

[Pro.] Yes.

[Soc.] And the impulse which leads him to the opposite of what he is experiencing proves that he has a memory of the opposite state.

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] And the argument, having proved that memory attracts us towards the objects of desire, proves also that the impulses and the desires and the moving principle in every living being have their origin in the soul.

[Pro.] Most true.

[Soc.] The argument will not allow that our body either hungers or thirsts or has any similar experience.

[Pro.] Quite right.

[Soc.] Let me make a further observation; the argument appears to me to imply that there is a kind of life which consists in these affections.

[Pro.] Of what affections, and of what kind of life, are you speaking?

[Soc.] I am speaking of being emptied and replenished, and of all that relates to the preservation and destruction of living beings, as well as of the pain which is felt in one of these states and of the pleasure which succeeds to it.

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] And what would you say of the intermediate state?

[Pro.] What do you mean by “intermediate”?

[Soc.] I mean when a person is in actual suffering and yet remembers past pleasures which, if they would only return, would relieve him; but as yet he has them not. May we not say of him, that he is in an intermediate state?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] Would you say that he was wholly pained or wholly pleased?

[Pro.] Nay, I should say that he has two pains; in his body there is the actual experience of pain, and in his soul longing and expectation.

[Soc.] What do you mean, Protarchus, by the two pains? May not a man who is empty have at one time a sure hope of being filled, and at other times be quite in despair?

[Pro.] Very true.

[Soc.] And has he not the pleasure of memory when he is hoping to be filled, and yet in that he is empty is he not at the same time in pain?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] Then man and the other animals have at the same time both pleasure and pain?

[Pro.] I suppose so.

[Soc.] But when a man is empty and has no hope of being filled, there will be the double experience of pain. You observed this and inferred that the double experience was the single case possible.

[Pro.] Quite true, Socrates.

[Soc.] Shall the enquiry into these states of feeling be made the occasion of raising a question?

[Pro.] What question?

[Soc.] Whether we ought to say that the pleasures and pains of which we are speaking are true or false? or some true and some false?

[Pro.] But how, Socrates, can there be false pleasures and pains?

[Soc.] And how, Protarchus, can there be true and false fears, or true and false expectations, or true and false opinions?

[Pro.] I grant that opinions may be true or false, but not pleasures.

[Soc.] What do you mean? I am afraid that we are raising a very serious enquiry.

[Pro.] There I agree.

[Soc.] And yet, my boy, for you are one of Philebus’ boys, the point to be considered, is, whether the enquiry is relevant to the argument.

[Pro.] Surely.

[Soc.] No tedious and irrelevant discussion can be allowed; what is said should be pertinent.

[Pro.] Right.

[Soc.] I am always wondering at the question which has now been raised.

[Pro.] How so?

[Soc.] Do you deny that some pleasures are false, and others true?

[Pro.] To be sure I do.

[Soc.] Would you say that no one ever seemed to rejoice and yet did not rejoice, or seemed to feel pain and yet did not feel pain, sleeping or waking, mad or lunatic?

[Pro.] So we have always held, Socrates.

[Soc.] But were you right? Shall we enquire into the truth of your opinion?

[Pro.] I think that we should.

[Soc.] Let us then put into more precise terms the question which has arisen about pleasure and opinion. Is there such a thing as opinion?

[Pro.] Yes.

[Soc.] And such a thing as pleasure?

[Pro.] Yes.

[Soc.] And an opinion must of something?

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] And a man must be pleased by something?

[Pro.] Quite correct.

[Soc.] And whether the opinion be right or wrong, makes no difference; it will still be an opinion?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And he who is pleased, whether he is rightly pleased or not will always have a real feeling of pleasure?

[Pro.] Yes; that is also quite true.

[Soc.] Then, how can opinion be both true and false, and pleasure true only, although pleasure and opinion are both equally real?

[Pro.] Yes; that is the question.

[Soc.] You mean that opinion admits of truth and falsehood, and hence becomes not merely opinion, but opinion of a certain quality; and this is what you think should be examined?

[Pro.] Yes.

[Soc.] And further, even if we admit the existence of qualities in other objects, may not pleasure and pain be simple and devoid of quality?

[Pro.] Clearly.

[Soc.] But there is no difficulty in seeing that Pleasure and pain as well as opinion have qualities, for they are great or small, and have various degrees of intensity; as was indeed said long ago by us.

[Pro.] Quite true.

[Soc.] And if badness attaches to any of them, Protarchus, then we should speak of a bad opinion or of a bad pleasure?

[Pro.] Quite true, Socrates.

[Soc.] And if rightness attaches to any of them, should we not speak of a right opinion or right pleasure; and in like manner of the reverse of rightness?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And if the thing opined be erroneous, might we not say that opinion, being erroneous, is not right or rightly opined?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And if we see a pleasure or pain which errs in respect of its object, shall we call that right or good, or by any honourable name?

[Pro.] Not if the pleasure is mistaken; how could we?

[Soc.] And surely pleasure often appears to accompany an opinion which is not true, but false?

[Pro.] Certainly it does; and in that case, Socrates, as we were saying, the opinion is false, but no one could call the actual pleasure false.

[Soc.] How eagerly, Protarchus, do you rush to the defence of pleasure!

[Pro.] Nay, Socrates, I only repeat what I hear.

[Soc.] And is there no difference, my friend, between that pleasure which is associated with right opinion and knowledge, and that which is often found in all of us associated with falsehood and ignorance?

[Pro.] There must be a very great difference, between them.

[Soc.] Then, now let us proceed to contemplate this difference.

[Pro.] Lead, and I will follow.

[Soc.] Well, then, my view is-

[Pro.] What is it?

[Soc.] We agree-do we not?-that there is such a thing as false, and also such a thing as true opinion?

[Pro.] Yes.

[Soc.] And pleasure and pain, as I was just now saying, are often consequent upon these upon true and false opinion, I mean.

[Pro.] Very true.

[Soc.] And do not opinion and the endeavour to form an opinion always spring from memory and perception?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] Might we imagine the process to be something of this nature?

[Pro.] Of what nature?

[Soc.] An object may be often seen at a distance not very clearly, and the seer may want to determine what it is which he sees.

[Pro.] Very likely.

[Soc.] Soon he begins to interrogate himself.

[Pro.] In what manner?

[Soc.] He asks himself-“What is that which appears to be standing by the rock under the tree?” This is the question which he may be supposed to put to himself when he sees such an appearance.

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] To which he may guess the right answer, saying as if in a whisper to himself-“It is a man.”

[Pro.] Very good.

[Soc.] Or again, he may be misled, and then he will say-“No, it is a figure made by the shepherds.”

[Pro.] Yes.

[Soc.] And if he has a companion, he repeats his thought to him in articulate sounds, and what was before an opinion, has now become a proposition.

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] But if he be walking alone when these thoughts occur to him, he may not unfrequently keep them in his mind for a considerable time.

[Pro.] Very true.

[Soc.] Well, now, I wonder whether, you would agree in my explanation of this phenomenon.

[Pro.] What is your explanation?

[Soc.] I think that the soul at such times is like a book.

[Pro.] How so?

[Soc.] Memory and perception meet, and they and their attendant feelings seem to almost to write down words in the soul, and when the inscribing feeling writes truly, then true opinion and true propositions which are the expressions of opinion come into our souls-but when the scribe within us writes falsely, the result is false.

[Pro.] I quite assent and agree to your statement their

[Soc.] I must bespeak your favour also for another artist, who is busy at the same time in the chambers of the soul.

[Pro.] Who is he?

[Soc.] The painter, who, after the scribe has done his work, draws images in the soul of the things which he has described.

[Pro.] But when and how does he do this?

[Soc.] When a man, besides receiving from sight or some other sense certain opinions or statements, sees in his mind the images of the subjects of them;-is not this a very common mental phenomenom?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And the images answering to true opinions and words are true, and to false opinions and words false; are they not?

[Pro.] They are.

[Soc.] If we are right so far, there arises a further question.

[Pro.] What is it?

[Soc.] Whether we experience the feeling of which I am speaking only in relation to the present and the past, or in relation to the future also?

[Pro.] I should say in relation to all times alike.

[Soc.] Have not purely mental pleasures and pains been described already as in some cases anticipations of the bodily ones; from which we may infer that anticipatory pleasures and pains have to do with the future?

[Pro.] Most true.

[Soc.] And do all those writings and paintings which, as we were saying a little while ago, are produced in us, relate to the past and present only, and not to the future?

[Pro.] To the future, very much.

[Soc.] When you say, “Very much,” you mean to imply that all these representations are hopes about the future, and that mankind are filled with, hopes in every stage of existence?

[Pro.] Exactly.

[Soc.] Answer me another question.

[Pro.] What question?

[Soc.] A just and pious and good man is the friend of the gods; is he not?

[Pro.] Certainly he is.

[Soc.] And the unjust and utterly bad man is the reverse?

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] And all men, as we were saying just now, are always filled with hopes?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And these hopes, as they are termed, are propositions which exist in the minds of each of us?

[Pro.] Yes.

[Soc.] And the fancies of hope are also pictured in us; a man may often have a vision of a heap of gold, and pleasures ensuing, and in the picture there may be a likeness of himself mightily rejoicing over his good fortune.

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] And may we not say that the good, being friends of the gods, have generally true pictures presented to them, and the bad false pictures?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] The bad, too, have pleasures painted in their fancy as well as the good; but I presume that they are false pleasures.

[Pro.] They are.

[Soc.] The bad then commonly delight in false pleasures, and the good in true pleasures?

[Pro.] Doubtless.

[Soc.] Then upon this view there are false pleasures in the souls of men which are a ludicrous imitation of the true, and there are pains of a similar character?

[Pro.] There are.

[Soc.] And did we not allow that a man who had an opinion at all had a real opinion, but often about things which had no existence either in the past, present, or future?

[Pro.] Quite true.

[Soc.] And this was the source of false opinion and opining; am I not right?

[Pro.] Yes.

[Soc.] And must we not attribute to pleasure and pain a similar real but illusory character?

[Pro.] How do you mean?

[Soc.] I mean to say that a man must be admitted to have real pleasure; who is pleased with anything or anyhow; and he may be pleased about things which neither have nor have ever had any real existence, and, more often than not, are never likely to exist.

[Pro.] Yes, Socrates, that again is undeniable.

[Soc.] And may not the same be said about fear and anger and the like; are they not often false?

[Pro.] Quite so.

[Soc.] And can opinions be good or bad except in as far as they are true or false?

[Pro.] In no other way.

[Soc.] Nor can pleasures be conceived to be bad except in so far as they are false.

[Pro.] Nay, Socrates, that is the very opposite of truth; for no one would call pleasures and pains bad because they are false, but by reason of some other great corruption to which they are liable.

[Soc.] Well, of pleasures which are and caused by corruption we will hereafter speak, if we care to continue the enquiry; for the present I would rather show by another argument that there are many false pleasures existing or coming into existence in us, because this may assist our final decision.

[Pro.] Very true; that is to say, if there are such pleasures.

[Soc.] I think that there are, Protarchus; but this is an opinion which should be well assured, and not rest upon a mere assertion.

[Pro.] Very good.

[Soc.] Then now, like wrestlers, let us approach and grasp this new argument.

[Pro.] Proceed.

[Soc.] We were maintaining a little while since, that when desires, as they are termed, exist in us, then the body has separate feelings apart from the soul-do you remember?

[Pro.] Yes, I remember that you said so.

[Soc.] And the soul was supposed to desire the opposite of the bodily state, while the body was the source of any pleasure or pain which was experienced.

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] Then now you may infer what happens in such cases.

[Pro.] What am I to infer?

[Soc.] That in such cases pleasure and pains come simultaneously; and there is a juxtaposition of the opposite sensations which correspond to them, as has been already shown.

[Pro.] Clearly.

[Soc.] And there is another point to which we have agreed.

[Pro.] What is it?

[Soc.] That pleasure and pain both admit of more and less, and that they are of the class of infinites.

[Pro.] Certainly, we said so.

[Soc.] But how can we rightly judge of them?

[Pro.] How can we?

[Soc.] It is our intention to judge of their comparative importance and intensity, measuring pleasure against pain, and pain against pain, and pleasure against pleasure?

[Pro.] Yes, such is our intention, and we shall judge of them accordingly.

[Soc.] Well, take the case of sight. Does not the nearness or distance of magnitudes obscure their true proportions, and make us opine falsely; and do we not find the same illusion happening in the case of pleasures and pains?

[Pro.] Yes, Socrates, and in a degree far greater.

[Soc.] Then what we are now saying is the opposite of what we were saying before.

[Pro.] What was that?

[Soc.] Then the opinions were true and false, and infected the pleasures and pains with their own falsity.

[Pro.] Very true.

[Soc.] But now it is the pleasures which are said to be true and false because they are seen at various distances, and subjected to comparison; the pleasures appear to be greater and more vehement when placed side by side with the pains, and the pains when placed side by side with the pleasures.

[Pro.] Certainly, and for the reason which you mention.

[Soc.] And suppose you part off from pleasures and pains the element which makes them appear to be greater or less than they really are: you will acknowledge that this element is illusory, and you will never say that the corresponding excess or defect of pleasure or pain is real or true.

[Pro.] Certainly not.

[Soc.] Next let us see whether in another direction we may not find pleasures and pains existing and appearing in living beings, which are still more false than these.

[Pro.] What are they, and how shall we find them?

[Soc.] If I am not mistaken, I have often repeated that pains and aches and suffering and uneasiness of all sorts arise out of a corruption of nature caused by concretions, and dissolutions, and repletions, and evacuations, and also by growth and decay?

[Pro.] Yes, that has been often said.

[Soc.] And we have also agreed that the restoration of the natural state is pleasure?

[Pro.] Right.

[Soc.] But now let us suppose an interval of time at which the body experiences none of these changes.

[Pro.] When can that be, Socrates?

[Soc.] Your question, Protarchus, does not help the argument.

[Pro.] Why not, Socrates?

[Soc.] Because it does not prevent me from repeating mine.

[Pro.] And what was that?

[Soc.] Why, Protarchus, admitting that there is no such interval, I may ask what would be the necessary consequence if there were?

[Pro.] You mean, what would happen if the body were not changed either for good or bad?

[Soc.] Yes.

[Pro.] Why then, Socrates, I should suppose that there would be neither pleasure nor pain.

[Soc.] Very good; but still, if I am not mistaken, you do assert that we must always be experiencing one of them; that is what the wise tell us; for, say they, all things are ever flowing up and down.

[Pro.] Yes, and their words are of no mean authority.

[Soc.] Of course, for they are no mean authorities themselves; and I should like to avoid the brunt of their argument. Shall I tell you how I mean to escape from them? And you shall be the partner of my flight.

[Pro.] How?

[Soc.] To them we will say: “Good; but are we, or living things in general, always conscious of what happens to us-for example, of our growth, or the like? Are we not, on the contrary, almost wholly unconscious of this and similar phenomena?” You must answer for them.

[Pro.] The latter alternative is the true one.

[Soc.] Then we were not right in saying, just now, that motions going up and down cause pleasures and pains?

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] A better and more unexceptionable way of speaking will be-

[Pro.] What?

[Soc.] If we say that the great changes produce pleasures and pains, but that the moderate and lesser ones do neither.

[Pro.] That, Socrates, is the more correct mode of speaking.

[Soc.] But if this be true, the life to which I was just now referring again appears.

[Pro.] What life?

[Soc.] The life which we affirmed to be devoid either of pain or of joy.

[Pro.] Very true.

[Soc.] We may assume then that there are three lives, one pleasant, one painful, and the third which is neither; what say you?

[Pro.] I should say as you do that there are three of them.

[Soc.] But if so, the negation of pain will not be the same with pleasure.

[Pro.] Certainly not.

[Soc.] Then when you hear a person saying, that always to live without pain is the pleasantest of all things, what would you understand him to mean by that statement?

[Pro.] I think that by pleasure he must mean the negative of pain.

[Soc.] Let us take any three things; or suppose that we embellish a little and call the first gold, the second silver, and there shall be a third which is neither.

[Pro.] Very good.

[Soc.] Now, can that which is neither be either gold or silver?

[Pro.] Impossible.

[Soc.] No more can that neutral or middle life be rightly or reasonably spoken or thought of as pleasant or painful.

[Pro.] Certainly not.

[Soc.] And yet, my friend, there are, as we know, persons who say and think so.

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And do they think that they have pleasure when they are free from pain?

[Pro.] They say so.

[Soc.] And they must think or they would not say that they have pleasure.

[Pro.] I suppose not.

[Soc.] And yet if pleasure and the negation of pain are of distinct natures, they are wrong.

[Pro.] But they are undoubtedly of distinct natures.

[Soc.] Then shall we take the view that they are three, as we were just now saying, or that they are two only-the one being a state of pain, which is an evil, and the other a cessation of pain, which is of itself a good, and is called pleasant?

[Pro.] But why, Socrates, do we ask the question at all? I do not see the reason.

[Soc.] You, Protarchus, have clearly never heard of certain enemies of our friend Philebus.

[Pro.] And who may they be?

[Soc.] Certain persons who are reputed to be masters in natural philosophy, who deny the very existence of pleasure.

[Pro.] Indeed.

[Soc.] They say that what the school of Philebus calls pleasures are all of them only avoidances of pain.

[Pro.] And would you, Socrates, have us agree with them?

[Soc.] Why, no, I would rather use them as a sort of diviners, who divine the truth, not by rules of art, but by an instinctive repugnance and extreme detestation which a noble nature has of the power of pleasure, in which they think that there is nothing sound, and her seductive influence is declared by them to be witchcraft, and not pleasure. This is the use which you may make of them. And when you have considered the various grounds of their dislike, you shall hear from me what I deem to be true pleasures. Having thus examined the nature of pleasure from both points of view, we will bring her up for judgment.

[Pro.] Well said.

[Soc.] Then let us enter into an alliance with these philosophers and follow in the track of their dislike. I imagine that they would say something of this sort; they would begin at the beginning, and ask whether, if we wanted to know the nature of any quality, such as hardness, we should be more likely to discover it by looking at the hardest things, rather than at the least hard? You, Protarchus, shall answer these severe gentlemen as you answer me.

[Pro.] By all means, and I reply to them, that you should look at the greatest instances.

[Soc.] Then if we want to see the true nature of pleasures as a class, we should not look at the most diluted pleasures, but at the most extreme and most vehement?

[Pro.] In that every one will agree.

[Soc.] And the obvious instances of the greatest pleasures, as we have often said, are the pleasures of the body?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And are they felt by us to be or become greater, when we are sick or when we are in health? And here we must be careful in our answer, or we shall come to grief.

[Pro.] How will that be?

[Soc.] Why, because we might be tempted to answer, “When we are in health.”

[Pro.] Yes, that is the natural answer.

[Soc.] Well, but are not those pleasures the greatest of which mankind have the greatest desires?

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] And do not people who are in a fever, or any similar illness, feel cold or thirst or other bodily affections more intensely? Am I not right in saying that they have a deeper want and greater pleasure in the satisfaction of their want?

[Pro.] That is obvious as soon as it is said.

[Soc.] Well, then, shall we not be right in saying, that if a person would wish to see the greatest pleasures he ought to go and look, not at health, but at discase? And here you must distinguish:-do not imagine that I mean to ask whether those who are very ill have more pleasures than those who are well, but understand that I am speaking of the magnitude of pleasure; I want to know where pleasures are found to be most intense. For, as I say, we have to discover what is pleasure, and what they mean by pleasure who deny her very existence.

[Pro.] I think I follow you.

[Soc.] You will soon have a better opportunity of showing whether you do or not, Protarchus. Answer now, and tell me whether you see, I will not say more, but more intense and excessive pleasures in wantonness than in temperance? Reflect before you speak.

[Pro.] I understand you, and see that there is a great difference between them; the temperate are restrained by the wise man’s aphorism of “Never too much,” which is their rule, but excess of pleasure possessing the minds of fools and wantons becomes madness and makes them shout with delight.

[Soc.] Very good, and if this be true, then the greatest pleasures and pains will clearly be found in some vicious state of soul and body, and not in a virtuous state.

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And ought we not to select some of these for examination, and see what makes them the greatest?

[Pro.] To be sure we ought.

[Soc.] Take the case of the pleasures which arise out of certain disorders.

[Pro.] What disorders?

[Soc.] The pleasures of unseemly disorders, which our severe friends utterly detest.

[Pro.] What pleasures?

[Soc.] Such, for example, as the relief of itching and other ailments by scratching, which is the only remedy required. For what in Heaven’s name is the feeling to be called which is thus produced in us?-Pleasure or pain?

[Pro.] A villainous mixture of some kind, Socrates, I should say.

[Soc.] I did not introduce the argument, O Protarchus, with any personal reference to Philebus, but because, without the consideration of these and similar pleasures, we shall not be able to determine the point at issue.

[Pro.] Then we had better proceed to analyze this family of pleasures. Soe. You mean the pleasures which are mingled with pain?

[Pro.] Exactly.

[Soc.] There are some mixtures which are of the body, and only in the body, and others which are of the soul, and only in the soul; while there are other mixtures of pleasures with pains, common both to soul and body, which in their composite state are called sometimes pleasures and sometimes pains.

[Pro.] How is that?

[Soc.] Whenever, in the restoration or in the derangement of nature, a man experiences two opposite feelings; for example, when he is cold and is growing warm, or again; when he is hot and is becoming cool, and he wants to have the one and be rid of the other;-the sweet has a bitter, as the common saying is, and both together fasten upon him and create irritation and in time drive him to distraction.

[Pro.] That description is very true to nature.

[Soc.] And in these sorts of mixtures the pleasures and pains are sometimes equal, and sometimes one or other of them predominates?

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] Of cases in which the pain exceeds the pleasure, an example is afforded by itching, of which we were just now speaking, and by the tingling which we feel when the boiling and fiery element is within, and the rubbing and motion only relieves the surface, and does not reach the parts affected; then if you put them to the fire, and as a last resort apply cold to them, you may often produce the most intense pleasure or pain in the inner parts, which contrasts and mingles with the pain or pleasure, as the case may be, of the outer parts; and this is due to the forcible separation of what is united, or to the union of what is separated, and to the juxtaposition of pleasure and pain.

[Pro.] Quite so.

[Soc.] Sometimes the element of pleasure prevails in a man, and the slight undercurrent of pain makes him tingle, and causes a gentle irritation; or again, the excessive infusion of pleasure creates an excitement in him,-he even leaps for joy, he assumes all sorts of attitudes, he changes all manner of colours, he gasps for breath, and is quite amazed, and utters the most irrational exclamations.

[Pro.] Yes, indeed.

[Soc.] He will say of himself, and others will of him, that he is dying with these delights; and the more dissipated and good-for-nothing he is, the more vehemently he pursues them in every way; of all pleasures he declares them to be the greatest; and he reckons him who lives in the most constant enjoyment of them to be the happiest of mankind.

[Pro.] That, Socrates, is a very true description of the opinions of the majority about pleasures.

[Soc.] Yes, Protarchus, quite true of the mixed pleasures, which arise out of the communion of external and internal sensations in the body; there are also cases in which the mind contributes an, opposite element to the body, whether of pleasure or pain, and the two unite and form one mixture. Concerning these I have already remarked, that when a man is empty he desires to be full, and has pleasure in hope and pain in vacuity. But now I must further add what I omitted before, that in all these and similar emotions in which body and mind are opposed (and they are innumerable), pleasure and pain coalesce in one.

[Pro.] I believe that to be quite true.

[Soc.] There still remains one other sort of admixture of pleasures and pains.

[Pro.] What is that?

[Soc.] The union which, as we were saying, the mind often experiences of purely mental feelings.

[Pro.] What do you mean?

[Soc.] Why, do we not speak of anger, fear, desire, sorrow, love, emulation, envy, and the like, as pains which belong to the soul only?

[Pro.] Yes.

[Soc.] And shall we not find them also full of the most wonderful pleasures? need I remind you of the 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 lamentation and bereavement?

[Pro.] Yes, there is a natural connection between them.

[Soc.] And you remember also how at the sight of tragedies the spectators smile through their tear?

[Pro.] Certainly I do.

[Soc.] And are you aware that even at a comedy the soul experiences a mixed feeling of pain and pleasure?

[Pro.] I do not quite understand you.

[Soc.] I admit, Protarchus, that there is some difficulty in recognizing this mixture of feelings at a comedy.

[Pro.] There is, I think.

[Soc.] And the greater the obscurity of the case the more desirable the examination of it because the difficulty in detecting other cases of mixed pleasures and pains will be less.

[Pro.] Proceed.

[Soc.] I have just mentioned envy; would you not call that a pain of the soul?

[Pro.] Yes

[Soc.] And yet the envious man finds something in the misfortunes of his neighbours at which he is pleased?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And ignorance, and what is termed clownishness, are surely an evil?

[Pro.] To be sure.

[Soc.] From these considerations learn to know the nature of the ridiculous.

[Pro.] Explain.

[Soc.] The ridiculous is in short the specific name which is used to describe the vicious form of a certain habit; and of vice in general it is that kind which is most at variance with the inscription at Delphi.

[Pro.] You mean, Socrates, “Know thyself.”

[Soc.] I do; and the opposite would be, “Know not thyself.”

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And now, O Protarchus, try to divide this into three.

[Pro.] Indeed I am afraid that I cannot.

[Soc.] Do you mean to say that I must make the division for you?

[Pro.] Yes, and what is more, I beg that you will.

[Soc.] Are there not three ways in which ignorance of self may be shown?

[Pro.] What are they?

[Soc.] In the first place, about money; the ignorant may fancy himself richer than he is.

[Pro.] Yes, that is a very common error.

[Soc.] And still more often he will fancy that he is taller or fairer than he is, or that he has some other advantage of person which he really has not.

[Pro.] Of course.

[Soc.] And yet surely by far the greatest number err about the goods of the mind; they imagine themselves to be much better men than they are.

[Pro.] Yes, that is by far the commonest delusion.

[Soc.] And of all the virtues, is not wisdom the one which the mass of mankind are always claiming, and which most arouses in them a spirit of contention and lying conceit of wisdom?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And may not all this be truly called an evil condition?

[Pro.] Very evil. Soc But we must pursue the division a step further, Protarchus, if we would see in envy of the childish sort a singular mixture of pleasure and pain.

[Pro.] How can we make the further division which you suggest?

[Soc.] All who are silly enough to entertain this lying conceit of themselves may of course be divided, like the rest of mankind, into two classes-one having power and might; and the other the reverse.

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] Let this, then, be the principle of division; those of them who are weak and unable to revenge themselves, when they are laughed at, may be truly called ridiculous, but those who can defend themselves may be more truly described as strong and formidable; for ignorance in the powerul is hateful and horrible, because hurtful to others both in reality and in fiction, but powerless ignorance may be reckoned, and in truth is, ridiculous.

[Pro.] That is very true, but I do not as yet see where is the admixture of pleasures and pains.

[Soc.] Well, then, let us examine the nature of envy.

[Pro.] Proceed.

[Soc.] Is not envy an unrighteous pleasure, and also an unrighteous pain?

[Pro.] Most true.

[Soc.] There is nothing envious or wrong in rejoicing at the misfortunes of enemies?

[Pro.] Certainly not.

[Soc.] But to feel joy instead of sorrow at the sight of our friends’ misfortunes-is not that wrong?

[Pro.] Undoubtedly.

[Soc.] Did we not say that ignorance was always an evil?

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] And the three kinds of vain conceit in our friends which we enumerated-the vain conceit of beauty, of wisdom, and of wealth, are ridiculous if they are weak, and detestable when they are powerful: May we not say, as I was saying before, that our friends who are in this state of mind, when harmless to others, are simply ridiculous?

[Pro.] They are ridiculous.

[Soc.] And do we not acknowledge this ignorance of theirs to be a misfortune?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And do we feel pain or pleasure in laughing at it?

[Pro.] Clearly we feel pleasure.

[Soc.] And was not envy the source of this pleasure which we feel at the misfortunes of friends?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] Then the argument shows that when we laugh at the folly of our friends, pleasure, in mingling with envy, mingles with pain, for envy has been acknowledged by us to be mental pain, and laughter is pleasant; and so we envy and laugh at the same instant.

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] And the argument implies that there are combinations of pleasure and pain in lamentations, and in tragedy and comedy, not only on the stage, but on the greater stage of human life; and so in endless other cases.

[Pro.] I do not see how any one can deny what you say, Socrates, however eager he may be to assert the opposite opinion.

[Soc.] I mentioned anger, desire, sorrow, fear, love, emulation, envy, and similar emotions, as examples in which we should find a mixture of the two elements so often named; did I not?

[Pro.] Yes.

[Soc.] We may observe that our conclusions hitherto have had reference only to sorrow and envy and anger.

[Pro.] I see.

[Soc.] Then many other cases still remain?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And why do you suppose me to have pointed out to you the admixture which takes place in comedy? Why but to convince you that there was no difficulty in showing the mixed nature of fear and love and similar affections; and I thought that when I had given you the illustration, you would have let me off, and have acknowledged as a general truth that the body without the soul, and the soul without the body, as well as the two united, are susceptible of all sorts of admixtures of pleasures and pains; and so further discussion would have been unnecessary. And now I want to know whether I may depart; or will you keep me here until midnight? I fancy that I may obtain my release without many words;-if I promise that to-morrow I will give you an account of all these cases. But at present I would rather sail in another direction, and go to other matters which remain to be settled, before the judgment can be given which Philebus demands.

[Pro.] Very good, Socrates; in what remains take your own course.

[Soc.] Then after the mixed pleasures the unmixed should have their turn; this is the natural and necessary order.

[Pro.] Excellent.

[Soc.] These, in turn, then, I will now endeavour to indicate; for with the maintainers of the opinion that all pleasures are a cessation of pain, I do not agree, but, as I was saying, I use them as witnesses, that there are pleasures which seem only and are not, and there are others again which have great power and appear in many forms, yet are intermingled with pains, and are partly alleviations of agony and distress, both of body and mind.

[Pro.] Then what pleasures, Socrates, should we be right in conceiving to be true?

[Soc.] True pleasures are those which are given by beauty of colour and form, and most of of those which arise from smells; those of sound, again, and in general those of which the want is painless and unconscious, and of which the fruition is palpable to sense and pleasant and unalloyed with pain.

[Pro.] Once more, Socrates, I must ask what you mean.

[Soc.] My meaning is certainly not obvious, and I will endeavour to be plainer. I do not mean by beauty of form such beauty as that of animals or pictures, which the many would suppose to be my meaning; but, says the argument, understand me to mean straight lines and circles, and the plane solid figures which are formed out of them by turning-lathes and rulers and measurers of angles; for these I affirm to be not only relatively beautiful, like other things, but they are eternally and absolutely beautiful, and they have peculiar pleasures, quite unlike the pleasures of scratching. And there are colours which are of the same character, and have similar pleasures; now do you understand my meaning?

[Pro.] I am trying to understand, Socrates, and I hope that you will try to make your meaning dearer.

[Soc.] When sounds are smooth and clear, and have a single pure tone, then I mean to say that they are not relatively but absolutely beautiful, and have natural pleasures associated with them.

[Pro.] Yes, there are such pleasures.

[Soc.] The pleasures of smell are of a less ethereal sort, but they have no necessary admixture of pain; and all pleasures, however and wherever experienced, which are unattended by pains, I assign to an analogous class. Here then are two kinds of pleasures.

[Pro.] I understand.

[Soc.] To these may be added the pleasures of knowledge, if no hunger of knowledge and no pain caused by such hunger precede them.

[Pro.] And this is the case.

[Soc.] Well, but if a man who is full of knowledge loses his knowledge, are there not pains of forgetting?

[Pro.] Not necessarily, but there may be times of reflection, when he feels grief at the loss of his knowledge.

[Soc.] Yes, my friend, but at present we are enumerating only the natural perceptions, and have nothing to do with reflection.

[Pro.] In that case you are right in saying that the loss of knowledge is not attended with pain.

[Soc.] These pleasures of knowledge, then, are unmixed with pain; and they are not the pleasures of the many but of a very few.

[Pro.] Quite true.

[Soc.] And now, having fairly separated the pure pleasures and those which may be rightly termed impure, let us further add to our description of them, that the pleasures which are in excess have no measure, but that those which are not in excess have measure; the great, the excessive, whether more or less frequent, we shall be right in referring to the class of the infinite, and of the more and less, which pours through body and soul alike; and the others we shall refer to the class which has measure.

[Pro.] Quite right, Socrates.

[Soc.] Still there is something more to be considered about pleasures.

[Pro.] What is it?

[Soc.] When you speak of purity and clearness, or of excess, abundance, greatness and sufficiency, in what relation do these terms stand to truth?

[Pro.] Why do you ask, Socrates?

[Soc.] Because, Protarchus, I should wish to test pleasure and knowledge in every possible way, in order that if there be a pure and impure element in either of them, I may present the pure element for judgment, and then they will be more easily judged of by you and by me and by all of us.

[Pro.] Most true.

[Soc.] Let us investigate all the pure kinds; first selecting for consideration a single instance.

[Pro.] What instance shall we select?

[Soc.] Suppose that we first of all take whiteness.

[Pro.] Very good.

[Soc.] How can there be purity in whiteness, and what purity? Is that purest which is greatest or most in quantity, or that which is most unadulterated and freest from any admixture of other colours?

[Pro.] Clearly that which is most unadulterated.

[Soc.] True, Protarchus; and so the purest white, and not the greatest or largest in quantity, is to be deemed truest and most beautiful?

[Pro.] Right.

[Soc.] And we shall be quite right in saying that a little pure white is whiter and fairer and truer than a great deal that is mixed.

[Pro.] Perfectly right.

[Soc.] There is no need of adducing many similar examples in illustration of the argument about pleasures; one such is sufficient to prove to us that a small pleasure or a small amount of pleasure, if pure or unalloyed with pain. is always pleasanter and truer and fairer than a great pleasure or a great amount of pleasure of another kind.

[Pro.] Assuredly; and the instance you have given is quite sufficient.

[Soc.] But what do you say of another question:-have we not heard that pleasure is always a generation, and has no true being? Do not certain ingenious philosophers teach this doctrine, and ought not we to be grateful to them?

[Pro.] What do they mean?

[Soc.] I will explain to you, my dear Protarchus, what they mean, by putting a question.

[Pro.] Ask, and I will answer.

[Soc.] I assume that there are two natures, one self-existent, and the other ever in want of something.

[Pro.] What manner of natures are they?

[Soc.] The one majestic ever, the other inferior.

[Pro.] You speak riddles.

[Soc.] You have seen loves good and fair, and also brave lovers of them.

[Pro.] I should think so.

[Soc.] Search the universe for two terms which are like these two and are present everywhere.

[Pro.] Yet a third time I must say, Be a little plainer, Socrates.

[Soc.] There is no difficulty, Protarchus; the argument is only in play, and insinuates that some things are for the sake of something else (relatives), and that other things are the ends to which the former class subserve (absolutes).

[Pro.] Your many repetitions make me slow to understand.

[Soc.] As the argument proceeds, my boy, I dare say that the meaning will become clearer.

[Pro.] Very likely.

[Soc.] Here are two new principles.

[Pro.] What are they?

[Soc.] One is the generation of all things, and the other is essence.

[Pro.] I readily accept from you both generation and essence.

[Soc.] Very right; and would you say that generation is for the sake of essence, or essence for the sake of generation?

[Pro.] You want to know whether that which is called essence is, properly speaking, for the sake of generation?

[Soc.] Yes.

[Pro.] By the gods, I wish that you would repeat your question.

[Soc.] I mean, O my Protarchus, to ask whether you would tell me that ship-building is for the sake of ships, or ships for the sake of ship-building? and in all similar cases I should ask the same question.

[Pro.] Why do you not answer yourself, Socrates?

[Soc.] I have no objection, but you must take your part.

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] My answer is, that all things instrumental, remedial, material, are given to us with a view to generation, and that each generation is relative to, or for the sake of, some being or essence, and that the whole of generation is relative to the whole of essence.

[Pro.] Assuredly.

[Soc.] Then pleasure, being a generation, must surely be for the sake of some essence?

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] And that for the sake of which something else is done must be placed in the class of good, and that which is done for the sake of something else, in some other class, my good friend.

[Pro.] Most certainly.

[Soc.] Then pleasure, being a generation, will be rightly placed in some other class than that of good?

[Pro.] Quite right.

[Soc.] Then, as I said at first, we ought to be very grateful to him who first pointed out that pleasure was a generation only, and had no true being at all; for he is clearly one who laughs at the notion of pleasure being a good.

[Pro.] Assuredly.

[Soc.] And he would surely laugh also at those who make generation their highest end.

[Pro.] Of whom are you speaking, and what do they mean?

[Soc.] I am speaking of those who when they are cured of hunger or thirst or any other defect by some process of generation are delighted at the process as if it were pleasure; and they say that they would not wish to live without these and other feelings of a like kind which might be mentioned.

[Pro.] That is certainly what they appear to think.

[Soc.] And is not destruction universally admitted to be the opposite of generation?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] Then he who chooses thus, would choose generation and destruction rather than that third sort of life, in which, as we were saying, was neither pleasure nor pain, but only the purest possible thought.

[Pro.] He who would make us believe pleasure to be a good is involved in great absurdities, Socrates.

[Soc.] Great, indeed; and there is yet another of them.

[Pro.] What is it?

[Soc.] Is there not an absurdity in arguing that there is nothing good or noble in the body, or in anything else, but that good is in the soul only, and that the only good of the soul is pleasure; and that courage or temperance or understanding, or any other good of the soul, is not really a good?-and is there not yet a further absurdity in our being compelled to say that he who has a feeling of pain and not of pleasure is bad at the time when he is suffering pain, even though he be the best of men; and again, that he who has a feeling of pleasure, in so far as he is pleased at the time when he is pleased, in that degree excels in virtue?

[Pro.] Nothing, Socrates, can be more irrational than all this.

[Soc.] And now, having subjected pleasure to every sort of test, let us not appear to be too sparing of mind and knowledge: let us ring their metal bravely, and see if there be unsoundness in any part, until we have found out what in them is of the purest nature; and then the truest elements both of pleasure and knowledge may be brought up for judgment.

[Pro.] Right.

[Soc.] Knowledge has two parts-the one productive, and the other educational?

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] And in the productive or handicraft arts, is not one part more akin to knowledge, and the other less; and may not the one part be regarded as the pure, and the other as the impure?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] Let us separate the superior or dominant elements in each of them.

[Pro.] What are they, and how do you separate them?

[Soc.] I mean to say, that if arithmetic, mensuration, and weighing be taken away from any art, that which remains will not be much.

[Pro.] Not much, certainly.

[Soc.] The rest will be only conjecture, and the better use of the senses which is given by experience and practice, in addition to a certain power of guessing, which is commonly called art, and is perfected by attention and pains.

[Pro.] Nothing more, assuredly.

[Soc.] Music, for instance, is full of this empiricism; for sounds are harmonized, not by measure, but by skilful conjecture; the music of the flute is always trying to guess the pitch of each vibrating note, and is therefore mixed up with much that is doubtful and has little which is certain.

[Pro.] Most true.

[Soc.] And the same will be found to hold good of medicine and husbandry and piloting and generalship.

[Pro.] Very true.

[Soc.] The art of the builder, on the other hand, which uses a number of measures and instruments, attains by their help to a greater degree of accuracy than the other arts.

[Pro.] How is that?

[Soc.] In ship-building and house-building, and in other branches of the art of carpentering, the builder has his rule, lathe, compass, line, and a most ingenious machine for straightening wood.

[Pro.] Very true, Socrates.

[Soc.] Then now let us divide the arts of which we were speaking into two kinds-the arts which, like music, are less exact in their results, and those which, like carpentering, are more exact.

[Pro.] Let us make that division.

[Soc.] Of the latter class, the most exact of all are those which we just now spoke of as primary.

[Pro.] I see that you mean arithmetic, and the kindred arts of weighing and measuring.

[Soc.] Certainly, Protarchus; but are not these also distinguishable into two kinds?

[Pro.] What are the two kinds?

[Soc.] In the first place, arithmetic is of two kinds, one of which is popular, and the other philosophical.

[Pro.] How would you distinguish them?

[Soc.] There is a wide difference between them, Protarchus; some arithmeticians reckon unequal units; as for example, two armies, two oxen, two very large things or two very small things. The party who are opposed to them insist that every unit in ten thousand must be the same as every other unit.

[Pro.] Undoubtedly there is, as you say, a great difference among the votaries of the science; and there may be reasonably supposed to be two sorts of arithmetic.

[Soc.] And when we compare the art of mensuration which is used in building with philosophical geometry, or the art of computation which is used in trading with exact calculation, shall we say of either of the pairs that it is one or two?

[Pro.] On the analogy of what has preceded, I should be of opinion that they were severally two.

[Soc.] Right; but do you understand why I have discussed the subject?

[Pro.] I think so, but I should like to be told by you.

[Soc.] The argument has all along been seeking a parallel to pleasure, and true to that original design, has gone on to ask whether one sort of knowledge is purer than another, as one pleasure is purer than another.

[Pro.] Clearly; that was the intention.

[Soc.] And has not the argument in what has preceded, already shown that the arts have different provinces, and vary in their degrees of certainty?

[Pro.] Very true.

[Soc.] And just now did not the argument first designate a particular art by a common term, thus making us believe in the unity of that art; and then again, as if speaking of two different things, proceed to enquire whether the art as pursed by philosophers, or as pursued by non philosophers, has more of certainty and purity?

[Pro.] That is the very question which the argument is asking.

[Soc.] And how, Protarchus, shall we answer the enquiry?

[Pro.] O Socrates, we have reached a point at which the difference of clearness in different kinds of knowledge is enormous.

[Soc.] Then the answer will be the easier.

[Pro.] Certainly; and let us say in reply, that those arts into which arithmetic and mensuration enter, far surpass all others; and that of these the arts or sciences which are animated by the pure philosophic impulse are infinitely superior in accuracy and truth.

[Soc.] Then this is your judgment; and this is the answer which, upon your authority, we will give to all masters of the art of misinterpretation?

[Pro.] What answer?

[Soc.] That there are two arts of arithmetic, and two of mensuration; and also several other arts which in like manner have this double nature, and yet only one name.

[Pro.] Let us boldly return this answer to the masters of whom you speak, Socrates, and hope for good luck.

[Soc.] We have explained what we term the most exact arts or sciences.

[Pro.] Very good.

[Soc.] And yet, Protarchus, dialectic will refuse to acknowledge us, if we do not award to her the first place.

[Pro.] And pray, what is dialectic?

[Soc.] Clearly the science which has to do with all that knowledge of which we are now speaking; for I am sure that all men who have a grain of intelligence will admit that the knowledge which has to do with being and reality, and sameness and unchangeableness, is by far the truest of all. But how would you decide this question, Protarchus?

[Pro.] I have often heard Gorgias maintain, Socrates, that the art of persuasion far surpassed every other; this, as he says, is by far the best of them all, for to it all things submit, not by compulsion, but of their own free will. Now, I should not like to quarrel either with you or with him.

[Soc.] You mean to say that you would like to desert, if you were not ashamed?

[Pro.] As you please.

[Soc.] May I not have led you into a misapprehension?

[Pro.] How?

[Soc.] Dear Protarchus, I never asked which was the greatest or best or usefullest of arts or sciences, but which had clearness and accuracy, and the greatest amount of truth, however humble and little useful an art. And as for Gorgias, if you do not deny that his art has the advantage in usefulness to mankind, he will not quarrel with you for saying that the study of which I am speaking is superior in this particular of essential truth; as in the comparison of white colours, a little whiteness, if that little be only pure, was said to be superior in truth to a great mass which is impure. And now let us give our best attention and consider well, not the comparative use or reputation of the sciences, but the power or faculty, if there be such, which the soul has of loving the truth, and of doing all things for the sake of it; let us search into the pure element of mind and intelligence, and then we shall be able to say whether the science of which I have been speaking is most likely to possess the faculty, or whether there be some other which has higher claims.

[Pro.] Well, I have been considering, and I can hardly think that any other science or art has a firmer grasp of the truth than this.

[Soc.] Do you say so because you observe that the arts in general and those engaged in them make use of opinion, and are resolutely engaged in the investigation of matters of opinion? Even he who supposes himself to be occupied with nature is really occupied with the things of this world, how created, how acting or acted upon. Is not this the sort of enquiry in which his life is spent?

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] He is labouring, not after eternal being, but about things which are becoming, or which will or have become.

[Pro.] Very true.

[Soc.] And can we say that any of these things which neither are nor have been nor will be unchangeable, when judged by the strict rule of truth, ever become certain?

[Pro.] Impossible.

[Soc.] How can anything fixed be concerned with that which has no fixedness?

[Pro.] How indeed?

[Soc.] Then mind and science when employed about such changing things do not attain the highest truth?

[Pro.] I should imagine not.

[Soc.] And now let us bid farewell, a long farewell, to you or me or Philebus or Gorgias, and urge on behalf of the argument a single point.

[Pro.] What point?

[Soc.] Let us say that the stable and pure and true and unalloyed has to do with the things which are eternal and unchangeable and unmixed, or if not, at any rate what is most akin to them has; and that all other things are to be placed in a second or inferior class.

[Pro.] Very true.

[Soc.] And of the names expressing cognition, ought not the fairest to be given to the fairest things?

[Pro.] That is natural.

[Soc.] And are not mind and wisdom the names which are to be honoured most?

[Pro.] Yes.

[Soc.] And these names may be said to have their truest, and most exact application when the mind is engaged in the contemplation of true being?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And these were the names which I adduced of the rivals of pleasure?

[Pro.] Very true, Socrates.

[Soc.] In the next place, as to the mixture, here are the ingredients, pleasure and wisdom, and we may be compared to artists who have their materials ready to their hands.

[Pro.] Yes.

[Soc.] And now we must begin to mix them?

[Pro.] By all means.

[Soc.] But had we not better have a preliminary word and refresh our memories?

[Pro.] Of what?

[Soc.] Of that which I have already mentioned. Well says the proverb, that we ought to repeat twice and even thrice that which is good.

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] Well then, by Zeus, let us proceed, and I will make what I believe to be a fair summary of the argument.

[Pro.] Let me hear.

[Soc.] Philebus says that pleasure is the true end of all living beings, at which all ought to aim, and moreover that it is the chief good of all, and that the two names “good” and “pleasant” are correctly given to one thing and one nature; Socrates, on the other hand, begins by denying this, and further says, that in nature as in name they are two, and that wisdom partakes more than pleasure of the good. Is not and was not this what we were saying, Protarchus?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And is there not and was there not a further point which was conceded between us?

[Pro.] What was it?

[Soc.] That the good differs from all other things.

[Pro.] In what respect?

[Soc.] In that the being who possesses good always everywhere and in all things has the most perfect sufficiency, and is never in need of anything else.

[Pro.] Exactly.

[Soc.] And did we not endeavour to make an imaginary separation of wisdom and pleasure, assigning to each a distinct life, so that pleasure was wholly excluded from wisdom, and wisdom in like manner had no part whatever in pleasure?

[Pro.] We did.

[Soc.] And did we think that either of them alone would be sufficient?

[Pro.] Certainly not.

[Soc.] And if we erred in any point, then let any one who will, take up the enquiry again and set us right; and assuming memory and wisdom and knowledge and true opinion to belong to the same class, let him consider whether he would desire to possess or acquire-I will not say pleasure, however abundant or intense, if he has no real perception that he is pleased, nor any consciousness of what he feels, nor any recollection, however momentary, of the feeling,-but would he desire to have anything at all, if these faculties were wanting to him? And about wisdom I ask the same question; can you conceive that any one would choose to have all wisdom absolutely devoid of pleasure, rather than with a certain degree of pleasure, or all pleasure devoid of wisdom, rather than with a certain degree of wisdom?

[Pro.] Certainly not, Socrates; but why repeat such questions any more?

[Soc.] Then the perfect and universally eligible and entirely good cannot possibly be either of them?

[Pro.] Impossible.

[Soc.] Then now we must ascertain the nature of the good more or less accurately, in order, as we were saying, that the second place may be duly assigned.

[Pro.] Right.

[Soc.] Have we not found a road which leads towards the good?

[Pro.] What road?

[Soc.] Supposing that a man had to be found, and you could discover in what house he lived, would not that be a great step towards the discovery of the man himself?

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And now reason intimates to us, as at our first beginning, that we should seek the good, not in the unmixed life but in the mixed.

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] There is greater hope of finding that which we are seeking in the life which is well mixed than in that which is not?

[Pro.] Far greater.

[Soc.] Then now let us mingle, Protarchus, at the same time offering up a prayer to Dionysus or Hephaestus, or whoever is the god who presides over the ceremony of mingling.

[Pro.] By all means.

[Soc.] Are not we the cup-bearers? and here are two fountains which are flowing at our side: one, which is pleasure, may be likened to a fountain of honey; the other, wisdom, a sober draught in which no wine mingles, is of water unpleasant but healthful; out of these we must seek to make the fairest of all possible mixtures.

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] Tell me first;-should we be most likely to succeed if we mingled every sort of pleasure with every sort of wisdom?

[Pro.] Perhaps we might.

[Soc.] But I should be afraid of the risk, and I think that I can show a safer plan.

[Pro.] What is it?

[Soc.] One pleasure was supposed by us to be truer than another, and one art to be more exact than another.

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] There was also supposed to be a difference in sciences; some of them regarding only the transient and perishing, and others the permanent and imperishable and everlasting and immutable; and when judged by the standard of truth, the latter, as we thought, were truer than the former.

[Pro.] Very good and right.

[Soc.] If, then, we were to begin by mingling the sections of each class which have the most of truth, will not the union suffice to give us the loveliest of lives, or shall we still want some elements of another kind?

[Pro.] I think that we ought to do what you suggest.

[Soc.] Let us suppose a man who understands justice, and has reason as well as understanding about the true nature of this and of all other things.

[Pro.] We will suppose such a man.

[Soc.] Will he have enough of knowledge if he is acquainted only with the divine circle and sphere, and knows nothing of our human spheres and circles, but uses only divine circles and measures in the building of a house?

[Pro.] The knowledge which is only superhuman, Socrates, is ridiculous in man.

[Soc.] What do you mean? Do you mean that you are to throw into the cup and mingle the impure and uncertain art which uses the false measure and the false circle?

[Pro.] Yes, we must, if any of us is ever to find his way home.

[Soc.] And am I to include music, which, as, I was saying just now, is full of guesswork and imitation, and is wanting in purity?

[Pro.] Yes, I think that you must, if human life is to be a life at all.

[Soc.] Well, then, suppose that I give way, and, like a doorkeeper who is pushed and overborne by the mob, I open the door wide, and let knowledge of every sort stream in, and the pure mingle with the impure?

[Pro.] I do not know, Socrates, that any great harm would come of having them all, if only you have the first sort.

[Soc.] Well, then, shall I let them all flow into what Homer poetically terms “a meeting of the waters”?

[Pro.] By all means.

[Soc.] There-I have let him in, and now I must return to the fountain of pleasure. For we were not permitted to begin by mingling in a single stream the true portions of both according to our original intention; but the love of all knowledge constrained us to let all the sciences flow in together before the pleasures.

[Pro.] Quite true.

[Soc.] And now the time has come for us to consider about the pleasures also, whether we shall in like manner let them go all at once, or at first only the true ones.

[Pro.] It will be by far the safer course to let flow the true ones first.

[Soc.] Let them flow, then; and now, if there are any necessary pleasures, as there were arts and sciences necessary, must we not mingle them?

[Pro.] Yes, the necessary pleasures should certainly be allowed to mingle.

[Soc.] The knowledge of the arts has been admitted to be innocent and useful always; and if we say of pleasures in like manner that all of them are good and innocent for all of us at all times, we must let them all mingle?

[Pro.] What shall we say about them, and what course shall we take?

[Soc.] Do not ask me, Protarchus; but ask the daughters of pleasure and wisdom to answer for themselves.

[Pro.] How?

[Soc.] Tell us, O beloved-shall we call you pleasures or by some other name?-would you rather live with or without wisdom? I am of opinion that they would certainly answer as follows:

[Pro.] How?

[Soc.] They would answer, as we said before, that for any single class to be left by itself pure and isolated is not good, nor altogether possible; and that if we are to make comparisons of one class with another and choose, there is no better companion than knowledge of things in general, and likewise the perfect knowledge, if that may be, of ourselves in every respect.

[Pro.] And our answer will be:-In that ye have spoken well.

[Soc.] Very true. And now let us go back and interrogate wisdom and mind: Would you like to have any pleasures in the mixture? And they will reply:-“What pleasures do you mean?”

[Pro.] Likely enough.

[Soc.] And we shall take up our parable and say: Do you wish to have the greatest and most vehement pleasures for your companions in addition to the true ones? “Why, Socrates,” they will say, “how can we? seeing that they are the source of ten thousand hindrances to us; they trouble the souls of men, which are our habitation, with their madness; they prevent us from coming to the birth, and are commonly the ruin of the children which are born to us, causing them to be forgotten and unheeded; but the true and pure pleasures, of which you spoke, know to be of our family, and also those pleasures which accompany health and temperance, and which every Virtue, like a goddess has in her train to follow her about wherever she goes,-mingle these and not the others; there would be great want of sense in any one who desires to see a fair and perfect mixture, and to find in it what is the highest good in man and in the universe, and to divine what is the true form of good-there would be great want of sense in his allowing the pleasures, which are always in the company of folly and vice, to mingle with mind in the cup.”-Is not this a very rational and suitable reply, which mind has made, both on her own behalf, as well as on the behalf of memory and true opinion?

[Pro.] Most certainly.

[Soc.] And still there must be something more added, which is a necessary ingredient in every mixture.

[Pro.] What is that?

[Soc.] Unless truth enter into the composition, nothing can truly be created or subsist.

[Pro.] Impossible.

[Soc.] Quite impossible; and now you and Philebus must tell me whether anything is still wanting in the mixture, for to my way of thinking the argument is now completed, and may be compared to an incorporeal law, which is going to hold fair rule over a living body.

[Pro.] I agree with you, Socrates.

[Soc.] And may we not say with reason that we are now at the vestibule of the habitation of the good?

[Pro.] I think that we are.

[Soc.] What, then, is there in the mixture which is most precious, and which is the principal cause why such a state is universally beloved by all? When we have discovered it, we will proceed to ask whether this omnipresent nature is more akin to pleasure or to mind.

[Pro.] Quite right; in that way we shall be better able to judge.

[Soc.] And there is no difficulty in seeing the cause which renders any mixture either of the highest value or of none at all.

[Pro.] What do you mean?

[Soc.] Every man knows it.

[Pro.] What?

[Soc.] He knows that any want of measure and symmetry in any mixture whatever must always of necessity be fatal, both to the elements and to the mixture, which is then not a mixture, but only a confused medley which brings confusion on the possessor of it.

[Pro.] Most true.

[Soc.] And now the power of the good has retired into the region of the beautiful; for measure and symmetry are beauty and virtue all the world over.

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] Also we said that truth was to form an element in the mixture.

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] Then, if we are not able to hunt the good with one idea only, with three we may catch our prey; Beauty, Symmetry, Truth are the three, and these taken together we may regard as the single cause of the mixture, and the mixture as being good by reason of the infusion of them.

[Pro.] Quite right.

[Soc.] And now, Protarchus, any man could decide well enough whether pleasure or wisdom is more akin to the highest good, and more honourable among gods and men.

[Pro.] Clearly, and yet perhaps the argument had better be pursued to the end.

[Soc.] We must take each of them separately in their relation to pleasure and mind, and pronounce upon them; for we ought to see to which of the two they are severally most akin.

[Pro.] You are speaking of beauty, truth, and measure?

[Soc.] Yes, Protarchus, take truth first, and, after passing in review mind, truth, pleasure, pause awhile and make answer to yourself-as to whether pleasure or mind is more akin to truth.

[Pro.] There is no need to pause, for the difference between them is palpable; pleasure is the veriest impostor in the world; and it is said that in the pleasures of love, which appear to be the greatest, perjury is excused by the gods; for pleasures, like children, have not the least particle of reason in them; whereas mind is either the same as truth, or the most like truth, and the truest.

[Soc.] Shall we next consider measure, in like manner, and ask whether pleasure has more of this than wisdom, or wisdom than pleasure?

[Pro.] Here is another question which may be easily answered; for I imagine that nothing can ever be more immoderate than the transports of pleasure, or more in conformity with measure than mind and knowledge.

[Soc.] Very good; but there still remains the third test: Has mind a greater share of beauty than pleasure, and is mind or pleasure the fairer of the two?

[Pro.] No one, Socrates, either awake or dreaming, ever saw or imagined mind or wisdom to be in aught unseemly, at any time, past, present, or future.

[Soc.] Right.

[Pro.] But when we see some one indulging in pleasures, perhaps in the greatest of pleasures, the ridiculous or disgraceful nature of the action makes us ashamed; and so we put them out of sight, and consign them to darkness, under the idea that they ought not to meet the eye of day.

[Soc.] Then, Protarchus, you will proclaim everywhere, by word of mouth to this company, and by messengers bearing the tidings far and wide, that pleasure is not the first of possessions, nor yet the second, but that in measure, and the mean, and the suitable, and the like, the eternal nature has been found.

[Pro.] Yes, that seems to be the result of what has been now said.

[Soc.] In the second class is contained the symmetrical and beautiful and perfect or sufficient, and all which are of that family.

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] And if you reckon in the third dass mind and wisdom, you will not be far wrong, if I divine aright.

[Pro.] I dare say.

[Soc.] And would you not put in the fourth class the goods which we were affirming to appertain specially to the soul-sciences and arts and true opinions as we called them? These come after the third class, and form the fourth, as they are certainly more akin to good than pleasure is.

[Pro.] Surely.

[Soc.] The fifth class are the pleasures which were defined by us as painless, being the pure pleasures of the soul herself, as we termed them, which accompany, some the sciences, and some the senses.

[Pro.] Perhaps.

[Soc.] And now, as Orpheus says,

With the sixth generation cease the glory of my song.

Here, at the sixth award, let us make an end; all that remains is to set the crown on our discourse.

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] Then let us sum up and reassert what has been said, thus offering the third libation to the saviour Zeus.

[Pro.] How?

[Soc.] Philebus affirmed that pleasure was always and absolutely the good.

[Pro.] I understand; this third libation, Socrates, of which you spoke, meant a recapitulation.

[Soc.] Yes, but listen to the sequel; convinced of what I have just been saying, and feeling indignant at the doctrine, which is maintained, not by Philebus only, but by thousands of others, I affirmed that mind was far better and far more excellent, as an element of human life, than pleasure.

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] But, suspecting that there were other things which were also better, I went on to say that if there was anything better than either, then I would claim the second place for mind over pleasure, and pleasure would lose the second place as well as the first.

[Pro.] You did.

[Soc.] Nothing could be more satisfactorily shown than the unsatisfactory nature of both of them.

[Pro.] Very true.

[Soc.] The claims both of pleasure and mind to be the absolute good have been entirely disproven in this argument, because they are both wanting in self-sufficiency and also in adequacy and perfection.

[Pro.] Most true.

[Soc.] But, though they must both resign in favour of another, mind is ten thousand times nearer and more akin to the nature of the conqueror than pleasure.

[Pro.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And, according to the judgment which has now been given, pleasure will rank fifth.

[Pro.] True.

[Soc.] But not first; no, not even if all the oxen and horses and animals in the world by their pursuit of enjoyment proclaim her to be so;-although the many trusting in them, as diviners trust in birds, determine that pleasures make up the good of life, and deem the lusts of animals to be better witnesses than the inspirations of divine philosophy.

[Pro.] And now, Socrates, we tell you that the truth of what you have been saying is approved by the judgment of all of us.

[Soc.] And will you let me go?

[Pro.] There is a little which yet remains, and I will remind you of it, for I am sure that you will not be the first to go away from an argument.



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Statesman – a Dialogue by Plato

01 Monday Jun 2009

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in BC, Greek, Philosophy, Plato

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Plato  [image by Leonardo da Vinci]


Statesman
by Plato
translated by Benjamin Jowett


Persons of the Dialogue:
THEODORUS;
SOCRATES;
The Eleatic STRANGER;
The younger SOCRATES.


[Socrates] I owe you many thanks, indeed, Theodorus, for the acquaintance both of Theaetetus and of the Stranger.


[Theodorus] And in a little while, Socrates, you will owe me three times as many, when they have completed for you the delineation of the Statesman and of the Philosopher, as well as of the Sophist.


[Soc.] Sophist, statesman, philosopher! O my dear Theodorus, do my ears truly witness that this is the estimate formed of them by the great calculator and geometrician?


[Theod.] What do you mean, Socrates?


[Soc.] I mean that you rate them all at the same value, whereas they are really separated by an interval, which no geometrical ratio can express.


[Theod.] By Ammon, the god of Cyrene, Socrates, that is a very fair hit; and shows that you have not forgotten your geometry. I will retaliate on you at some other time, but I must now ask the Stranger, who will not, I hope, tire of his goodness to us, to proceed either with the Statesman or with the Philosopher, whichever he prefers.


[Stranger] That is my duty, Theodorus; having begun I must go on, and not leave the work unfinished. But what shall be done with Theaetetus?


[Theod.] In what respect?


[Str.] Shall we relieve him, and take his companion, the Young Socrates, instead of him? What do you advise?


[Theod.] Yes, give the other a turn, as you propose. The young always do better when they have intervals of rest.


[Soc.] I think, Stranger, that both of them may be said to be in some way related to me; for the one, as you affirm, has the cut of my ugly face, the other is called by my name. And we should always be on the look-out to recognize a kinsman by the style of his conversation. I myself was discoursing with Theaetetus yesterday, and I have just been listening to his answers; my namesake I have not yet examined, but I must. Another time will, do for me; to-day let him answer you.


[Str.] Very good. Young Socrates, do you hear what the elder Socrates is proposing?


[Young Socrates] I do.


[Str.] And do you agree to his proposal?


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] As you do not object, still less can I. After the Sophist, then, I think that the Statesman naturally follows next in the order of enquiry. And please to say, whether he, too, should be ranked among those who have science.


[Y.Soc.] Yes.


[Str.] Then the sciences must be divided as before?


[Y.Soc.] I dare say.


[Str.] But yet the division will not be the same?


[Y.Soc.] How then?


[Str.] They will be divided at some other point.


[Y.Soc.] Yes.


[Str.] Where shall we discover the path of the Statesman? We must find and separate off, and set our seal upon this, and we will set the mark of another class upon all diverging paths. Thus the soul will conceive of ail kinds of knowledge under two classes.


[Y.Soc.] To find the path is your business, Stranger, and not mine.


[Str.] Yes, Socrates, but the discovery, when once made, must be yours as well as mine.


[Y.Soc.] Very good.


[Str.] Well, and are not arithmetic and certain other kindred arts, merely abstract knowledge, wholly separated from action?


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] But in the art of carpentering and all other handicrafts, the knowledge of the workman is merged in his work; he not only knows, but he also makes things which previously did not exist.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] Then let us divide sciences in general into those which are practical and those which are-purely intellectual.


[Y.Soc.] Let us assume these two divisions of science, which is one whole.


[Str.] And are “statesman,” “king,” “master,” or “householder,” one and the same; or is there a science or art answering to each of these names? Or rather, allow me to put the matter in another way.


[Y.Soc.] Let me hear.


[Str.] If any one who is in a private station has the skill to advise one of the public physicians, must not he also be called a physician?


[Y.Soc.] Yes.


[Str.] And if any one who is in a private station is able to advise the ruler of a country, may not he be said to have the knowledge which the ruler himself ought to have?


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] But, surely the science of a true king is royal science?


[Y.Soc.] Yes.


[Str.] And will not he who possesses this knowledge, whether he happens to be a ruler or a private man, when regarded only in reference to his art, be truly called “royal”?


[Y.Soc.] He certainly ought to be.


[Str.] And the householder and master are the same?


[Y.Soc.] Of course.


[Str.] Again, a large household may be compared to a small state:-will they differ at all, as far as government is concerned?


[Y.Soc.] They will not.


[Str.] Then, returning to the point which we were just now discussing, do we not clearly see that there is one science of all of them; and this science may be called either royal or political or economical; we will not quarrel with any one about the name.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly not.


[Str.] This too, is evident, that the king cannot do much with his hands, or with his whole body, towards the maintenance of his empire, compared with what he does by the intelligence and strength of his mind.


[Y.Soc.] Clearly not.


[Str.] Then, shall we say that the king has a greater affinity to knowledge than to manual arts and to practical life in general?


[Y.Soc.] Certainly he has.


[Str.] Then we may put all together as one and the same-statesmanship and the statesman-the kingly science and the king.


[Y.Soc.] Clearly.


[Str.] And now we shall only be proceeding in due order if we go on to divide the sphere of knowledge?


[Y.Soc.] Very good.


[Str.] Think whether you can find any joint or parting in knowledge.


[Y.Soc.] Tell me of what sort.


[Str.] Such as this: You may remember that we made an art of calculation?


[Y.Soc.] Yes.


[Str.] Which was, unmistakably, one of the arts of knowledge?


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] And to this art of calculation which discerns the differences of numbers shall we assign any other function except to pass judgment on their differences?


[Y.Soc.] How could we?


[Str.] You know that the master-builder does not work himself, but is the ruler of workmen?


[Y.Soc.] Yes.


[Str.] He contributes knowledge, not manual labour?


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] And may therefore be justly said to share in theoretical science?


[Y.Soc.] Quite true.


[Str.] But he ought not, like the calculator, to regard his functions as at and when he has formed a judgment;-he must assign to the individual workmen their appropriate task until they have completed the work.


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] Are not all such sciences, no less than arithmetic and the like, subjects of pure knowledge; and is not the difference between the two classes, that the one sort has the power of judging only, and the other of ruling as well?


[Y.Soc.] That is evident.


[Str.] May we not very properly say, that of all knowledge, there are there are two divisions-one which rules, and the other which judges?


[Y.Soc.] I should think so.


[Str.] And when men have anything to do in common, that they should be of one mind is surely a desirable thing?


[Y.Soc.] Very true.


[Str.] Then while we are at unity among ourselves, we need not mind about the fancies of others?


[Y.Soc.] Certainly not.


[Str.] And now, in which of these divisions shall we place the king?-Is he a judge and a kind of spectator? Or shall we assign to him the art of command-for he is a ruler?


[Y.Soc.] The latter, clearly.


[Str.] Then we must see whether there is any mark of division in the art of command too. I am inclined to think that there is a distinction similar to that of manufacturer and retail dealer, which parts off the king from the herald.


[Y.Soc.] How is this?


[Str.] Why, does not the retailer receive and sell over again the productions of others, which have been sold before?


[Y.Soc.] Certainly he does.


[Str.] And is not the herald under command, and does he not receive orders, and in his turn give them to others?


[Y.Soc.] Very true.


[Str.] Then shall we mingle the kingly art in the same class with the art of the herald, the interpreter, the boatswain, the prophet, and the numerous kindred arts which exercise command; or, as in the preceding comparison we spoke of manufacturers, or sellers for themselves, and of retailers,-seeing, too, that the class of supreme rulers, or rulers for themselves, is almost nameless-shall we make a word following the same analogy, and refer kings to a supreme or ruling-for-self science, leaving the rest to receive a name from some one else? For we are seeking the ruler; and our enquiry is not concerned with him who is not a ruler.


[Y.Soc.] Very good.


[Str.] Thus a very fair distinction has been attained between the man who gives his own commands, and him who gives another’s. And now let us see if the supreme power allows of any further division.


[Y.Soc.] By all means.


[Str.] I think that it does; and please to assist me in making the division.


[Y.Soc.] At what point?


[Str.] May not all rulers be supposed to command for the sake of producing something?


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] Nor is there any difficulty in dividing the things produced into two classes.


[Y.Soc.] How would you divide them?


[Str.] Of the whole class some have life and some are without life.


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] And by the help of this distinction we may make, if we please, a subdivision of the section of knowledge which commands.


[Y.Soc.] At what point?


[Str.] One part may be set over the production of lifeless, the other of living objects; and in this way the whole will be divided.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] That division, then, is complete; and now we may leave one half, and take up the other; which may also be divided into two.


[Y.Soc.] Which of the two halves do you men?


[Str.] Of course that which exercises command about animals. For, surely, the royal science is not like that of a master-workman, a science presiding over lifeless objects;-the king has a nobler function, which is the management and control of living beings.


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] And the breeding and tending of living beings may be observed to be sometimes a tending of the individual; in other cases, a common care of creatures in flocks?


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] But the statesman is not a tender of individuals-not like the driver or groom of a single ox or horse; he is rather to be compared with the keeper of a drove of horses or oxen.


[Y.Soc.] Yes, I see, thanks to you.


[Str.] Shall we call this art of tending many animals together, the art of managing a herd, or the art of collective management?


[Y.Soc.] No matter;-Whichever suggests itself to us in the course of conversation.


[Str.] Very good, Socrates; and, if you continue to be not too particular about names, you will be all the richer in wisdom when you are an old man. And now, as you say, leaving the discussion of the name, -can you see a way in which a person, by showing the art of herding to be of two kinds, may cause that which is now sought amongst twice the number of things, to be then sought amongst half that number?


[Y.Soc.] I will try;-there appears to me to be one management of men and another of beasts.


[Str.] You have certainly divided them in a most straightforward and manly style; but you have fallen into an error which hereafter I think that we had better avoid.


[Y.Soc.] What is the error?


[Str.] I think that we had better not cut off a single small portion which is not a species, from many larger portions; the part should be a species. To separate off at once the subject of investigation, is a most excellent plan, if only the separation be rightly made; and you were under the impression that you were right, because you saw that you would come to man; and this led you to hasten the steps. But you should not chip off too small a piece, my friend; the safer way is to cut through the middle; which is also the more likely way of finding classes. Attention to this principle makes all the difference in a process of enquiry.


[Y.Soc.] What do you mean, Stranger?


[Str.] I will endeavour to speak more plainly out of love to your good parts, Socrates; and, although I cannot at present entirely explain myself, I will try, as we proceed, to make my meaning a little clearer.


[Y.Soc.] What was the error of which, as you say, we were guilty in our recent division?


[Str.] The error was just as if some one who wanted to divide the human race, were to divide them after the fashion which prevails in this part of the world; here they cut off the Hellenes as one species, and all the other species of mankind, which are innumerable, and have no ties or common language, they include under the single name of “barbarians,” and because they have one name they are supposed to be of one species also. Or suppose that in dividing numbers you were to cut off ten thousand from all the rest, and make of it one species, comprehending the first under another separate name, you might say that here too was a single class, because you had given it a single name. Whereas you would make a much better and more equal and logical classification of numbers, if you divided them into odd and even; or of the human species, if you divided them into male and female; and only separated off Lydians or Phrygians, or any other tribe, and arrayed them against the rest of the world, when you could no longer make a division into parts which were also classes.


[Y.Soc.] Very true; but I wish that this distinction between a part and a class could still be made somewhat plainer.


[Str.] O Socrates, best of men, you are imposing upon me a very difficult task. We have already digressed further from our original intention than we ought, and you would have us wander still further away. But we must now return to our subject; and hereafter, when there is a leisure hour, we will follow up the other track; at the same time I wish you to guard against imagining that you ever heard me declare-


[Y.Soc.] What?


[Str.] That a class and a part are distinct.


[Y.Soc.] What did I hear, then?


[Str.] That a class is necessarily a part, but there is no similar necessity that a part should be a dass; that is the view which I should always wish you to attribute to me, Socrates.


[Y.Soc.] So be it.


[Str.] There is another thing which I should like to know.


[Y.Soc.] What is it?


[Str.] The point at which we digressed; for, if I am not mistaken, the exact place was at the question, Where you would divide the management of herds. To this you appeared rather too ready to answer that them were two species of animals; man being one, and all brutes making up the other.


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] I thought that in taking away a part you imagined that the remainder formed a class, because you were able to call them by the common name of brutes.


[Y.Soc.] That again is true.


[Str.] Suppose now, O most courageous of dialecticians, that some wise and understanding creature, such as a crane is reputed to be, were, in imitation of you, to make a similar division, and set up cranes against all other animals to their own special glorification, at the same time jumbling together all the others, including man, under the appellation of brutes,-here would be the sort of error which we must try to avoid.


[Y.Soc.] How can we be safe?


[Str.] If we do not divide the whole class of animals, we shall be less likely to fall into that error.


[Y.Soc.] We had better not take the whole?


[Str.] Yes, there lay the source of error in our former division.


[Y.Soc.] How?


[Str.] You remember how that part of the art of knowledge which was concerned with command, had to do with the rearing of living creatures,-I mean, with animals in herds?


[Y.Soc.] Yes.


[Str.] In that case, there was already implied a division of all animals into tame and wild; those whose nature can be tamed are called tame, and those which cannot be tamed are called wild.


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] And the political science of which we are in search, is and ever was concerned with tame animals, and is also confined to gregarious animals.


[Y.Soc.] Yes.


[Str.] But then ought not to divide, as we did, taking the whole class at once. Neither let us be in too great haste to arrive quickly at the political science; for this mistake has already brought upon us the misfortune of which the proverb speaks.


[Y.Soc.] What misfortune?


[Str.] The misfortune of too much haste, which is too little speed.


[Y.Soc.] And all the better, Stranger;-we got what we deserved.


[Str.] Very well: Let us then begin again, and endeavour to divide the collective rearing of animals; for probably the completion of the argument will best show what you are so anxious to know. Tell me, then-


[Y.Soc.] What?


[Str.] Have you ever heard, as you very likely may-for I do not suppose that you ever actually visited them-of the preserves of fishes in the Nile, and in the ponds of the Great King; or you may have seen similar preserves in wells at home?


[Y.Soc.] Yes, to be sure, I have seen them, and I have often heard the others described.


[Str.] And you may have heard also, and may have been-assured by report, although you have not travelled in those regions, of nurseries of geese and cranes in the plains of Thessaly?


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] I asked you, because here is a new division of the management of herds, into the management of land and of water herds.


[Y.Soc.] There is.


[Str.] And do you agree that we ought to divide the collective rearing of herds into two corresponding parts, the one the rearing of water, and the other the rearing of land herds?


[Y.Soc.] Yes.


[Str.] There is surely no need to ask which of these two contains the royal art, for it is evident to everybody.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] Any one can divide the herds which feed on dry land?


[Y.Soc.] How would you divide them?


[Str.] I should distinguish between those which fly and those which walk.


[Y.Soc.] Most true.


[Str.] And where shall we look for the political animal? Might not an idiot, so to speak, know that he is a pedestrian?


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] The art of managing the walking animal has to be further divided, just as you might have an even number.


[Y.Soc.] Clearly.


[Str.] Let me note that here appear in view two ways to that part or class which the argument aims at reaching-the one is speedier way, which cuts off a small portion and leaves a large; the other agrees better with the principle which we were laying down, that as far as we can we should divide in the middle; but it is longer. We can take either of them, whichever we please.


[Y.Soc.] Cannot we have both ways?


[Str.] Together? What a thing to ask! but, if you take them in turn, you clearly may.


[Y.Soc.] Then I should like to have them in turn.


[Str.] There will be no difficulty, as we are near the end; if we had been at the beginning, or in the middle, I should have demurred to your request; but now, in accordance with your desire, let us begin with the longer way; while we are fresh, we shall get on better. And now attend to the division.


[Y.Soc.] Let me hear.


[Str.] The tame walking herding animals are distributed by nature into two classes.


[Y.Soc.] Upon what principle?


[Str.] The one grows horns; and the other is without horns.


[Y.Soc.] Clearly.


[Str.] Suppose that you divide the science which manages pedestrian animals into two corresponding parts, and define them; for if you try to invent names for them, you will find the intricacy too great.


[Y.Soc.] How must I speak of them, then?


[Str.] In this way: let the science of managing pedestrian animals be divided into two parts and one part assigned to the horned herd and the other to the herd that has no horns.


[Y.Soc.] All that you say has been abundantly proved, and may therefore, be assumed.


[Str.] The king is clearly the shepherd a polled herd, who have no horns.


[Y.Soc.] That is evident.


[Str.] Shall we break up this hornless herd into sections, and endeavour to assign to him what is his?


[Y.Soc.] By all means.


[Str.] Shall we distinguish them by their having or not having cloven feet, or by their mixing or not mixing the breed? You know what I mean.


[Y.Soc.] What?


[Str.] I mean that horses and asses naturally breed from one another.


[Y.Soc.] Yes.


[Str.] But the remainder of the hornless herd of tame animals will not mix the breed.


[Y.Soc.] Very true.


[Str.] And of which has the Statesman charge,-of the mixed or of the unmixed race?


[Y.Soc.] Clearly of the unmixed.


[Str.] I suppose that we must divide this again as before.


[Y.Soc.] We must.


[Str.] Every tame and herding animal has now been split up, with the exception of two species; for I hardly think that dogs should be reckoned among gregarious animals.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly not; but how shall we divide the two remaining species?


[Str.] There is a measure of difference which may be appropriately employed by you and Theaetetus, who are students of geometry.


[Y.Soc.] What is that?


[Str.] The diameter; and, again, the diameter of a diameter.


[Y.Soc.] What do you mean?


[Str.] How does man walk, but as a diameter whose power is two feet?


[Y.Soc.] Just so.


[Str.] And the power of the remaining kind, being the power of twice two feet, may be said to be the diameter of our diameter.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly; and now I think that I pretty nearly understand you.


[Str.] In these divisions, Socrates, I descry what would make another famous jest.


[Y.Soc.] What is it?


[Str.] Human beings have come out in the same class with the freest and airiest of creation, and have been running a race with them.


[Y.Soc.] I remark that very singular coincidence.


[Str.] And would you not expect the slowest to arrive last?


[Y.Soc.] Indeed I should.


[Str.] And there is a still more ridiculous consequence, that the king is found running about with the herd and in close competition with the bird-catcher, who of all mankind is most of an adept at the airy life.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] Then here, Socrates, is still clearer evidence of the truth of what was said in the enquiry about the Sophist?


[Y.Soc.] What?


[Str.] That the dialectical method is no respecter of persons, and does not set the great above the small, but always arrives in her own way at the truest result.


[Y.Soc.] Clearly.


[Str.] And now, I will not wait for you to ask the, but will of my own accord take you by the shorter road to the definition of a king.


[Y.Soc.] By all means.


[Str.] I say that we should have begun at first by dividing land animals into biped and quadruped; and since the winged herd, and that alone, comes out in the same class with man, should divide bipeds into those which have feathers and those which have not, and when they have been divided, and the art of the management of mankind is brought to light, the time will have come to produce our Statesman and ruler, and set him like a charioteer in his place, and hand over to him the reins of state, for that too is a vocation which belongs to him.


[Y.Soc.] Very good; you have paid me the debt-I mean, that you have completed the argument, and I suppose that you added the digression by way of interest.


[Str.] Then now, let us go back to the beginning, and join the links, which together make the definition of the name of the Statesman’s art.


[Y.Soc.] By all means.


[Str.] The science of pure knowledge had, as we said originally, a part which was the science of rule or command, and from this was derived another part, which was called command-for-self, on the analogy of selling-for-self; an important section of this was the management of living animals, and this again was further limited to the manage merit of them in herds; and again in herds of pedestrian animals. The chief division of the latter was the art of managing pedestrian animals which are without horns; this again has a part which can only be comprehended under one term by joining together three names-shepherding pure-bred animals. The only further subdivision is the art of man herding-this has to do with bipeds, and is what we were seeking after, and have now found, being at once the royal and political.


[Y.Soc.] To be sure.


[Str.] And do you think, Socrates, that we really have done as you say?


[Y.Soc.] What?


[Str.] Do you think, I mean, that we have really fulfilled our intention?-There has been a sort of discussion, and yet the investigation seems to me not to be perfectly worked out: this is where the enquiry fails.


[Y.Soc.] I do not understand.


[Str.] I will try to make the thought, which is at this moment present in my mind, clearer to us both.


[Y.Soc.] Let me hear.


[Str.] There were many arts of shepherding, and one of them was the political, which had the charge of one particular herd?


[Y.Soc.] Yes.


[Str.] And this the argument defined to be the art of rearing, not horses or other brutes, but the art of rearing man collectively?


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] Note, however, a difference which distinguishes the king from all other shepherds.


[Y.Soc.] To what do you refer?


[Str.] I want to ask, whether any one of the other herdsmen has a rival who professes and claims to share with him in the management of the herd?


[Y.Soc.] What do you mean?


[Str.] I mean to say that merchants husbandmen, providers of food, and also training-masters and physicians, will all contend with the herdsmen of humanity, whom we call Statesmen, declaring that they themselves have the care of rearing of managing mankind, and that they rear not only the common herd, but also the rulers themselves.


[Y.Soc.] Are they not right in saying so?


[Str.] Very likely they may be, and we will consider their claim. But we are certain of this,-that no one will raise a similar claim as against the herdsman, who is allowed on all hands to be the sole and only feeder and physician of his herd; he is also their matchmaker and accoucheur; no one else knows that department of science. And he is their merry-maker and musician, as far as their nature is susceptible of such influences, and no one can console and soothe his own herd better than he can, either with the natural tones of his voice or with instruments. And the same may be said of tenders of animals in general.


[Y.Soc.] Very true.


[Str.] But if this is as you say, can our argument about the king be true and unimpeachable? Were we right in selecting him out of ten thousand other claimants to be the shepherd and rearer of the human flock?


[Y.Soc.] Surely not.


[Str.] Had we not reason just to now apprehend, that although we may have described a sort of royal form, we have not as yet accurately worked out the true image of the Statesman? and that we cannot reveal him as he truly is in his own nature, until we have disengaged and separated him from those who bang about him and claim to share in his prerogatives?


[Y.Soc.] Very true.


[Str.] And that, Socrates, is what we must do, if we do not mean to bring disgrace upon the argument at its close.


[Y.Soc.] We must certainly avoid that.


[Str.] Then let us make a new beginning, and travel by a different road.


[Y.Soc.] What road?


[Str.] I think that we may have a little amusement; there is a famous tale, of which a good portion may with advantage be interwoven, and then we may resume our series of divisions, and proceed in the old path until we arrive at the desired summit. Shall we do as I say?


[Y.Soc.] By all means.


[Str.] Listen, then, to a tale which a child would love to hear; and you are not too old for childish amusement.


[Y.Soc.] Let me hear.


[Str.] There did really happen, and will again happen, like many other events of which ancient tradition has preserved the record, the portent which is traditionally said to have occurred in the quarrel of Atreus and Thyestes. You have heard no doubt, and remember what they say happened at that time?


[Y.Soc.] I suppose you to mean the token of the birth of the golden lamb.


[Str.] No, not that; but another part of the story, which tells how the sun and the stars once rose in the west, and set in the east, and that the god reversed their motion, and gave them that which they now have as a testimony to the right of Atreus.


[Y.Soc.] Yes; there is that legend also.


[Str.] Again, we have been often told of the reign of Cronos.


[Y.Soc.] Yes, very often.


[Str.] Did you ever hear that the men of former times were earthborn, and not begotten of one another?


[Y.Soc.] Yes, that is another old tradition.


[Str.] All these stories, and ten thousand others which are still more wonderful, have a common origin; many of them have been lost in the lapse of ages, or are repeated only in a disconnected form; but the origin of them is what no one has told, and may as well be told now; for the tale is suited to throw light on the nature of the king.


[Y.Soc.] Very good; and I hope that you will give the whole story, and leave out nothing.


[Str.] Listen, then. There is a time when God himself guides and helps to roll the world in its course; and there is a time, on the completion of a certain cycle, when he lets go, and the world being a living creature, and having originally received intelligence from its author and creator turns about and by an inherent necessity revolves in the opposite direction.


[Y.Soc.] Why is that?


[Str.] Why, because only the most divine things of all remain ever unchanged and the same, and body is not included in this class. Heaven and the universe, as we have termed them, although they have been endowed by the Creator with many glories, partake of a bodily nature, and therefore cannot be entirely free from perturbation. But their motion is, as far as possible, single and in the same place, and of the same kind; and is therefore only subject to a reversal, which is the least alteration possible. For the lord of all moving things is alone able to move of himself; and to think that he moves them at one time in one direction and at another time in another is blasphemy. Hence we must not say that the world is either self-moved always, or all made to go round by God in two opposite courses; or that two Gods, having opposite purposes, make it move round. But as I have already said (and this is the only remaining alternative) the world is guided at one time by an external power which is divine and receives fresh life and immortality from the renewing hand of the Creator, and again, when let go, moves spontaneously, being set free at such a time as to have, during infinite cycles of years, a reverse movement: this is due to its perfect balance, to its vast size, and to the fact that it turns on the smallest pivot.


[Y.Soc.] Your account of the world seems to be very reasonable indeed.


[Str.] Let us now reflect and try to gather from what has been said the nature of the phenomenon which we affirmed to be the cause of all these wonders. It is this.


[Y.Soc.] What?


[Str.] The reversal which takes place from time to time of the motion of the universe.


[Y.Soc.] How is that the cause?


[Str.] Of all changes of the heavenly motions, we may consider this to be the greatest and most complete.


[Y.Soc.] I should imagine so.


[Str.] And it may be supposed to result in the greatest changes to the human beings who are the inhabitants of the world at the time.


[Y.Soc.] Such changes would naturally occur.


[Str.] And animals, as we know, survive with difficulty great and serious changes of many different kinds when they come upon them at once.


[Y.Soc.] Very true.


[Str.] Hence there necessarily occurs a great destruction of them, which extends also to-the life of man; few survivors of the race are left, and those who remain become the subjects of several novel and remarkable phenomena, and of one in particular, which takes place at the time when the transition is made to the cycle opposite to that in which we are now living.


[Y.Soc.] What is it?


[Str.] The life of all animals first came to a standstill, and the mortal nature ceased to be or look older, and was then reversed and grew young and delicate; the white locks of the aged darkened again, and the cheeks the bearded man became smooth, and recovered their former bloom; the bodies of youths in their prime grew softer and smaller, continually by day and night returning and becoming assimilated to the nature of a newly-born child in mind as well as body; in the succeeding stage they wasted away and wholly disappeared. And the bodies of those who died by violence at that time quickly passed through the like changes, and in a few days were no more seen.


[Y.Soc.] Then how, Stranger, were the animals created in those days; and in what way were they begotten of one another?


[Str.] It is evident, Socrates, that there was no such thing in the then order of nature as the procreation of animals from one another; the earth-born race, of which we hear in story, was the one which existed in those days-they rose again from the ground; and of this tradition, which is now-a-days often unduly discredited, our ancestors, who were nearest in point of time to the end of the last period and came into being at the beginning of this, are to us the heralds. And mark how consistent the sequel of the tale is; after the return of age to youth, follows the return of the dead, who are lying in the earth, to life; simultaneously with the reversal of the world the wheel of their generation has been turned back, and they are put together and rise and live in the opposite order, unless God has carried any of them away to some other lot. According to this tradition they of necessity sprang from the earth and have the name of earth-born, and so the above legend clings to them.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly that is quite consistent with what has preceded; but tell me, was the life which you said existed in the reign of Cronos in that cycle of the world, or in this? For the change in the course of the stars and the sun must have occurred in both.


[Str.] I see that you enter into my meaning;-no, that blessed and spontaneous life does not belong to the present cycle of the world, but to the previous one, in which God superintended the whole revolution of the universe; and the several parts the universe were distributed under the rule. certain inferior deities, as is the way in some places still There were demigods, who were the shepherds of the various species and herds of animals, and each one was in all respects sufficient for those of whom he was the shepherd; neither was there any violence, or devouring of one another or war or quarrel among them; and I might tell of ten thousand other blessings, which belonged to that dispensation. The reason why the life of man was, as tradition says, spontaneous, is as follows: In those days God himself was their shepherd, and ruled over them, just as man, over them, who is by comparison a divine being, still rules over the lower animals. Under him there were no forms of government or separate possession of women and children; for all men rose again from the earth, having no memory, of the past. And although they had nothing of this sort, the earth gave them fruits in abundance, which grew on trees and shrubs unbidden, and were not planted by the hand of man. And they dwelt naked, and mostly in the open air, for the temperature of their seasons, was mild; and they had no beds, but lay on Soft couches of grass, which grew plentifully out of: the earth. Such was the life of man in the days of Cronos, Socrates; the character of our present life which is said to be under Zeus, you know from your own experience. Can you, and will you, determine which of them you deem the happier?


[Y.Soc.] Impossible.


[Str.] Then shall I determine for you as well as I can?


[Y.Soc.] By all means.


[Str.] Suppose that the nurslings of Cronos, having this boundless leisure, and the power of holding intercourse, not only with men, but with the brute creation, had used all these advantages with a view to philosophy, conversing with the brutes as well as with one another, and learning of every nature which was gifted with any special power, and was able to contribute some special experience to the store of wisdom there would be no difficulty in deciding that they would be a thousand times happier than the men of our own day. Or, again, if they had merely eaten and drunk until they were full, and told stories to one another and to the animals-such stories as are now attributed to them-in this case also, as I should imagine, the answer would be easy. But until some satisfactory witness can be found of the love of that age for knowledge and: discussion, we had better let the matter drop, and give the reason why we have unearthed this tale, and then we shall be able to get on.


In the fulness of time, when the change was to take place, and the earth-born race had all perished, and every soul had completed its proper cycle of births and been sown in the earth her appointed number of times, the pilot of the universe let the helm go, and retired to his place of view; and then Fate and innate desire reversed the motion of the world. Then also all the inferior deities who share the rule of the supreme power, being informed of what was happening, let go the parts of the world which were under their control. And the world turning round with a sudden shock, being impelled in an opposite direction from beginning to end, was shaken by a mighty earthquake, which wrought a new destruction of all manner of animals. Afterwards, when sufficient time had elapsed, the tumult and confusion and earthquake ceased, and the universal creature, once more at peace attained to a calm, and settle down into his own orderly and accustomed course, having the charge and rule of himself and of all the creatures which are contained in him, and executing, as far as he remembered them, the instructions of his Father and Creator, more precisely at first, but afterwords with less exactness. The reason of the falling off was the admixture of matter in him; this was inherent in the primal nature, which was full of disorder, until attaining to the present order. From God, the constructor; the world received all that is good in him, but from a previous state came elements of evil and unrighteousness, which, thence derived, first of all passed into the world, and were then transmitted to the animals. While the world was aided by the pilot in nurturing the animals, the evil was small, and great the good which he produced, but after the separation, when the world was let go, at first all proceeded well enough; but, as time went there was more and more forgetting, and the old discord again held sway and burst forth in full glory; and at last small was the good, and great was the admixture of evil, and there was a danger of universal ruin to the world, and the things contained in him. Wherefore God, the orderer of all, in his tender care, seeing that the world was in great straits, and fearing that all might be dissolved in the storm and disappear in infinite chaos, again seated himself at the helm; and bringing back the elements which had fallen into dissolution and disorder to the motion which had prevailed under his dispensation, he set them in order and restored them, and made the world imperishable and immortal.


And this is the whole tale, of which the first part will suffice to illustrate the nature of the king. For when the world turned towards the present cycle of generation, the age of man again stood still, and a change opposite to the previous one was the result. The small creatures which had almost disappeared grew in and stature, and the newly-born children of the earth became grey and died and sank into the earth again. All things changed, imitating and following the condition of the universe, and of necessity agreeing with that in their mode of conception and generation and nurture; for no animal; was any longer allowed to come into being in the earth through the agency of other creative beings, but as the world was ordained to be the lord of his own progress, in like manner the parts were ordained to grow and generate and give nourishment, as far as they could, of themselves, impelled by a similar movement. And so we have arrived at the real end of this discourse; for although there might be much to tell of the lower animals, and of the condition out of which they changed and of the causes of the change, about men there is not much, and that little is more to the purpose. Deprived of the care of God, who had possessed and tended them, they were left helpless and defenceless, and were torn in pieces by the beasts, who were naturally fierce and had now grown wild. And in the first ages they were still without skill or resource; the food which once grew spontaneously had failed, and as yet they knew not how to procure it, because they-had never felt the pressure of necessity. For all these reasons they were in a great strait; wherefore also the gifts spoken of in the old tradition were imparted to man by the gods, together with so much teaching and education as was indispensable; fire was given to them by Prometheus, the arts by Hephaestus and his fellow-worker, Athene, seeds and plants by others. From these is derived all that has helped to frame human life; since the care of the Gods, as I was saying, had now failed men, and they had to order their course of life for themselves, and were their own masters, just like the universal creature whom they imitate and follow, ever changing, as he changes, and ever living and growing, at one time in one manner, and at another time in another. Enough of the story, which may be of use in showing us how greatly we erred in the delineation of the king and the statesman in our previous discourse.


[Y.Soc.] What was this great error of which you speak?


[Str.] There were two; the first a lesser one, the other was an error on a much larger and grander scale.


[Y.Soc.] What do you mean?


[Str.] I mean to say that when we were asked about a king and statesman of the present; and generation, we told of a shepherd of a human flock who belonged to the other cycle, and of one who was a god when he ought to have been a man; and this a great error. Again, we declared him to be, the ruler of the entire State, without, explaining how: this was not the whole truth, nor very intelligible; but still it was true, and therefore the second error was not so, great as the first.


[Y.Soc.] Very good.


[Str.] Before we can expect to have a perfect description of the statesman we must define the nature of his office.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] And the myth was introduced in order to show, not only that all others are rivals of true shepherd who is the object of our search, but in order that we might have a clearer view of him who is alone worthy to receive this appellation, because, he alone of shepherds and herdsmen, according to the image which we have employed, has the care of human beings.


[Y.Soc.] Very true.


[Str.] And I cannot help thinking, Socrates, that the form of the divine shepherd is even higher than that of a king; whereas the statesmen who are now on earth seem to be much more like their subjects in character, and which more nearly to partake of their breeding and education.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] Still they must be investigated all the same, to see whether, like the divine shepherd, they are above their subjects or on a level with them.


[Y.Soc.] Of course.


[Str.] To resumeo you remember that we spoke of a command-for-self exercised over animals, not singly but collectively, which we called the art of rearing a herd?


[Y.Soc.] Yes, I remember.


[Str.] There, somewhere, lay our error; for we never included or mentioned the Statesman; and we did not observe that he had no place in our nomenclature.


[Y.Soc.] How was that?


[Str.] All other herdsmen “rear” their herds, but this is not a suitable term to apply to the Statesman; we should use a name which is common to them all.


[Y.Soc.] True, if there be such a name.


[Str.] Why, is not “care” of herds applicable to all? For this implies no feeding, or any special duty; if we say either “tending” the herds, or “managing” the herds, or “having the care” of them, the same word will include all, and then we may wrap up the Statesman with the rest, as the argument seems to require.


[Y.Soc.] Quite right; but how shall we take the-next step in the division?


[Str.] As before we divided the art of “rearing” herds accordingly as they were land or water herds, winged and wingless, mixing or not mixing the breed, horned and hornless, so we may divide by these same differences the “teading” of herds, comprehending in our definition the kingship of to-day and the rule of Cronos.


[Y.Soc.] That is clear; but I still ask, what is to follow.


[Str.] If the word had been “managing” herds, instead of feeding or rearing them, no one would have argued that there was no care of men in the case of the politician, although it was justly contended, that there was no human art of feeding them which was worthy of the name, or at least, if there were, many a man had a prior and greater right to share in such an art than any king.


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] But no other art or science will have a prior or better right than the royal science to care for human society and to rule over men in general.


[Y.Soc.] Quite true.


[Str.] In the next place, Socrates, we must surely notice that a great error was committed at the end of our analysis.


[Y.Soc.] What was it?


[Str.] Why, supposing we were ever so sure that there is such an art as the art of rearing or feeding bipeds, there was no reason why we should call this the royal or political art, as though there were no more to be said.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly not.


[Str.] Our first duty, as we were saying, was to remodel the name, so as to have the notion of care rather than of feeding, and then to divide, for there may be still considerable divisions.


[Y.Soc.] How can they be made?


[Str.] First, by separating the divine shepherd from the human guardian or manager.


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] And the art of management which is assigned to man would again have to be subdivided.


[Y.Soc.] On what principle?


[Str.] On the principle of voluntary and compulsory.


[Y.Soc.] Why?


[Str.] Because, if I am not mistaken, there has been an error here; for our simplicity led us to rank king and tyrant together, whereas they are utterly distinct, like their modes of government.


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] Then, now, as I said, let us make the correction and divide human care into two parts, on the principle of voluntary and compulsory.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] And if we call the management of violent rulers tyranny, and the voluntary management of herds of voluntary bipeds politics, may we not further assert that he who has this latter art of management is the true king and statesman?


[Y.Soc.] I think, Stranger, that we have now completed the account of the Statesman.


[Str.] Would that we had Socrates, but I have to satisfy myself as well as you; and in my judgment the figure of the king is not yet perfected; like statuaries who, in their too great haste, having overdone the several parts of their work, lose time in cutting them down, so too we, partly out of haste, partly out of haste, partly out of a magnanimous desire to expose our former error, and also because we imagined that a king required grand illustrations, have taken up a marvellous lump of fable, and have been obliged to use more than was necessary. This made us discourse at large, and, nevertheless, the story never came to an end. And our discussion might be compared to a picture of some living being which had been fairly drawn in outline, but had not yet attained the life and clearness which is given by the blending of colours. Now to intelligent persons a living being had better be delineated by language and discourse than by any painting or work of art: to the duller sort by works of art.


[Y.Soc.] Very true; but what is the imperfection which still remains? I wish that you would tell me.


[Str.] The higher ideas, my dear friend, can hardly be set forth except through the medium of examples; every man seems to know all things in a dreamy sort of way, and then again to wake up and to know nothing.


[Y.Soc.] What do you mean?


[Str.] I fear that I have been unfortunate in raising a question about our experience of knowledge.


[Y.Soc.] Why so?


[Str.] Why, because my “example” requires the assistance of another example.


[Y.Soc.] Proceed; you need not fear that I shall tire.


[Str.] I will proceed, finding, as I do, such a ready listener in you: when children are beginning to know their letters-


[Y.Soc.] What are you going to say?


[Str.] That they distinguish the several letters well enough in very short and easy syllables, and are able to tell them correctly.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] Whereas in other syllables they do not recognize them, and think and speak falsely of them.


[Y.Soc.] Very true.


[Str.] Will not the best and easiest way of bringing them to a knowledge of what they do not as yet know be-


[Y.Soc.] Be what?


[Str.] To refer them first of all to cases in which they judge correctly about the letters in question, and then to compare these with the cases in which they do not as yet know, and to show them that the letters are the same, and have the same character in both combination, until all cases in which they are right have been Placed side by side with all cases in which they are wrong. In this way they have examples, and are made to learn that each letter in every combination is always the same and not another, and is always called by the same name.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] Are not examples formed in this manner? We take a thing and compare it with another distinct instance of the same thing, of which we have a right conception, and out of the comparison there arises one true notion, which includes both of them.


[Y.Soc.] Exactly.


[Str.] Can we wonder, then, that the soul has the same uncertainty about the alphabet of things, and sometimes and in some cases is firmly fixed by the truth in each particular, and then, again, in other cases is altogether at sea; having somehow or other a correction of combinations; but when the elements are transferred into the long and difficult language (syllables) of facts, is again ignorant of them?


[Y.Soc.] There is nothing wonderful in that.


[Str.] Could any one, my friend, who began with false opinion ever expect to arrive even at a small portion of truth and to attain wisdom?


[Y.Soc.] Hardly.


[Str.] Then you and I will not be far wrong in trying to see the nature of example in general in a small and particular instance; afterwards from lesser things we intend to pass to the royal class, which is the highest form of the same nature, and endeavour to discover by rules of art what the management of cities is; and then the dream will become a reality to us.


[Y.Soc.] Very true.


[Str.] Then, once more, let us resume the previous argument, and as there were innumerable rivals of the royal race who claim to have the care of states, let us part them all off, and leave him alone; and, as I was saying, a model or example of this process has first to be framed.


[Y.Soc.] Exactly.


[Str.] What model is there which is small, and yet has any analogy with the political occupation? Suppose, Socrates, that if we have no other example at hand, we choose weaving, or, more precisely, weaving of wool-this will be quite enough, without taking the whole of weaving, to illustrate our meaning?


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] Why should we not apply to weaving the same processes of division and subdivision which we have already applied to other classes; going once more as rapidly as we can through all the steps until we come to that which is needed for our purpose?


[Y.Soc.] How do you mean?


[Str.] I shall reply by actually performing the process.


[Y.Soc.] Very good.


[Str.] All things which we make or acquire are either creative or preventive; of the preventive class are antidotes, divine and human, and also defences; and defences are either military weapons or protections; and protections are veils, and also shields against heat and cold, and shields against heat and cold are shelters and coverings; and coverings are blankets and garments; and garments are some of them in one piece, and others of them are made in several parts; and of these latter some are stitched, others are fastened and not stitched; and of the not stitched, some are made of the sinews of plants, and some of hair; and of these, again, some are cemented with water and earth, and others are fastened together by themselves. And these last defences and coverings which are fastened together by themselves are called clothes, and the art which superintends them we may call, from the nature of the operation, the art of clothing, just as before the art of the Statesman was derived from the State; and may we not say that the art of weaving, at least that largest portion of it which was concerned with the making of clothes, differs only in name from this art of clothing, in the same way that, in the previous case, the royal science differed from the political?


[Y.Soc.] Most true.


[Str.] In the next place, let us make the reflection, that the art of weaving clothes, which an incompetent person might fancy to have been sufficiently described, has been separated off from several others which are of the same family, but not from the co-operative arts.


[Y.Soc.] And which are the kindred arts?


[Str.] I see that I have not taken you with me. So I think that we had better go backwards, starting from the end. We just now parted off from the weaving of clothes, the making of blankets, which differ from each other in that one is put under and the other is put around! and these are what I termed kindred arts.


[Y.Soc.] I understand.


[Str.] And we have subtracted the manufacture of all articles made of flax and cords, and all that we just now metaphorically termed the sinews of plants, and we have also separated off the process of felting and the putting together of materials by stitching and sewing, of which the most important part is the cobbler’s art.


[Y.Soc.] Precisely.


[Str.] Then we separated off the currier’s art, which prepared coverings in entire pieces, and the art of sheltering, and subtracted the various arts of making water-tight which are employed in building, and in general in carpentering, and in other crafts, and all such arts as furnish impediments to thieving and acts of violence, and are concerned with making the lids of boxes and the fixing of doors, being divisions of the art of joining; and we also cut off the manufacture of arms, which is a section of the great and manifold art of making defences; and we originally began by parting off the whole of the magic art which is concerned with antidoter, and have left, as would appear, the very art of which we were in search, the art of protection against winter cold, which fabricates woollen defences, and has the name of weaving.


[Y.Soc.] Very true.


[Str.] Yes, my boy, but that is not all; for the first process to which the material is subjected is the opposite of weaving.


[Y.Soc.] How so?


[Str.] Weaving is a sort of uniting?


[Y.Soc.] Yes.


[Str.] But the first process is a separation of the clotted and matted fibres?


[Y.Soc.] What do you mean?


[Str.] I mean the work of the carder’s art; for we cannot say that carding is weaving, or that the carder is a weaver.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly not.


[Str.] Again, if a person were to say that the art of making the warp and the woof was the art of weaving, he would say what was paradoxical and false.


[Y.Soc.] To be sure.


[Str.] Shall we say that the whole art of the fuller or of the mender has nothing to do with the care and treatment clotes, or are we to regard all these as arts of weaving?


[Y.Soc.] Certainly not.


[Str.] And yet surely all these arts will maintain that they are concerned with the treatment and production of clothes; they will dispute the exclusive prerogative of weaving, and though assigning a larger sphere to that, will still reserve a considerable field for themselves.


[Y.Soc.] Very true.


[Str.] Besides these, there are the arts which make tools and instruments of weaving, and which will claim at least to be cooperative causes in every work of the weaver.


[Y.Soc.] Most true.


[Str.] Well, then, suppose that we define weaving, or rather that part of it which has been selected by us, to be the greatest and noblest of arts which are concerned with woollen garments-shall we be right? Is not the definition, although true, wanting in clearness and completeness; for do not all those other arts require to be first cleared away?


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] Then the next thing will be to separate them, in order that the argument may proceed in a regular manner?


[Y.Soc.] By all means.


[Str.] Let us consider, in the first place, that there are two kinds of arts entering into everything which we do.


[Y.Soc.] What are they?


[Str.] The one kind is the conditional or cooperative, the other the principal cause.


[Y.Soc.] What do you mean?


[Str.] The arts which do not manufacture the actual thing, but which furnish the necessary tools for the manufacture, without which the several arts could not fulfil their appointed work, are co-operative; but those which make the things themselves are causal.


[Y.Soc.] A very reasonable distinction.


[Str.] Thus the arts which make spindles, combs, and other instruments of the production of clothes may be called co-operative, and those which treat and fabricate the things themselves, causal.


[Y.Soc.] Very true.


[Str.] The arts of washing and mending, and the other preparatory arts which belong to the causal class, and form a division of the great art of adornment, may be all comprehended under what we call the fuller’s art.


[Y.Soc.] Very good.


[Str.] Carding and spinning threads and all the parts of the process which are concerned with the actual manufacture of a woollen garment form a single art, which is one of thow universally acknowledged-the art of working in wool.


[Y.Soc.] To be sure.


[Str.] Of working in wool again, there are two divisions, and both these are parts of two arts at once.


[Y.Soc.] How is that?


[Str.] Carding and one half of the use of the comb, and the other processes of wool-working which separate the composite, may be classed together as belonging both to the art of woolworking, and also to one of the two great arts which are of universal application-the art of composition and the art of division.


[Y.Soc.] Yes.


[Str.] To the latter belong carding and the other processes of which I was just now speaking the art of discernment or division in wool and yarn, which is effected in one manner with the comb and in another with the hands, is variously described under all the names which I just now mentioned.


[Y.Soc.] Very true.


[Str.] Again, let us take some process of woolworking which is also a portion of the art of composition, and, dismissing the elements of division which we found there, make two halves, one on the principle of composition, and the other on the principle of division.


[Y.Soc.] Let that be done.


[Str.] And once more, Socrates, we must divide the part which belongs at once both to woolworking and composition, if we are ever to discover satisfactorily the aforesaid art of weaving.


[Y.Soc.] We must.


[Str.] Yes, certainly, and let us call one part of the art the art of twisting threads, the other the art of combining them.


[Y.Soc.] Do I understand you, in speaking of twisting, to be referring to manufacture of the warp?


[Str.] Yes, and of the woof too; how, if not by twisting, is the woof made?


[Y.Soc.] There is no other way.


[Str.] Then suppose that you define the warp and the woof, for I think that the definition will be of use to you.


[Y.Soc.] How shall I define them?


[Str.] As thus: A piece of carded wool which is drawn out lengthwise and breadth-wise is said to be pulled out.


[Y.Soc.] Yes.


[Str.] And the wool thus prepared when twisted by the spindle, and made into a firm thread, is called the warp, And the art which regulates these operations the art of spinning the warp.


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] And the threads which are more loosely spun, having a softness proportioned to the intertexture of the warp and to the degree of force used in dressing the cloth-the threads which are thus spun are called the woof, and the art which is set over them may be called the art of spinning the woof.


[Y.Soc.] Very true.


[Str.] And, now, there can be no mistake about the nature of the part of weaving which we have undertaken to define. For when that part of the art of composition which is employed in the working of wool forms a web by the regular intertexture of warp and woof, the entire woven substance is called by us a woollen garment, and the art which presides over this is the art of weaving.


[Y.Soc.] Very true.


[Str.] But why did we not say at once that weaving is the art of entwining warp and woof, instead of making a long and useless circuit?


[Y.Soc.] I thought, Stranger, that there was nothing useless in what was said.


[Str.] Very likely, but you may not always think so, my sweet friend; and in case any feeling of dissatisfaction should hereafter arise in your mind, as it very well may, let me lay down a principle which will apply to arguments in general.


[Y.Soc.] Proceed.


[Str.] Let us begin by considering the whole nature of excess and defect, and then we shall have a rational ground on which we may praise or blame too much length or too much shortness in discussions of this kind.


[Y.Soc.] Let us do so.


[Str.] The points on which I think that we ought to dwell are the following:-


[Y.Soc.] What?


[Str.] Length and shortness, excess and defect; with all of these the art of measurement is conversant.


[Y.Soc.] Yes.


[Str.] And the art of measurement has to be divided into two parts, with a view to our present purpose.


[Y.Soc.] Where would you make the division?


[Str.] As thus: I would make two parts, one having regard to the relativity of greatness and smallness to each other; and there is another, without which the existence of production would be impossible.


[Y.Soc.] What do you mean?


[Str.] Do you not think that it is only natural for the greater to be called greater with reference to the less alone, and the less reference to the greater alone?


[Y.Soc.] Yes.


[Str.] Well, but is there not also something exceeding and exceeded by the principle of the mean, both in speech and action, and is not this a reality, and the chief mark of difference between good and bad men?


[Y.Soc.] Plainly.


[Str.] Then we must suppose that the great and small exist and are discerned in both these ways, and not, as we were saying before, only relatively to one another, but there must also be another comparison of them with the mean or ideal standard; would you like to hear the reason why?


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] If we assume the greater to exist only in relation to the less, there will never be any comparison of either with the mean.


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] And would not this doctrine be the ruin of all the arts and their creations; would not the art of the Statesman and the aforesaid art of weaving disappear? For all these arts are on the watch against excess and defect, not as unrealities, but as real evils, which occasion a difficulty in action; and the excellence of beauty of every work of art is due to this observance of measure.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] But if the science of the Statesman disappears, the search for the royal science will be impossible.


[Y.Soc.] Very true.


[Str.] Well, then, as in the case of the Sophist we extorted the inference that not-being had an existence, because here was the point at which the argument eluded our grasp, so in this we must endeavour to show that the greater and, less are not only to be measured with one another, but also have to do with the production of the mean; for if this is not admitted, neither a statesman nor any other man of action can be an undisputed master of his science.


[Y.Soc.] Yes, we must certainly do again what we did then.


[Str.] But this, Socrates, is a greater work than the other, of which we only too well remember the length. I think, however, that we may fairly assume something of this sort-


[Y.Soc.] What?


[Str.] That we shall some day require this notion of a mean with a view to the demonstration of absolute truth; meanwhile, the argument that the very existence of the arts must be held to depend on the possibility of measuring more or less, not only with one another, but also with a view to the attainment of the mean, seems to afford a grand support and satisfactory proof of the doctrine which we are maintaining; for if there are arts, there is a standard of measure, and if there is a standard of measure, there are arts; but if either is wanting, there is neither.


[Y.Soc.] True; and what is the next step?


[Str.] The next step clearly is to divide the art of measurement into two parts, all we have said already, and to place in the one part all the arts which measure number, length, depth, breadth, swiftness with their opposites; and to have another part in which they are measured with the mean, and the fit, and the opportune, and the due, and with all those words, in short, which denote a mean or standard removed from the extremes.


[Y.Soc.] Here are two vast divisions, embracing two very different spheres.


[Str.] There are many accomplished men, Socrates, who say, believing themselves to speak wisely, that the art of measurement is universal, and has to do with all things. And this means what we are now saying; for all things which come within the province of art do certainly in some sense partake of measure. But these persons, because they are not accustomed to distinguish classes according to real forms, jumble together two widely different things, relation to one another, and to a standard, under the idea that they are the same, and also fall into the converse error of dividing other things not according to their real parts. Whereas the right way is, if a man has first seen the unity of things, to go on with the enquiry and not desist until he has found all the differences contained in it which form distinct classes; nor again should he be able to rest contented with the manifold diversities which are seen in a multitude of things until he has comprehended all of them that have any affinity within the bounds of one similarity and embraced them within the reality of a single kind. But we have said enough on this head, and also of excess and defect; we have only to bear in mind that two divisions of the art of measurement have been discovered which are concerned with them, and not forget what they are.


[Y.Soc.] We will not forget.


[Str.] And now that this discussion is completed, let us go on to consider another question, which concerns not this argument only but the conduct of such arguments in general.


[Y.Soc.] What is this new question?


[Str.] Take the case of a child who is engaged in learning his letters: when he is asked what letters make up a word, should we say that the question is intended to improve his grammatical knowledge of that particular word, or of all words?


[Y.Soc.] Clearly, in order that he may have a better knowledge of all words.


[Str.] And is our enquiry about the Statesman intended only to improve our knowledge of politics, or our power of reasoning generally?


[Y.Soc.] Clearly, as in the former example, the purpose is general.


[Str.] Still less would any rational man seek to analyse the notion of weaving for its own sake. But people seem to forget that some things have sensible images, which are readily known, and can be easily pointed out when any one desires to answer an enquirer without any trouble or argument; whereas the greatest and highest truths have no outward image of themselves visible to man, which he who wishes to satisfy the soul of the enquirer can adapt to the eye of sense, and therefore we ought to train ourselves to give and accept a rational account of them; for immaterial things, which are the noblest and greatest, are shown only in thought and idea, and in no other way, and all that we are now saying is said for the sake of them. Moreover, there is always less difficulty in fixing the mind on small matters than on great.


[Y.Soc.] Very good.


[Str.] Let us call to mind the bearing of all this.


[Y.Soc.] What is it?


[Str.] I wanted to get rid of any impression of tediousness which we may have experienced in the discussion about weaving, and the reversal of the universe, and in the discussion concerning the Sophist and the being of not-being. I know that they were felt to be too long, and I reproached myself with this, fearing that they might be not only tedious but irrelevant; and all that I have now said is only designed to prevent the recurrence of any such disagreeables for the future.


[Y.Soc.] Very good. Will you proceed?


[Str.] Then I would like to observe that you and I, remembering what has been said, should praise or blame the length or shortness of discussions, not by comparing them with one another, but with what is fitting, having regard to the part of measurement, which, as we said, was to be borne in mind.


[Y.Soc.] Very true.


[Str.] And yet, not everything is to be judged even with a view to what is fitting; for we should only want such a length as is suited to give pleasure, if at all, as a secondary matter; and reason tells us, that we should be contented to make the ease or rapidity of an enquiry, not our first, but our second object; the first and highest of all being to assert the great method of division according to species-whether the discourse be shorter or longer is not to the point. No offence should be taken at length, but the longer and shorter are to be employed indifferently, according as either of them is better calculated to sharpen the wits of the auditors. Reason would also say to him who censures the length of discourses on such occasions and cannot away with their circumlocution, that he should not be in such a hurry to have done with them, when he can only complain that they are tedious, but he should prove that if they had been shorter they would have made those who took part in them better dialecticians, and more capable of expressing the truth of things; about any other praise and blame, he need not trouble himself-he should pretend not to hear them. But we have had enough of this, as you will probably agree with me in thinking. Let us return to our Statesman, and apply to his case the aforesaid example of weaving.


[Y.Soc.] Very good;-let us do as you say.


[Str.] The art of the king has been separated from the similar arts of shepherds, and, indeed, from all those which have to do with herds at all. There still remain, however, of the causal and co-operative arts those which are immediately concerned with States, and which must first be distinguished from one another.


[Y.Soc.] Very good.


[Str.] You know that these arts cannot easily be divided into two halves; the reason will be very: evident as we proceed.


[Y.Soc.] Then we had better do so.


[Str.] We must carve them like a victim into members or limbs, since we cannot bisect them. For we certainly should divide everything into as few parts as possible.


[Y.Soc.] What is to be done in this case?


[Str.] What we did in the example of weaving-all those arts which furnish the tools were regarded by us as co-operative.


[Y.Soc.] Yes.


[Str.] So now, and with still more reason, all arts which make any implement in a State, whether great or small, may be regarded by us as co-operative, for without them neither State nor Statesmanship would be possible; and yet we are not inclined to say that any of them is a product of the kingly art.


[Y.Soc.] No, indeed.


[Str.] The task of separating this class from others is not an easy one; for there is plausibility in saying that anything in the world is the instrument of doing something. But there is another dass of possessions in, a city, of which I have a word to say.


[Y.Soc.] What class do you mean?


[Str.] A class which may be described as not having this power; that is to say, not like an instrument, framed for production, but designed for the preservation of that which is produced.


[Y.Soc.] To what do you refer?


[Str.] To the class of vessels, as they are comprehensively termed, which are constructed for the preservation of things moist and dry, of things prepared in the fire or out of the fire; this is a very large class, and has, if I am not mistaken, literally nothing to do with the royal art of which we are in search.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly not.


[Str.] There is also a third class of possessions to be noted, different from these and very extensive, moving or resting on land or water, honourable and also dishonourable. The whole of this class has one name, because it is intended to be sat upon, being always a seat for something.


[Y.Soc.] What is it?


[Str.] A vehicle, which is certainly not the work of the Statesman, but of the carpenter, potter, and coppersmith.


[Y.Soc.] I understand.


[Str.] And is there not a fourth class which is again different, and in which most of the things formerly mentioned are contained-every kind of dress, most sorts of arms, walls and enclosures, whether of earth or stone, and ten thousand other thing? all of which being made for the sake of defence, may be truly called defences, and are for the most part to be regarded as the work of the builder or of the weaver, rather than of the Statesman.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] Shall we add a fifth class, of ornamentation and drawing, and of the imitations produced, by drawing and music, which are designed for amusement only, and may be fairly comprehended under one name?


[Y.Soc.] What is it?


[Str.] Plaything is the name.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] That one name may be fitly predicated of all of them, for none of these things have a serious purpose-amusement is their sole aim.


[Y.Soc.] That again I understand.


[Str.] Then there is a class which provides materials for all these, out of which and in which the arts already mentioned fabricate their works;-this manifold class, I say, which is the creation and offspring of many other arts, may I not rank sixth?


[Y.Soc.] What do you mean?


[Str.] I am referring to gold, silver, and other metals, and all that wood-cutting and shearing of every sort provides for the art of carpentry and plaiting; and there is the process of barking and stripping the cuticle of plants, and the currier’s art, which strips off the skins of animals, and other similar arts which manufacture corks and papyri and cords, and provide for the manufacture of composite species out of simple kinds-the whole class may be termed the primitive and simple possession of man, and with this the kingly science has no concern at all.


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] The provision of food and of all other things which mingle their particles with the particles of the human body; and minister to the body, will form a seventh class, which may be called by the general term of nourishment, unless you have any better name to offer. This, however, appertains rather to the husbandman, huntsman, trainer, doctor, cook, and is not to be assigned to the Statesman’s art.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly not.


[Str.] These seven classes include nearly every description of property, with the exception of tame animals. Consider;-there was the original material, which ought to have been placed first; next come instruments, vessels, vehicles, defences, playthings, nourishment; small things, which may be-included under one of these-as for example, coins, seals and stamps, are omitted, for they have not in them the character of any larger kind which includes them; but some of them may, with a little forcing, be placed among ornaments, and others may be made to harmonize with the class of implements. The art of herding, which has been already divided into parts, will include all property in tame animals except slaves.


[Y.Soc.] Very true.


[Str.] The class of slaves and ministers only remains, and I suspect that in this the real aspirants for the throne, who are the rivals of the king in the formation of the political web, will be discovered; just as spinners, carders, and the rest of them, were the rivals of the weaver. All the others, who were termed co-operators, have been got rid of among the occupations already mentioned, and separated from the royal and political science.


[Y.Soc.] I agree.


[Str.] Let us go a little nearer, in order that we may be more certain of the complexion of this remaining class.


[Y.Soc.] Let us do so.


[Str.] We shall find from our present point of view that the greatest servants are in a case and condition which is the reverse of what we anticipated.


[Y.Soc.] Who are they?


[Str.] Those who have been purchased, and have so become possessions; these are unmistakably slaves, and certainly do not claim royal science.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly not.


[Str.] Again, freemen who of their own accord become the servants of the other classes in a State, and who exchange and equalise the products of husbandry and the other arts, some sitting in the market-place, others going from city to city by land or sea, and giving money in exchange for money or for other productions-the money-changer, the merchant, the ship-owner, the retailer, will not put in any claim to statecraft or politics?


[Y.Soc.] No; unless, indeed, to the politics of commerce.


[Str.] But surely men whom we see acting as hirelings and serfs, and too happy to turn their hand to anything, will not profess to share in royal science?


[Y.Soc.] Certainly not.


[Str.] But what would you say of some other serviceable officials?


[Y.Soc.] Who are they, and what services do they perform?


[Str.] There are heralds, and scribes perfected by practice, and divers others who have great skill in various sorts of business connected with the government of states-what shall we call them?


[Y.Soc.] They are the officials, and servants of the rulers, as you just now called them, but not themselves rulers.


[Str.] There may be something strange in any servant pretending to be a ruler, and yet I do not think that I could have been dreaming when I imagined that the principal claimants to political science would be found somewhere in this neighbourhood.


[Y.Soc.] Very true.


[Str.] Well, let us draw nearer, and try the claims of some who have not yet been tested; in the first place, there are diviners, who have a portion of servile or ministerial science, and are thought to be the interpreters of the gods to men.


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] There is also the priestly class, who, as the law declares, know how to give the gods gifts from men in the form of sacrifices which are acceptable to them, and to ask on our behalf blessings in return from them. Now both these are branches of the servile or ministerial art.


[Y.Soc.] Yes, clearly.


[Str.] And here I think that we seem to be getting on the right track; for the priest and the diviner are swollen with pride and prerogative, and they create an awful impression of themselves by the magnitude of their enterprises; in Egypt, the king himself is not allowed to reign, unless he have priestly powers, and if he should be of another class and has thrust himself in, he must get enrolled in the priesthood. In many parts of Hellas, the duty of offering the most solemn propitiatory sacrifices is assigned to the highest magistracies, and here, at Athens, the most solemn and national of the ancient sacrifices are supposed to be celebrated by him who has been chosen by lot to be the King Archon.


[Y.Soc.] Precisely.


[Str.] But who are these other kings and priests elected by lot who now come into view followed by their retainers and a vast throng, as the former class disappears and the scene changes?


[Y.Soc.] Whom can you mean?


[Str.] They are a strange crew.


[Y.Soc.] Why strange?


[Str.] A minute ago I thought that they were animals of every tribe; for many of them are like lions and centaurs, and many more like satyrs and such weak and shifty creatures;-Protean shapes quickly changing into one another’s forms and natures; and now, Socrates, I begin to see who they are.


[Y.Soc.] Who are they? You seem to be gazing on some strange vision.


[Str.] Yes; every one looks strange when you do not know him; and just now I myself fell into this mistake-at first sight, coming suddenly upon him, I did not recognize the politician and his troop.


[Y.Soc.] Who is he?


[Str.] The chief of Sophists and most accomplished of wizards, who must at any cost be separated from the true king or Statesman, if we are ever to see daylight in the present enquiry.


[Y.Soc.] That is a hope not lightly to be renounced.


[Str.] Never, if I can help it; and, first, let me ask you a question.


[Y.Soc.] What?


[Str.] Is not monarchy a recognized form of government?


[Y.Soc.] Yes.


[Str.] And, after monarchy, next in order comes the government of the few?


[Y.Soc.] Of course.


[Str.] Is not the third form of government the rule of the multitude, which is called by the name of democracy?


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] And do not these three expand in a manner into five, producing out of themselves two other names [Y.Soc.] What are they?


[Y.Soc.] What are they?


[Str.] There is a criterion of voluntary and involuntary, poverty and riches, law and the absence of law, which men now-a-days apply to them; the two first they subdivide accordingly, and ascribe to monarchy two forms and two corresponding names, royalty and tyranny.


[Y.Soc.] Very true.


[Str.] And the government of the few they distinguish by the names of aristocracy and oligarchy.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] Democracy alone, whether rigidly observing the laws or not, and whether the multitude rule over the men of property with their consent or against their consent, always in ordinary language has the same name.


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] But do you suppose that any form of government which is defined by these characteristics of the one, the few, or the many, of poverty or wealth, of voluntary or compulsory submission, of written law or the absence of law, can be a right one?


[Y.Soc.] Why not?


[Str.] Reflect; and follow me.


[Y.Soc.] In what direction?


[Str.] Shall we abide by what we said at first, or shall we retract our words?


[Y.Soc.] To what do you refer?


[Str.] If I am not mistaken, we said that royal power was a science?


[Y.Soc.] Yes.


[Str.] And a science of a peculiar kind, which was selected out of the rest as having a character which is at once judicial and authoritative?


[Y.Soc.] Yes.


[Str.] And there was one kind of authority over lifeless things and another other living animals; and so we proceeded in the division step by step up to this point, not losing the idea of science, but unable as yet to determine the nature of the particular science?


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] Hence we are led to observe that the distinguishing principle of the State cannot be the few or many, the voluntary or involuntary, poverty or riches; but some notion of science must enter into it, if we are to be consistent with what has preceded.


[Y.Soc.] And we must be consistent.


[Str.] Well, then, in which of these various forms of States may the science of government, which is among the greatest of all sciences and most difficult to acquire, be supposed to reside? That we must discover, and then we shall see who are the false politicians who pretend to be politicians but are not, although they persuade many, and shall separate them from the wise king.


[Y.Soc.] That, as the argument has already intimated, will be our duty.


[Str.] Do you think that the multitude in a State can attain political science?


[Y.Soc.] Impossible.


[Str.] But, perhaps, in a city of a thousand men, there would be a hundred, or say fifty, who could?


[Y.Soc.] In that case political science would certainly be the easiest of all sciences; there could not be found in a city of that number as many really first-rate draught-players, if judged by the standard of the rest of Hellas, and there would certainly not be as many kings. For kings we may truly call those who possess royal science, whether they rule or not, as was shown in the previous argument.


[Str.] Thank you for reminding me; and the consequence is that any true form of government can only be supposed to be the government of one, two, or, at any rate, of a few.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] And these, whether they rule with the will, or against the will of their subjects, with written laws or. without written laws, and whether they are poor or rich, and whatever be the nature of their rule, must be supposed, according to our present view, to rule on some scientific principle; just as the physician, whether he cures us against our will or with our will, and whatever be his mode of treatment-incision, burning, or the infliction of some other pain-whether he practises out of a book or not out of a book, and whether he be rich or poor, whether he purges or reduces in some other way, or even fattens his patients, is a physician all the same, so long as he exercises authority over them according to rules of art, if he only does them good and heals and saves them. And this we lay down to be the only proper test of the art of medicine, or of any other art of command.


[Y.Soc.] Quite true.


[Str.] Then that can be the only true form of government in which the governors are really found to possess science, and are not mere pretenders, whether they rule according to law or without law, over-willing or unwilling subjects, and are rich or poor themselves-none of these things can with any propriety be included in the notion of the ruler.


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] And whether with a view to the public good they purge the State by killing some, or exiling some; whether they reduce the size of the body corporate by sending out from the hive swarms of citizens, or, by introducing persons from without, increase it; while they act according to the rules of wisdom and justice, and use their power with a view to the general security and improvement, the city over which they rule, and which has these characteristics, may be described as the only true State. All other governments are not genuine or real; but only imitations of this, and some of them are better and some of them are worse; the better are said to be well governed, but they are mere imitations like the others.


[Y.Soc.] I agree, Stranger, in the greater part of what you say; but as to their ruling without laws-the expression has a harsh sound.


[Str.] You have been too quick for me, Socrates; I was just going to ask you whether you objected to any of my statements. And now I see that we shall have to consider this notion of there being good government without laws.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] There can be no doubt that legislation is in a manner the business of a king, and yet the best thing of all is not that the law should rule, but that a man should rule, supposing him to have wisdom and royal power. Do you see why this is?


[Y.Soc.] Why?


[Str.] Because the law does not perfectly comprehend what is noblest and most just for all and therefore cannot enforce what is best. The differences of men and actions, and the endless irregular movements of human things, do not admit of -any universal and simple rule. And no art whatsoever can lay down a rule which will last for all time.


[Y.Soc.] Of course not.


[Str.] But the law is always striving to make one;-like an obstinate and ignorant tyrant, who will not allow anything to be done contrary to his appointment, or any question to be asked-not even in sudden changes of circumstances, when something happens to be better than what he commanded for some one.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly; the law treats us all precisely in the manner which you describe.


[Str.] A perfectly simple principle can never be applied to a state of things which is the reverse of simple.


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] Then if the law is not the perfection of right, why are we compelled to make laws at all? The reason of this has next to be investigated.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] Let me ask, whether you have not meetings for gymnastic contests in your city, such as there are in other cities, at which men compete in running, wrestling, and the like?


[Y.Soc.] Yes; they are very common among us.


[Str.] And what are the rules which are enforced on their pupils by professional trainers or by others having similar authority? Can you remember?


[Y.Soc.] To what do you refer?


[Str.] The training-masters do not issue minute rules for individuals, or give every individual what is exactly suited to his constitution; they think that they ought to go more roughly to work, and to prescribe generally the regimen, which will benefit the majority.


[Y.Soc.] Very true.


[Str.] And therefore they assign equal amounts of exercise to them all; they send them forth together, and let them rest together from their running, wrestling, or whatever the form of bodily exercise may be.


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] And now observe that the legislator who has to preside over the herd, and to enforce justice in their dealings with one another, will not be able, in enacting for the general good, to provide exactly what is suitable for each particular case.


[Y.Soc.] He cannot be expected to do so.


[Str.] He will lay down laws in a general form for the majority, roughly meeting the cases of individuals; and some of them he will deliver in writing, and others will be unwritten; and these last will be traditional customs of the country.


[Y.Soc.] He will be right.


[Str.] Yes, quite right; for how can he sit at every man’s side all through his life, prescribing for him the exact particulars of his duty? Who, Socrates, would be equal to such a task? No one who really had the royal science, if he had been able to do this, would have imposed upon himself the restriction of a written law.


[Y.Soc.] So I should infer from what has now been said.


[Str.] Or rather, my good friend, from what is going to be said.


[Y.Soc.] And what is that?


[Str.] Let us put to ourselves the case of a physician, or trainer, who is about to go into a far country, and is expecting to be a long time away from his patients-thinking that his instructions will not be remembered unless they are written down, he will leave notes of them for the use of his pupils or patients.


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] But what would you say, if he came back sooner than he had intended, and, owing to an unexpected change of the winds or other celestial influences, something else happened to be better for them-would he not venture to suggest this new remedy, although not contemplated in his former prescription? Would he persist in observing the original law, neither himself giving any few commandments, nor the patient daring to do otherwise than was prescribed, under the idea that this course only was healthy and medicinal, all others noxious and heterodox? Viewed in the light of science and true art, would not all such enactments be utterly ridiculous?


[Y.Soc.] Utterly.


[Str.] And if he who gave laws, written or unwritten, determining what was good or bad, honourable or dishonourable, just or unjust, to the tribes of men who flock together in their several cities, and are governed accordance with them; if, I say, the wise legislator were suddenly to come again, or another like to him, is he to be prohibited from changing them?-would not this prohibition be in reality quite as ridiculous as the other?


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] Do you know a plausible saying of the common people which is in point?


[Y.Soc.] I do not recall what you mean at the moment.


[Str.] They say that if any one knows how the ancient laws may be improved, he must first persuade his own State of the improvement, and then he may legislate, but not otherwise.


[Y.Soc.] And are they not right?


[Str.] I dare say. But supposing that he does use some gentle violence for their good, what is this violence to be called? Or rather, before you answer, let me ask the same question in reference to our previous instances.


[Y.Soc.] What do you mean?


[Str.] Suppose that a skilful physician has a patient, of whatever sex or age, whom he compels against his will to do something for his good which is contrary to the written rules; what is this compulsion to be called? Would you ever dream of calling it a violation of the art, or a breach of the laws of health? Nothing could be more unjust than for the patient to whom such violence is applied, to charge the physician who practises the violence with wanting skill or aggravating his disease.


[Y.Soc.] Most true.


[Str.] In the political art error is not called disease, but evil, or disgrace, or injustice.


[Y.Soc.] Quite true.


[Str.] And when the citizen, contrary to law and custom, is compelled to do what is juster and better and nobler than he did before, the last and most absurd thing which he could say about such violence is that he has incurred disgrace or evil or injustice at the hands of those who compelled him.


[Y.Soc.] Very true.


[Str.] And shall we say that the violence, if exercised by a rich man, is just, and if by a poor man, unjust? May not any man, rich or poor, with or without laws, with the will of the citizens or against the will of the citizens, do what is for their interest? Is not this the true principle of government, according to which the wise and good man will order the affairs of his subjects? As the pilot, by watching continually over the interests of the ship and of the crew-not by laying down rules, but by making his art a law-preserves the lives of his fellow-sailors, even and in the self-same way, may there not be a true form of polity created by those who are able to govern in a similar spirit, and who show a strength of art which is superior to the law? Nor can wise rulers ever err while they, observing the one great rule of distributing justice to the citizens with intelligence and skill, are able to preserve them, and, as far as may be, to make them better from being worse.


[Y.Soc.] No one can deny what has been now said.


[Str.] Neither, if you consider, can any one deny the other statement.


[Y.Soc.] What was it?


[Str.] We said that no great number of persons, whoever they may be, can attain political knowledge, or order a State wisely, but that the true government is to be found in a small body, or in an individual, and that other States are but imitations of this, as we said a little while ago, some for the better and some for the worse.


[Y.Soc.] What do you mean? I cannot have understood your previous remark about imitations.


[Str.] And yet the mere suggestion which I hastily threw out is highly important, even if we leave the question where it is, and do not seek by the discussion of it to expose the error which prevails in this matter.


[Y.Soc.] What do you mean?


[Str.] The idea which has to be grasped by us is not easy or familiar; but we may attempt to express it thus:-Supposing the government of which I have been speaking to be the only true model, then the others must use the written laws of this-in no other can they be saved; they will have to do what is now generally approved, although not the best thing in the world.


[Y.Soc.] What is this?


[Str.] No citizen should do anything contrary to the laws, and any infringement of them should be punished with death and the most extreme penalties; and this is very right and good when regarded as the second best thing, if you set aside the first, of which I was just now speaking. Shall I explain the nature of what call the second best?


[Y.Soc.] By all means.


[Str.] I must again have recourse to my favourite images; through them, and them alone, can I describe kings and rulers.


[Y.Soc.] What images?


[Str.] The noble pilot and the wise physician, who “is worth many another man”-in the similitude of these let us endeavour to discover some image of the king.


[Y.Soc.] What sort of image?


[Str.] Well, such as this:-Every man will reflect that he suffers strange things at the hands of both of them; the physician; saves any whom he wishes to save, and any whom he wishes to maltreat he maltreats-cutting or burning them; and at the same time requiring them to bring him patients, which are a sort of tribute, of which little or nothing is spent upon the sick man, and the greater part is consumed by him and his domestics; and the finale is that he receives money from the relations of the sick man or from some enemy of his; and puts him out of the way. And the pilots of ships are guilty, of numberless evil deeds of the same kind; they intentionally play false and leave you ashore when the hour of sailing arrives; or they cause mishaps at sea and cast away their freight; and are guilty of other rogueries. Now suppose that we, bearing all this in mind, were to determine, after consideration, that neither of these arts shall any longer be allowed to exercise absolute control either over freemen or over slaves, but that we will summon an assembly either of all the people, or of the rich only, that anybody who likes, whatever may be his calling, or even if he have no calling, may offer an opinion either about seamanship or about diseases-whether as to the manner in which physic or surgical instruments are to be applied to the patient, or again about the vessels and the nautical implements which are required in navigation, and how to meet the dangers of winds and waves which are incidental to the voyage, how to behave when encountering pirates, and what is to be done with the old fashioned galleys, if they have to fight with others of a similar build-and that, whatever shall be decreed by the multitude on these points, upon the advice of persons skilled or unskilled, shall be written down on triangular tablets and columns, or enacted although unwritten to be national customs; and that in all future time vessels shall be navigated and remedies administered to the patient after this fashion.


[Y.Soc.] What a strange notion!


[Str.] Suppose further, that the pilots and physicians are appointed annually, either out of the rich, or out of the whole people, and that they are elected by lot; and that after their election they navigate vessels and heal the sick according to the written rules.


[Y.Soc.] Worse and worse.


[Str.] But hear what follows:-When the year of office has expired, the pilot or physician has to come before a court of review, in which the judges are either selected from the wealthy classes or chosen by lot out of the whole people; and anybody who pleases may be their accuser, and may lay to their charge, that during the past year they have not navigated their vessels or healed their patients according to the letter of the law and the ancient customs of their ancestors; and if either of them is condemned, some of the judges must fix what he is to suffer or pay.


[Y.Soc.] He who is willing to take a command under such conditions, deserves to suffer any penalty.


[Str.] Yet once more, we shall have to enact that if any one is detected enquiring into piloting and navigation, or into health and the true nature of medicine, or about the winds, or other conditions of the atmosphere, contrary to the written rules, and has any ingenious notions about such matters, he is not to be called a pilot or physician, but a cloudy prating sophist;-further, on the ground that he is a corrupter of the young, who would persuade them. to follow the art of medicine or piloting in an unlawful manner, and to exercise an arbitrary rule over their patients or ships, any one who is qualified by law may inform against him, and indict him in some court, and then if he is found to be persuading any, whether young or old, to act contrary to the written law, he is to be punished with the utmost rigour; for no one should presume to be wiser than the laws; and as touching healing and health and piloting and navigation, the nature of them is known to all, for anybody may learn the written laws and the national customs. If such were the mode of procedure, Socrates, about these sciences and about generalship, and any branch of hunting, or about painting or imitation in general, or carpentry, or any sort of handicraft, or husbandry, or planting, or if we were to see an art of rearing horses, or tending herds, or divination, or any ministerial service, or draught-playing, or any science conversant with number, whether simple or square or cube, or comprising motion-I say, if all these things were done in this way according to written regulations, and not according to art, what would be the result?


[Y.Soc.] All the arts would utterly perish, and could never be recovered, because enquiry would be unlawful. And human life, which is bad enough already, would then become utterly unendurable.


[Str.] But what, if while compelling all these operations to be regulated by written law, we were to appoint as the guardian of the laws some one elected by a show of hands, or by lot, and he caring nothing about the laws, were to act contrary to them from motives of interest or favour, and without knowledge-would not this be a still worse evil than the former?


[Y.Soc.] Very true.


[Str.] To go against the laws, which are based upon long experience, and the wisdom of counsellors who have graciously recommended them and persuaded the multitude to pass them, would be a far greater and more ruinous error than any adherence to written law?


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] Therefore, as there is a danger of this, the next best thing in legislating is not to allow either the individual or the multitude to break the law in any respect whatever.


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] The laws would be copies of the true particulars of action as far as they admit of being written down from the lips of those who have knowledge?


[Y.Soc.] Certainly they would.


[Str.] And, as we were saying, he who has knowledge and is a true Statesman, will do many things within his own sphere of action by his art without regard to the laws, when he is of opinion that something other than that which he has written down and enjoined to be observed during his absence would be better.


[Y.Soc.] Yes, we said so.


[Str.] And any individual or any number of men, having fixed laws, in acting contrary to them with a view to something better, would only be acting, as far as they are able, like the true Statesman?


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] If they had no knowledge of what they were doing, they would imitate the truth, and they would always imitate ill; but if they had knowledge, the imitation would be the perfect truth, and an imitation no longer.


[Y.Soc.] Quite true.


[Str.] And the principle that no great number of men are able to acquire a knowledge of any art has been already admitted by us.


[Y.Soc.] Yes, it has.


[Str.] Then the royal or political art, if there be such an art, will never be attained either by the wealthy or by the other mob.


[Y.Soc.] Impossible.


[Str.] Then the nearest approach which these lower forms of government can ever make to the true government of the one scientific ruler, is to do nothing contrary to their own written laws and national customs.


[Y.Soc.] Very good.


[Str.] When the rich imitate the true form, such a government is called aristocracy; and when they are regardless of the laws, oligarchy.


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] Or again, when an individual rules according to law in imitation of him who knows, we call him a king; and if he rules according to law, we give him the same name, whether he rules with opinion or with knowledge.


[Y.Soc.] To be sure.


[Str.] And when an individual truly possessing knowledge rules, his name will surely be the same-he will be called a king; and thus the five names of governments, as they are now reckoned, become one.


[Y.Soc.] That is true.


[Str.] And when an individual ruler governs neither by law nor by custom, but following in the steps of the true man of science pretends that he can only act for the best by violating the laws, while in reality appetite and ignorance are the motives of the imitation, may not such an one be called a tyrant?


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] And this we believe to be the origin of the tyrant and the king, of oligarchies, and aristocracies, and democracies-because men are offended at the one monarch, and can never be made to believe that any one can be worthy of such authority, or is able and willing in the spirit of virtue and knowledge to act justly and holily to all; they fancy that he will be a despot who will wrong and harm and slay whom he pleases of us; for if there could be such a despot as we describe, they would acknowledge that we ought to be too glad to have him, and that he alone would be the happy ruler of a true and perfect State.


[Y.Soc.] To be sure.


[Str.] But then, as the State is not like a beehive, and has no natural head who is at once recognized to be the superior both in body and in mind, mankind are obliged to meet and make laws, and endeavour to approach as nearly as they can to the true form of government.


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] And when the foundation of politics is in the letter only and in custom, and knowledge is divorced from action, can we wonder Socrates, at the miseries which there are, and always will be, in States? Any other art, built on such a foundation and thus conducted, would ruin all that it touched. Ought we not rather to wonder at the natural strength of the political bond? For States have endured all this, time out of mind, and yet some of them still remain and are not overthrown, though many of them, like ships at sea, founder from time to time, and perish, and have perished and will hire after perish, through the badness of their pilots and crews, who have the worst sort of ignorance of the highest truths-I mean to say, that they are wholly unaquainted with politics, of which, above all other sciences, they believe themselves to have acquired the most perfect knowledge.


[Y.Soc.] Very true.


[Str.] Then the question arises:-which of these untrue forms of government is the least oppressive to their subjects, though they are all oppressive; and which is the worst of them? Here is a consideration which is beside our present purpose, and yet having regard to the whole it seems to influence all our actions: we must examine it.


[Y.Soc.] Yes, we must.


[Str.] You may say that of the three forms, the same is at once the hardest and the easiest.


[Y.Soc.] What do you mean?


[Str.] I am speaking of the three forms of government, which I mentioned at the beginning of this discussion-monarchy, the rule of the few, and the rule of the many.


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] If we divide each of these we shall have six, from which the true one may be distinguished as a seventh.


[Y.Soc.] How would you make the division?


[Str.] Monarchy divides into royalty and tyranny; the rule of the few into aristocracy, which has an auspicious name, and oligarchy; and democracy or the rule of the many, which before was one, must now be divided.


[Y.Soc.] On what principle of division?


[Str.] On the same principle as before, although the name is now discovered to have a twofold meaning;-For the distinction of ruling with law or without applies to this as well as to the rest.


[Y.Soc.] Yes.


[Str.] The division made no difference when we were looking for the perfect State, as we showed before. But now that this has been separated off, and, as we said, the others alone are left for us, the principle of law and the absence of law will bisect them all.


[Y.Soc.] That would seem follow, from what has been said.


[Str.] Then monarchy, when bound by good prescriptions or laws, is the best of all the six, and when lawless is the most bitter and oppressive to the subject.


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] The government of the few which is intermediate between that of the one and many; is also intermediate in good and evil; but the government of the many is in every respect weak and unable to do either any great good or any great evil, when compared with the others, because the offices are too minutely subdivided and too many hold them. And this therefore is the worst of all lawful governments, and the best of all lawless ones. If they are all without the restraints of law, democracy is the form in which to live is best; if they are well ordered then this is the last which you should choose, as royalty, the first form, is the best, with the exception of the seventh for that excels them all, and is among States what God is among men.


[Y.Soc.] You are quite right, and we should choose that above all.


[Str.] The members of all these States, with the exception of the one which has knowledge may be set aside as being not Statesmen but partisans-upholders of the most monstrous idols, and themselves idols; and, being the greatest imitators and magicians, they are also the greatest of Sophists.


[Y.Soc.] The name of Sophist after many windings in the argument appears to have been most justly fixed upon the politicians, as they are termed.


[Str.] And so our satyric drama has been played out; and the troop of Centaurs and Satyrs, however unwilling to leave the stage, have at last been separated from the political science.


[Y.Soc.] So I perceive.


[Str.] There remain, however, natures still more troublesome, because they are more nearly akin to the king, and more difficult to discern; the examination of them may be compared to the process of refining gold.


[Y.Soc.] What is your meaning?


[Str.] The workmen begin by sifting away the earth and stones and the like; there remain in a confused mass the valuable clements akin to gold, which can only be separated by fire-copper, silver, and other precious metals; these are at last refined away by the use of tests, until the gold is left quite pure.


[Y.Soc.] Yes, that is the way in which these things are said to be done.


[Str.] In like manner, all alien and uncongenial matter has been separated from political science, and what is precious and of a kindred nature has been left; there remain the nobler arts of the general and the judge, and the higher sort of oratory which is an ally of the royal art, and persuades men to do justice, and assists in guiding the helm of States:-How can we best clear away all these, leaving him whom we seek alone and unalloyed?


[Y.Soc.] That is obviously what has in some way to be attempted.


[Str.] If the attempt is all that is wanting, he shall certainly be brought to light; and I think that the illustration of music may assist in exhibiting him. Please to answer me a question.


[Y.Soc.] What question?


[Str.] There is such a thing as learning music or handicraft arts in general?


[Y.Soc.] There is.


[Str.] And is there any higher art or science, having power to decide which of these arts are and are not to be learned;-what do you say?


[Y.Soc.] I should answer that there is.


[Str.] And do we acknowledge this science to be different from the others?


[Y.Soc.] Yes.


[Str.] And ought the other sciences to be superior to this, or no single science to any other? Or ought this science to be the overseer and governor of all the others?


[Y.Soc.] The latter.


[Str.] You mean to say that the science which judges whether we ought to learn or not, must be superior to the science which is learned or which teaches?


[Y.Soc.] Far superior.


[Str.] And the science which determines whether we ought to persuade or not, must be superior to the science which is able to persuade?


[Y.Soc.] Of course.


[Str.] Very good; and to what science do we assign the power of persuading a multitude by a pleasing tale and not by teaching?


[Y.Soc.] That power, I think, must clearly be assigned to rhetoric.


[Str.] And to what science do we give the power of determining whether we are to employ persuasion or force towards any one, or to refrain altogether?


[Y.Soc.] To that science which governs the arts of speech and persuasion.


[Str.] Which, if I am not mistaken, will be politics?


[Y.Soc.] Very good.


[Str.] Rhetoric seems to be quickly distinguished from politics, being a different species, yet ministering to it.


[Y.Soc.] Yes.


[Str.] But what would you think of another sort of power or science?


[Y.Soc.] What science?


[Str.] The science which has to do with military operations against our enemies-is that to be regarded as a science or not?


[Y.Soc.] How can generalship and military tactics be regarded as other than a science?


[Str.] And is the art which is able and knows how to advise when we are to go to war, or to make peace, the same as this or different?


[Y.Soc.] If we are to be consistent, we must say different.


[Str.] And we must also suppose that this rules the other, if we are not to give up our former notion?


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] And, considering how great and terrible the whole art of war is, can we imagine any which is superior to it but the truly royal?


[Y.Soc.] No other.


[Str.] The art of the general is only ministerial, and therefore not political?


[Y.Soc.] Exactly.


[Str.] Once more let us consider the nature of the righteous judge.


[Y.Soc.] Very good.


[Str.] Does he do anything but decide the dealings of men with one another to be just or unjust in accordance with the standard which he receives from the king and legislator-showing his own peculiar virtue only in this, that he is not perverted by gifts, or fears, or pity, or by any sort of favour or enmity, into deciding the suits of men with one another contrary to the appointment of the legislator?


[Y.Soc.] No; his office is such as you describe.


[Str.] Then the inference is that the power of the judge is not royal, but only the power of a guardian of the law which ministers to the royal power?


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] The review of all these sciences shows that none of them is political or royal. For the truly royal ought not itself to act, but to rule over those who are able to act; the king ought to know what is and what is not a fitting opportunity for taking the initiative in matters of the greatest importance, whilst others, should execute his orders.


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] And, therefore, the arts which we have described, as they have no authority over themselves or one another, but are each of them concerned with some special action of their own, have, as they ought to have, special names corresponding to their several actions.


[Y.Soc.] I agree.


[Str.] And the science which is over them all, and has charge of the laws, and of all matters affecting the State, and truly weaves them all into one, if we would describe under a name characteristic of their common nature, most truly we may call politics.


[Y.Soc.] Exactly so.


[Str.] Then, now that we have discovered the various classes in a State, shall I analyse politics after the pattern which weaving supplied?


[Y.Soc.] I greatly wish that you would.


[Str.] Then I must describe the nature of the royal web, and show how the various threads are woven into one piece.


[Y.Soc.] Clearly.


[Str.] A task has to be accomplished, which although difficult, appears to be necessary.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly the attempt must be made.


[Str.] To assume that one part of virtue differs in kind from another, is a position easily assailable by contentious disputants, who appeal to popular opinion.


[Y.Soc.] I do not understand.


[Str.] Let me put the matter in another way: I suppose that you would consider courage to be a part of virtue?


[Y.Soc.] Certainly I should.


[Str.] And you would think temperance to be different from courage; and likewise to be a part of virtue?


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] I shall venture to put forward a strange theory about them.


[Y.Soc.] What is it?


[Str.] That they are two principles which thoroughly hate one another and are antagonistic throughout a great part of nature.


[Y.Soc.] How singular!


[Str.] Yes very-for all the parts of virtue are commonly said to be friendly to one another.


[Y.Soc.] Yes.


[Str.] Then let us carefully investigate whether this is universally true, or whether there are not parts of virtue which are at war with their kindred in some respect.


[Y.Soc.] Tell me how we shall consider that question.


[Str.] We must extend our enquiry to all those things which we consider beautiful and at the same time place in two opposite classes.


[Y.Soc.] Explain; what are they?


[Str.] Acuteness and quickness, whether in body or soul or in the movement of sound, and the imitations of them which painting and music supply, you must have praised yourself before now, or been present when others praised them.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] And do you remember the terms in which they are praised?


[Y.Soc.] I do not.


[Str.] I wonder whether I can explain to you in words the thought which is passing in my mind.


[Y.Soc.] Why not?


[Str.] You fancy that this is all so easy: Well, let us consider these notions with reference to the opposite classes of action under which they fall. When we praise quickness and energy and acuteness, whether of mind or body or sound, we express our praise of the quality which we admire by one word, and that one word is manliness or courage.


[Y.Soc.] How?


[Str.] We speak of an action as energetic and brave, quick and manly, and vigorous too; and when we apply the name of which I speak as the common attribute of all these natures, we certainly praise them.


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] And do we not often praise the quiet strain of action also?


[Y.Soc.] To be sure.


[Str.] And do we not then say the opposite of what we said of the other?


[Y.Soc.] How do you mean?


[Str.] We exclaim How calm! How temperate! in admiration of the slow and quiet working of the intellect, and of steadiness and gentleness in action, of smoothness and depth of voice, and of all rhythmical movement and of music in general, when these have a proper solemnity. Of all such actions we predicate not courage, but a name indicative of order.


[Y.Soc.] Very true.


[Str.] But when, on the other hand, either of these is out of place, the names of either are changed into terms of censure.


[Y.Soc.] How so?


[Str.] Too great sharpness or quickness or hardness is termed violence or madness; too great slowness or gentleness is called cowardice or sluggishness; and we may observe, that for the most part these qualities, and the temperance and manliness of the opposite characters, are arrayed as enemies on opposite sides, and do not mingle with one another in their respective actions; and if we pursue the enquiry, we shall find that men who have these different qualities of mind differ from one another.


[Y.Soc.] In what respect?


[Str.] In respect of all the qualities which I mentioned, and very likely of many others. According to their respective affinities to either class of actions they distribute praise and blame-praise to the actions which are akin to their own, blame to those of the opposite party-and out of this many quarrels and occasions of quarrel arise among them.


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] The difference between the two classes is often a trivial concern; but in a state, and when affecting really important matters, becomes of all disorders the most hateful.


[Y.Soc.] To what do you refer?


[Str.] To nothing short of the whole regulation of human life. For the orderly class are always ready to lead a peaceful life, quietly doing their own business; this is their manner of behaving with all men at home, and they are equally ready to find some way of keeping the peace with foreign States. And on account of this fondness of theirs for peace, which is often out of season where their influence prevails, they become by degrees unwarlike, and bring up their young men to be like themselves; they are at the mercy of their enemies; whence in a few years they and their children and the whole city often pass imperceptibly from the condition of freemen into that of slaves.


[Y.Soc.] What a cruel fate!


[Str.] And now think of what happens with the more courageous natures. Are they not always inciting their country to go to war, owing to their excessive love of the military life? they raise up enemies against themselves many and mighty, and either utterly ruin their native land or enslave and subject it to its foes?


[Y.Soc.] That, again, is true.


[Str.] Must we not admit, then, that where these two classes exist. they always feel the greatest antipathy and antagonism towards one another?


[Y.Soc.] We cannot deny it.


[Str.] And returning to the enquiry with which we began, have we not found that considerable portions of virtue are at variance with one another, and give rise to a similar opposition in the characters who are endowed with them?


[Y.Soc.] True.


[Str.] Let us consider a further point.


[Y.Soc.] What is it?


[Str.] I want to know, whether any constructive art will make any, even the most trivial thing, out of bad and good materials indifferently, if this can be helped? does not all art rather reject the bad as far as possible, and accept the good and fit materials, and from these elements, whether like or unlike, gathering them all into one, work out some nature or idea?


[Y.Soc.] To, be sure.


[Str.] Then the true and natural art of statesmanship will never allow any State to be formed by a combination of good and bad men, if this can be avoided; but will begin by testing human natures in play, and after testing them, will entrust them to proper teachers who are the ministers of her purposes-she will herself give orders, and maintain authority; just as the art of weaving continually gives orders and maintains authority over the carders and all the others who prepare the material for the work, commanding the subsidiary arts to execute the works which she deems necessary for making the web.


[Y.Soc.] Quite true.


[Str.] In like manner, the royal science appears to me to be the mistress of all lawful educators and instructors, and having this queenly power, will not permit them to train men in what will produce characters unsuited to the political constitution which she desires to create, but only in what will produce such as are suitable. Those which have no share of manliness and temperance, or any other virtuous inclination, and, from the necessity of an evil nature, are violently carried away to godlessness and insolence and injustice, she gets rid of by death and exile, and punishes them with the greatest of disgraces.


[Y.Soc.] That is commonly said.


[Str.] But those who are wallowing in ignorance and baseness she bows under the yoke of slavery.


[Y.Soc.] Quite right.


[Str.] The rest of the citizens, out of whom, if they have education, something noble may be made, and who are capable of being united by the Statesman, the kingly art blends and weaves together; taking on the one hand those whose natures tend rather to courage, which is the stronger element and may be regarded as the warp, and on the other hand those which incline to order and gentleness, and which are represented in the figure as spun thick and soft after the manner of the woof-these, which are naturally opposed, she seeks to bind and weave together in the following manner:


[Y.Soc.] In what manner?


[Str.] First of all, she takes the eternal element of the soul and binds it with a divine cord, to which it is akin, and then the animal nature, and binds that with human cords.


[Y.Soc.] I do not understand what you mean.


[Str.] The meaning is, that the opinion about the honourable and the just and good and their opposites, which is true and confirmed by reason, is a divine principle, and when implanted in the soul, is implanted, as I maintain, in a nature of heavenly birth.


[Y.Soc.] Yes; what else should it be?


[Str.] Only the Statesman and the good legislator, having the inspiration of the royal muse, can implant this opinion, and he, only in the rightly educated, whom we were just now describing.


[Y.Soc.] Likely enough.


[Str.] But him who cannot, we will not designate by any of the names which are the subject of the present which are the subject of the present enquiry.


[Y.Soc.] Very right.


[Str.] The courageous soul when attaining this truth becomes civilized, and rendered more capable of partaking of justice; but when not partaking, is inclined to brutality. Is not that true?


[Y.Soc.] Certainly.


[Str.] And again, the peaceful and orderly nature, if sharing in these opinions, becomes temperate and wise, as far as this may be in a State, but if not, deservedly obtains the ignominious name of silliness.


[Y.Soc.] Quite true.


[Str.] Can we say that such a connection as this will lastingly unite the evil with one another or with the good, or that any science would seriously think of using a bond of this kind to join such materials?


[Y.Soc.] Impossible.


[Str.] But in those who were originally of a noble nature, and who have been nurtured in noble ways, and in those only, may we not say that union is implanted by law, and that this is the medicine which art prescribes for them, and of all the bonds which unite the dissimilar and contrary parts of virtue is not this, as I was saying, the divinest?


[Y.Soc.] Very true.


[Str.] Where this divine bond exists there is no difficulty in imagining, or when you have imagined, in creating the other bonds, which are human only.


[Y.Soc.] How is that, and what bonds do you mean?


[Str.] Rights of intermarriage, and ties which are formed between States by giving and taking children in marriage, or between individuals by private betrothals and espousals. For most persons form; marriage connection without due regard to what is best for the procreation of children.


[Y.Soc.] In what way?


[Str.] They seek after wealth and power, which, in matrimony are objects not worthy-even of a serious censure.


[Y.Soc.] There is no need to consider them at all.


[Str.] More reason is-there to consider the practice of those who make family their chief aim, and to indicate their error.


[Y.Soc.] Quite true.


[Str.] They act on no true principle at all; they seek their ease and receive with open arms those are like themselves, and hate those who are unlike them, being too much influenced by feelings of dislike.


[Y.Soc.] How so?


[Str.] The quiet orderly class seek for natures like their own, and as far as they can they marry and give in marriage exclusively in this class, and the courageous do the same; they seek natures like their own, whereas they should both do precisely the opposite.


[Y.Soc.] How and why is that?


[Str.] Because courage, when untempered by the gentler nature during many generations, may at first bloom and strengthen, but at last bursts forth into downright madness.


[Y.Soc.] Like enough.


[Str.] And then, again, the soul which is over-full of modesty and has no element of courage in many successive generations, is apt to grow too indolent, and at last to become utterly paralyzed and useless.


[Y.Soc.] That, again, is quite likely.


[Str.] It was of these bonds I said that there would be no difficulty in creating them, if only both classes originally held the same opinion about the honourable and good;-indeed, in this single work, the whole process of royal weaving is comprised-never to allow temperate natures to be separated from the brave, but to weave them together, like the warp and the woof, by common sentiments and honours and reputation, and by the giving of pledges to one another; and out of them forming one smooth and even web, to entrust to them the offices of State.


[Y.Soc.] How do you mean?


[Str.] Where one officer only is needed, you must choose a ruler who has both these qualities-when many, you must mingle some of each, for the temperate ruler is very careful and just and safe, but is wanting in thoroughness and go.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly, that is very true.


[Str.] The character of the courageous, on the other hand, falls short of the former in justice and caution, but has the power of action in a remarkable degree, and where either of these two qualities is wanting, there cities. cannot altogether prosper either in their public or private life.


[Y.Soc.] Certainly they cannot.


[Str.] This then we declare to be the completion of the web of political Action, which is created by a direct intertexture of the brave and temperate natures, whenever the royal science has drawn the two minds into communion with one another by unanimity and friendship, and having perfected the noblest and best of all the webs which political life admits, and enfolding therein all other inhabitants of cities, whether slaves or freemen, binds them in one fabric and governs and presides over them, and, in so far as to be happy is vouchsafed to a city, in no particular fails to secure their happiness.


[Y.Soc.] Your picture, Stranger, of the king and statesman, no less than of the Sophist, is quite perfect.



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Sophist – a Dialogue by Plato

01 Monday Jun 2009

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in BC, Greek, Philosophy, Plato

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Plato  [image by Leonardo da Vinci]


Sophist
by Plato
translated by Benjamin Jowett


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, true to our agreement of yesterday; and we bring with us a stranger from Elea, who is a disciple of Parmenides and Zeno, and a true philosopher.


[Socrates] Is he not rather a god, Theodorus, who comes to us in the disguise of a stranger? For Homer says that all the gods, and especially the god of strangers, are companions of the meek and just, and visit the good and evil among men. And may not your companion be one of those higher powers, a cross-examining deity, who has come to spy out our weakness in argument, and to cross-examine us?


[Theod.] Nay, Socrates, he is not one of the disputatious sort-he is too good for that. And, in my opinion, he is not a god at all; but divine he certainly is, for this is a title which I should give to all philosophers.


[Soc.] Capital, my friend! and I may add that they are almost as hard to be discerned as the gods. For the true philosophers, and such as are not merely made up for the occasion, appear in various forms unrecognized by the ignorance of men, and they “hover about cities,” as Homer declares, looking from above upon human life; and some think nothing of them, and others can never think enough; and sometimes they appear as statesmen, and sometimes as sophists; and then, again, to many they seem to be no better than madmen. I should like to ask our Eleatic friend, if he would tell us, what is thought about them in Italy, and to whom the terms are applied.


[Theod.] What terms?


[Soc.] Sophist, statesman, philosopher.


[Theod.] What is your difficulty about them, and what made you ask?


[Soc.] I want to know whether by his countrymen they are regarded as one or two; or do they, as the names are three, distinguish also three kinds, and assign one to each name?


[Theod.] I dare say that the Stranger will not object to discuss the question. What do you say, Stranger?


[Stranger] I am far from objecting, Theodorus, nor have I any difficulty in replying that by us they are regarded as three. But to define precisely the nature of each of them is by no means a slight or easy task.


[Theod.] You have happened to light, Socrates, almost on the very question which we were asking our friend before we came hither, and he excused himself to us, as he does now you; although he admitted that the matter had been fully discussed, and that he remembered the answer.


[Soc.] Then do not, Stranger, deny us the first favour which we ask of you: I am sure that you will not, and therefore I shall only beg of you to say whether you like and are accustomed to make a long oration on a subject which you want to explain to another, or to proceed by the method of question and answer. I remember hearing a very noble discussion in which Parmenides employed the latter of the two methods, when I was a young man, and he was far advanced in years.


[Str.] I prefer to talk with another when he responds pleasantly, and is light in hand; if not, I would rather have my own say.


[Soc.] Any one of the present company will respond kindly to you, and you can choose whom you like of them; I should recommend you to take a young person-Theaetetus, for example-unless you have a preference for some one else.


[Str.] I feel ashamed, Socrates, being a new comer into your society, instead of talking a little and hearing others talk, to be spinning out a long soliloquy or address, as if I wanted to show off. For the true answer will certainly be a very long one, a great deal longer than might be expected from such a short and simple question. At the same time, I fear that I may seem rude and ungracious if I refuse your courteous request, especially after what you have said. For I certainly cannot object to your proposal, that Theaetetus should respond, having already conversed with him myself, and being recommended by you to take him.


[Theaetetus] But are you sure, Stranger, that this will be quite so acceptable to the rest of the company as Socrates imagines?


[Str.] You hear them applauding, Theaetetus; after that, there is nothing more to be said. Well then, I am to argue with you, and if you tire of the argument, you may complain of your friends and not of me.


[Theaet.] I do not think that I shall tire, and if I do, I shall get my friend here, young Socrates, the namesake of the elder Socrates, to help; he is about my own age, and my partner at the gymnasium, and is constantly accustomed to work with me.


[Str.] Very good; you can decide about that for yourself as we proceed. Meanwhile you and I will begin together and enquire into the nature of the Sophist, first of the three: I should like you to make out what he is and bring him to light in a discussion; for at present we are only agreed about the name, but of the thing to which we both apply the name possibly you have one notion and I another; whereas we ought always to come to an understanding about the thing itself in terms of a definition, and not merely about the name minus the definition. Now the tribe of Sophists which we are investigating is not easily caught or defined; and the world has long ago agreed, that if great subjects are to be adequately treated, they must be studied in the lesser and easier instances of them before we proceed to the greatest of all. And as I know that the tribe of Sophists is troublesome and hard to be caught, I should recommend that we practise beforehand the method which is to be applied to him on some simple and smaller thing, unless you can suggest a better way.


[Theaet.] Indeed I cannot.


[Str.] Then suppose that we work out some lesser example which will be a pattern of the greater?


[Theaet.] Good.


[Str.] What is there which is well known and not great, and is yet as susceptible of definition as any larger thing? Shall I say an angler? He is familiar to all of us, and not a very interesting or important person.


[Theaet.] He is not.


[Str.] Yet I suspect that he will furnish us with the sort of definition and line of enquiry which we want.


[Theaet.] Very good.


[Str.] Let us begin by asking whether he is a man having art or not having art, but some other power.


[Theaet.] He is clearly a man of art.


[Str.] And of arts there are two kinds?


[Theaet.] What are they?


[Str.] There is agriculture, and the tending of mortal creatures, and the art of constructing or moulding vessels, and there is the art of imitation-all these may be appropriately called by a single name.


[Theaet.] What do you mean? And what is the name?


[Str.] He who brings into existence something that did not exist before is said to be a producer, and that which is brought into existence is said to be produced.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And all the arts which were just now mentioned are characterized by this power of producing?


[Theaet.] They are.


[Str.] Then let us sum them up under the name of productive or creative art.


[Theaet.] Very good.


[Str.] Next follows the whole class of learning and cognition; then comes trade, fighting, hunting. And since none of these produces anything, but is only engaged in conquering by word or deed, or in preventing others from conquering, things which exist and have been already produced-in each and all of these branches there appears to be an art which may be called acquisitive.


[Theaet.] Yes, that is the proper name.


[Str.] Seeing, then, that all arts are either acquisitive or creative, in which class shall we place the art of the angler?


[Theaet.] Clearly in the acquisitive class.


[Str.] And the acquisitive may be subdivided into two parts: there is exchange, which is voluntary and is effected by gifts, hire, purchase; and the other part of acquisitive, which takes by force of word or deed, may be termed conquest?


[Theaet.] That is implied in what has been said.


[Str.] And may not conquest be again subdivided?


[Theaet.] How?


[Str.] Open force may; be called fighting, and secret force may have the general name of hunting?


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] And there is no reason why the art of hunting should not be further divided.


[Theaet.] How would you make the division?


[Str.] Into the hunting of living and of lifeless prey.


[Theaet.] Yes, if both kinds exist.


[Str.] Of course they exist; but the hunting after lifeless things having no special name, except some sorts of diving, and other small matters, may be omitted; the hunting after living things may be called animal hunting.


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] And animal hunting may be truly said to have two divisions, land-animal hunting, which has many kinds and names, and water-animals hunting, or the hunting after animals who swim?


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And of swimming animals, one class lives on the wing and the other in the water?


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] Fowling is the general term under which the hunting of all birds is included.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] The hunting of animals who live in the water has the general name of fishing.


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] And this sort of hunting may be further divided also into two principal kinds?


[Theaet.] What are they?


[Str.] There is one kind which takes them in nets, another which takes them by a blow.


[Theaet.] What do you mean, and how do you distinguish them?


[Str.] As to the first kind-all that surrounds and encloses anything to prevent egress, may be rightly called an enclosure.


[Theaet.] Very true.


[Str.] For which reason twig baskets, casting nets, nooses, creels, and the like may all be termed “enclosures”?


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And therefore this first kind of capture may be called by us capture with enclosures, or something of that sort?


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] The other kind, which is practised by a blow with hooks and three pronged spears, when summed up under one name, may be called striking, unless you, Theaetetus, can find some better name?


[Theaet.] Never mind the name-what you suggest will do very well.


[Str.] There is one mode of striking, which is done at night, and by the light of a fire, and is by the hunters themselves called firing, or spearing by firelight.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And the fishing by day is called by the general name of barbing because the spears, too, are barbed at the point.


[Theaet.] Yes, that is the term.


[Str.] Of this barb-fishing, that which strikes the fish Who is below from above is called spearing, because this is the way in which the three-pronged spears are mostly used.


[Theaet.] Yes, it is often called so.


[Str.] Then now there is only one kind remaining.


[Theaet.] What is that?


[Str.] When a hook is used, and the fish is not struck in any chance part of his body-he as be is with the spear, but only about the head and mouth, and is then drawn out from below upwards with reeds and rods:-What is the right name of that mode of fish, Theaetetus?


[Theaet.] I suspect that we have now discovered the object of our search.


[Str.] Then now you and I have come to an understanding not only about the name of the angler’s art, but about the definition of the thing itself. One half of all art was acquisitive-half of all the art acquisitive art was conquest or taking by force, half of this was hunting, and half of hunting was hunting animals, half of this was hunting water animals-of this again, the under half was fishing, half of fishing was striking; a part of striking was fishing with a barb, and one half of this again, being the kind which strikes with a hook and draws the fish from below upwards, is the art which we have been seeking, and which from the nature of the operation is denoted angling or drawing up (aspalienutike, anaspasthai).


[Theaet.] The result has been quite satisfactorily brought out.


[Str.] And now, following this pattern, let us endeavour to find out what a Sophist is.


[Theaet.] By all means.


[Str.] The first question about the angler was, whether he was a skilled artist or unskilled?


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And shall we call our new friend unskilled, or a thorough master of his craft?


[Theaet.] Certainly not unskilled, for his name, as, indeed, you imply, must surely express his nature.


[Str.] Then he must be supposed to have some art.


[Theaet.] What art?


[Str.] By heaven, they are cousins! it never occurred to us.


[Theaet.] Who are cousins?


[Str.] The angler and the Sophist.


[Theaet.] In what way are they related?


[Str.] They both appear to me to be hunters.


[Theaet.] How the Sophist? Of the other we have spoken.


[Str.] You remember our division of hunting, into hunting after swimming animals and land animals?


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] And you remember that we subdivided the swimming and left the land animals, saying that there were many kinds of them?


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] Thus far, then, the Sophist and the angler, starting from the art of acquiring, take the same road?


[Theaet.] So it would appear.


[Str.] Their paths diverge when they reach the art of animal hunting; the one going to the seashore, and to the rivers and to the lakes, and angling for the animals which are in them.


[Theaet.] Very true.


[Str.] While the other goes to land and water of another sort-rivers of wealth and broad meadow-lands of generous youth; and he also is intending to take the animals which are in them.


[Theaet.] What do you mean?


[Str.] Of hunting on land there are two principal divisions.


[Theaet.] What are they?


[Str.] One is the hunting of tame, and the other of wild animals.


[Theaet.] But are tame animals ever hunted?


[Str.] Yes, if you include man under tame animals. But if you like you may say that there are no tame animals, or that, if there are, man is not among them; or you may say that man is a tame animal but is not hunted-you shall decide which of these alternatives you prefer.


[Theaet.] I should say, Stranger, that man is a tame animal, and I admit that he is hunted.


[Str.] Then let us divide the hunting of tame animals into two parts.


[Theaet.] How shall we make the division?


[Str.] Let us define piracy, man-stealing, tyranny, the whole military art, by one name, as hunting with violence.


[Theaet.] Very good.


[Str.] But the art of the lawyer, of the popular orator, and the art of conversation may be called in one word the art of persuasion.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And of persuasion, there may be said to be two kinds?


[Theaet.] What are they?


[Str.] One is private, and the other public.


[Theaet.] Yes; each of them forms a class.


[Str.] And of private hunting, one sort receives hire, and the other brings gifts.


[Theaet.] I do not understand you.


[Str.] You seem never to have observed the manner in which lovers hunt.


[Theaet.] To what do you refer?


[Str.] I mean that they lavish gifts on those whom they hunt in addition to other inducements.


[Theaet.] Most true.


[Str.] Let us admit this, then, to be the amatory art.


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] But that sort of hireling whose conversation is pleasing and who baits his hook only with pleasure and exacts nothing but his maintenance in return, we should all, if I am not mistaken, describe as possessing flattery or an art of making things pleasant.


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] And that sort, which professes to form acquaintances only for the sake of virtue, and demands a reward in the shape of money, may be fairly called by another name?


[Theaet.] To be sure.


[Str.] And what is the name? Will you tell me?


[Theaet.] It is obvious enough; for I believe that we have discovered the Sophist: which is, as I conceive, the proper name for the class described.


[Str.] Then now, Theaetetus, his art may be traced as a branch of the appropriative, acquisitive family-which hunts animals,-living-land-tame animals; which hunts man,-privately-for hire,-taking money in exchange-having the semblance of education; and this is termed Sophistry, and is a hunt after young men of wealth and rank-such is the conclusion.


[Theaet.] Just so.


[Str.] Let us take another branch of his genealogy; for he is a professor of a great and many sided art; and if we look back at what has preceded we see that he presents another aspect, besides that of which we are speaking.


[Theaet.] In what respect?


[Str.] There were two sorts of acquisitive art; the one concerned with hunting, the other with exchange.


[Theaet.] There were.


[Str.] And of the art of exchange there are two divisions, the one of giving, and the other of selling.


[Theaet.] Let us assume that.


[Str.] Next, will suppose the art of selling to be divided into two parts.


[Theaet.] How?


[Str.] There is one part which is distinguished as the sale of a man’s own productions; another, which is the exchange of the works of others.


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] And is not that part of exchange which takes place in the city, being about half of the whole, termed retailing?


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] And that which exchanges the goods of one city for those of another by selling and buying is the exchange of the merchant?


[Theaet.] To be sure.


[Str.] And you are aware that this exchange of the merchant is of two kinds: it is partly concerned with food for the use of the body, and partly with the food of the soul which is bartered and received in exchange for money.


[Theaet.] What do you mean?


[Str.] You want to know what is the meaning of food for the soul; the other kind you surely understand.


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] Take music in general and painting and marionette playing and many other things, which are purchased in one city, and carried away and sold in another-wares of the soul which are hawked about either for the sake of instruction or amusement;-may not he who takes them about and sells them be quite as truly called a merchant as he who sells meats and drinks?


[Theaet.] To be sure he may.


[Str.] And would you not call by the same name him who buys up knowledge and goes about from city to city exchanging his wares for money?


[Theaet.] Certainly I should.


[Str.] Of this merchandise of the soul, may not one part be fairly termed the art of display? And there is another part which is certainly not less ridiculous, but being a trade in learning must be called by some name germane to the matter?


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] The latter should have two names,-one descriptive of the sale of the knowledge of virtue, and the other of the sale of other kinds of knowledge.


[Theaet.] Of course.


[Str.] The name of art-seller corresponds well enough to the latter; but you must try and tell me the name of the other.


[Theaet.] He must be the Sophist, whom we are seeking; no other name can possibly be right.


[Str.] No other; and so this trader in virtue again turns out to be our friend the Sophist, whose art may now be traced from the art of acquisition through exchange, trade, merchandise, to a merchandise of the soul which is concerned with speech and the knowledge of virtue.


[Theaet.] Quite true.


[Str.] And there may be a third reappearance of him;-for he may have settled down in a city, and may fabricate as well as buy these same wares, intending to live by selling them, and he would still be called a Sophist?


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] Then that part of acquisitive art which exchanges, and of exchange which either sells a man’s own productions or retails those of others; as the case may be, and in either way sells the knowledge of virtue, you would again term Sophistry?


[Theaet.] I must, if I am to keep pace with the argument.


[Str.] Let us consider once more whether there may not be yet another aspect of sophistry.


[Theaet.] What is it?


[Str.] In the acquisitive there was a subdivision of the combative or fighting art.


[Theaet.] There was.


[Str.] Perhaps we had better divide it.


[Theaet.] What shall be the divisions?


[Str.] There shall be one division of the competitive, and another of the pugnacious.


[Theaet.] Very good.


[Str.] That part of the pugnacious which is contest of bodily strength may be properly called by some such name as violent.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And when the war is one of words, it may be termed controversy?


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] And controversy may be of two kinds.


[Theaet.] What are they?


[Str.] When long speeches are answered by long speeches, and there is public discussion about the just and unjust, that is forensic controversy.


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] And there is a private sort of controversy, which is cut up into questions and answers, and this is commonly called disputation?


[Theaet.] Yes, that is the name.


[Str.] And of disputation, that sort which is only a discussion about contracts, and is carried on at random, and without rules-art, is recognized by the reasoning faculty to be a distinct class, but has hitherto had no distinctive name, and does not deserve to receive one from us.


[Theaet.] No; for the different sorts of it are too minute and heterogeneous.


[Str.] But that which proceeds by rules of art to dispute about justice and injustice in their own nature, and about things in general, we have been accustomed to call argumentation (Eristic)?


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] And of argumentation, one sort wastes money, and the other makes money.


[Theaet.] Very true.


[Str.] Suppose we try and give to each of these two classes a name.


[Theaet.] Let us do so.


[Str.] I should say that the habit which leads a man to neglect his own affairs for the pleasure of conversation, of which the style is far from being agreeable to the majority of his hearers, may be fairly termed loquacity: such is my opinion.


[Theaet.] That is the common name for it.


[Str.] But now who the other is, who makes money out of private disputation, it is your turn to say.


[Theaet.] There is only one true answer: he is the wonderful Sophist, of whom we are in pursuit, and who reappears again for the fourth time.


[Str.] Yes, and with a fresh pedigree, for he is the money-making species of the Eristic, disputatious, controversial. pugnacious, combative, acquisitive family, as the argument has already proven.


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] How true was the observation that he was a many-sided animal, and not to be caught with one hand, as they say!


[Theaet.] Then you must catch him with two.


[Str.] Yes, we must, if we can. And therefore let us try, another track in our pursuit of him: You are aware that there are certain menial occupations which have names among servants?


[Theaet.] Yes, there are many such; which of them do you mean?


[Str.] I mean such as sifting, straining, winnowing, threshing.


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] And besides these there are a great many more, such as carding, spinning, adjusting the warp and the woof; and thousands of similar expressions are used in the arts.


[Theaet.] Of what are they to be patterns, and what are we going to do with them all?


[Str.] I think that in all of these there is implied a notion of division.


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] Then if, as I was saying, there is one art which includes all of them, ought not that art to have one name?


[Theaet.] And what is the name of the art?


[Str.] The art of discerning or discriminating.


[Theaet.] Very good.


[Str.] Think whether you cannot divide this.


[Theaet.] I should have to think a long while.


[Str.] In all the previously named processes either like has been separated from like or the better from the worse.


[Theaet.] I see now what you mean.


[Str.] There is no name for the first kind of separation; of the second, which throws away the worse and preserves the better, I do know a name.


[Theaet.] What is it?


[Str.] Every discernment or discrimination of that kind, as I have observed, is called a purification.


[Theaet.] Yes, that is the usual expression.


[Str.] And any one may see that purification is of two kinds.


[Theaet.] Perhaps so, if he were allowed time to think; but I do not see at this moment.


[Str.] There are many purifications of bodies which may with propriety be comprehended under a single name.


[Theaet.] What are they, and what is their name?


[Str.] There is the purification of living bodies in their inward and in their outward parts, of which the former is duly effected by medicine and gymnastic, the latter by the not very dignified art of the bath-man; and there is the purification of inanimate substances-to this the arts of fulling and of furbishing in general attend in a number of minute particulars, having a variety of names which are thought ridiculous.


[Theaet.] Very true.


[Str.] There can be no doubt that they are thought ridiculous, Theaetetus; but then the dialectical art never considers whether the benefit to be derived from the purge is greater or less than that to be derived from the sponge, and has not more interest in the one than in the other; her endeavour is to know what is and is not kindred in all arts, with a view to the acquisition of intelligence; and having this in view, she honours them all alike, and when she makes comparisons, she counts one of them not a whit more ridiculous than another; nor does she esteem him who adduces as his example of hunting, the general’s art, at all more decorous than another who cites that of the vermin-destroyer, but only as the greater pretender of the two. And as to your question concerning the name which was to comprehend all these arts of purification, whether of animate or inanimate bodies, the art of dialectic is in no wise particular about fine words, if she maybe only allowed to have a general name for all other purifications, binding them up together and separating them off from the purification of the soul or intellect. For this is the purification at which she wants to arrive, and this we should understand to be her aim.


[Theaet.] Yes, I understand; and I agree that there are two sorts of purification and that one of them is concerned with the soul, and that there is another which is concerned with the body.


[Str.] Excellent; and now listen to what I am going to say, and try to divide further the first of the two.


[Theaet.] Whatever line of division you suggest, I will endeavour to assist you.


[Str.] Do we admit that virtue is distinct from vice in the soul?


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] And purification was to leave the good and to cast out whatever is bad?


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] Then any taking away of evil from the soul may be properly called purification?


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] And in the soul there are two kinds of evil.


[Theaet.] What are they?


[Str.] The one may be compared to disease in the body, the other to deformity.


[Theaet.] I do not understand.


[Str.] Perhaps you have never reflected that disease and discord are the same.


[Theaet.] To this, again, I know not what I should reply.


[Str.] Do you not conceive discord to be a dissolution of kindred clements, originating in some disagreement?


[Theaet.] Just that.


[Str.] And is deformity anything but the want of measure, which is always unsightly?


[Theaet.] Exactly.


[Str.] And do we not see that opinion is opposed to desire, pleasure to anger, reason to pain, and that all these elements are opposed to one another in the souls of bad men?


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] And yet they must all be akin?


[Theaet.] Of course.


[Str.] Then we shall be right in calling vice a discord and disease of the soul?


[Theaet.] Most true.


[Str.] And when things having motion, an aiming at an appointed mark, continually miss their aim and glance aside, shall we say that this is the effect of symmetry among them, or of the want of symmetry?


[Theaet.] Clearly of the want of symmetry.


[Str.] But surely we know that no soul is voluntarily ignorant of anything?


[Theaet.] Certainly not.


[Str.] And what is ignorance but the aberration of a mind which is bent on truth, and in which the process of understanding is perverted?


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] Then we are to regard an unintelligent soul as deformed and devoid of symmetry?


[Theaet.] Very true.


[Str.] Then there are these two kinds of evil in the soul-the one which is generally called vice, and is obviously a disease of the soul…


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] And there is the other, which they call ignorance, and which, because existing only in the soul, they will not allow to be vice.


[Theaet.] I certainly admit what I at first disputed-that there are two kinds of vice in the soul, and that we ought to consider cowardice, intemperance, and injustice to be alike forms of disease in the soul, and ignorance, of which there are all sorts of varieties, to be deformity.


[Str.] And in the case of the body are there not two arts, which have to do with the two bodily states?


[Theaet.] What are they?


[Str.] There is gymnastic, which has to do with deformity, and medicine, which has to do with disease.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And where there is insolence and injustice and cowardice, is not chastisement the art which is most required?


[Theaet.] That certainly appears to be the opinion of mankind.


[Str.] Again, of the various kinds of ignorance, may not instruction be rightly said to be the remedy?


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And of the art of instruction, shall we say that there is one or many kinds? At any rate there are two principal ones. Think.


[Theaet.] I will.


[Str.] I believe that I can see how we shall soonest arrive at the answer to this question.


[Theaet.] How?


[Str.] If we can discover a line which divides ignorance into two halves. For a division of ignorance into two parts will certainly imply that the art of instruction is also twofold, answering to the two divisions of ignorance.


[Theaet.] Well, and do you see what you are looking for?


[Str.] I do seem to myself to see one very large and bad sort of ignorance which is quite separate, and may be weighed in the scale against all other sorts of ignorance put together.


[Theaet.] What is it?


[Str.] When a person supposes that he knows, and does not know this appears to be the great source of all the errors of the intellect.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And this, if I am not mistaken, is the kind of ignorance which specially earns the title of stupidity.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] What name, then, shall be given to the sort of instruction which gets rid of this?


[Theaet.] The instruction which you mean, Stranger, is, I should imagine, not the teaching of handicraft arts, but what, thanks to us, has been termed education in this part the world.


[Str.] Yes, Theaetetus, and by nearly all Hellenes. But we have still to consider whether education admits of any further division.


[Theaet.] We have.


[Str.] I think that there is a point at which such a division is possible.


[Theaet.] Where?


[Str.] Of education, one method appears to be rougher, and another smoother.


[Theaet.] How are we to distinguish the two?


[Str.] There is the time-honoured mode which our fathers commonly practised towards their sons, and which is still adopted by many-either of roughly reproving their errors, or of gently advising them; which varieties may be correctly included under the general term of admonition.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] But whereas some appear to have arrived at the conclusion that all ignorance is involuntary, and that no one who thinks himself wise is willing to learn any of those things in which he is conscious of his own cleverness, and that the admonitory sort of instruction gives much trouble and does little good-


[Theaet.] There they are quite right.


[Str.] Accordingly, they set to work to eradicate the spirit of conceit in another way.


[Theaet.] In what way?


[Str.] They cross-examine a man’s words, when he thinks that he is saying something and is really saying nothing, and easily convict him of inconsistencies in his opinions; these they then collect by the dialectical process, and placing them side by side, show that they contradict one another about the same things, in relation to the same things, and in the same respect. He, seeing this, is angry with himself, and grows gentle towards others, and thus is entirely delivered from great prejudices and harsh notions, in a way which is most amusing to the hearer, and produces the most lasting good effect on the person who is the subject of the operation. For as the physician considers that the body will receive no benefit from taking food until the internal obstacles have been removed, so the purifier of the soul is conscious that his patient will receive no benefit from the application of knowledge until he is refuted, and from refutation learns modesty; he must be purged of his prejudices first and made to think that he knows only what he knows, and no more.


[Theaet.] That is certainly the best and wisest state of mind.


[Str.] For all these reasons, Theaetetus, we must admit that refutation is the greatest and chiefest of purifications, and he who has not been refuted, though he be the Great King himself, is in an awful state of impurity; he is uninstructed and deformed in those things in which he who would be truly blessed ought to be fairest and purest.


[Theaet.] Very true.


[Str.] And who are the ministers of this art? I am afraid to say the Sophists.


[Theaet.] Why?


[Str.] Lest we should assign to them too high a prerogative.


[Theaet.] Yet the Sophist has a certain likeness to our minister of purification.


[Str.] Yes, the same sort of likeness which a wolf, who is the fiercest of animals, has to a dog, who is the gentlest. But he who would not be found tripping, ought to be very careful in this matter of comparisons, for they are most slippery things. Nevertheless, let us assume that the Sophists are the men. I say this provisionally, for I think that the line which divides them will be marked enough if proper care is taken.


[Theaet.] Likely enough.


[Str.] Let us grant, then, that from the discerning art comes purification, and from purification let there be separated off a part which is concerned with the soul; of this mental purification instruction is a portion, and of instruction education, and of education, that refutation of vain conceit which has been discovered in the present argument; and let this be called by you and me the nobly-descended art of Sophistry.


[Theaet.] Very well; and yet, considering the number of forms in which he has presented himself, I begin to doubt how I can with any truth or confidence describe the real nature of the Sophist.


[Str.] You naturally feel perplexed; and yet I think that he must be still more perplexed in his attempt to escape us, for as the proverb says, when every way is blocked, there is no escape; now, then, is the time of all others to set upon him.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] First let us wait a moment and recover breath, and while we are resting, we may reckon up in how many forms he has appeared. In the first place, he was discovered to be a paid hunter after wealth and youth.


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] In the second place, he was a merchant in the goods of the soul.


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] In the third place, he has turned out to be a retailer of the same sort of wares.


[Theaet.] Yes; and in the fourth place, he himself manufactured the learned wares which he sold.


[Str.] Quite right; I will try and remember the fifth myself. He belonged to the fighting class, and was further distinguished as a hero of debate, who professed the eristic art.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] The sixth point was doubtful, and yet we at last agreed that he was a purger of souls, who cleared away notions obstructive to knowledge.


[Theaet.] Very true.


[Str.] Do you not see that when the professor of any art has one name and many kinds of knowledge, there must be something wrong? The multiplicity of names which is applied to him shows that the common principle to which all these branches of knowledge are tending, is not understood.


[Theaet.] I should imagine this to be the case.


[Str.] At any rate we will understand him, and no indolence shall prevent us. Let us begin again, then, and re-examine some of our statements concerning the Sophist; there was one thing which appeared to me especially characteristic of him.


[Theaet.] To what are you referring?


[Str.] We were saying of him, if I am not mistaken, that he was a disputer?


[Theaet.] We were.


[Str.] And does he not also teach others the art of disputation?


[Theaet.] Certainly he does.


[Str.] And about what does he profess that he teaches men to dispute? To begin at the beginning-Does he make them able to dispute about divine things, which are invisible to men in general?


[Theaet.] At any rate, he is said to do so.


[Str.] And what do you say of the visible things in heaven and earth, and the like?


[Theaet.] Certainly he disputes, and teaches to dispute about them.


[Str.] Then, again, in private conversation, when any universal assertion is made about generation and essence, we know that such persons are tremendous argufiers, and are able to impart their own skill to others.


[Theaet.] Undoubtedly.


[Str.] And do they not profess to make men able to dispute about law and about politics in general?


[Theaet.] Why, no one would have anything to say to them, if they did not make these professions.


[Str.] In all and every art, what the craftsman ought to say in answer to any question is written down in a popular form, and he who likes may learn.


[Theaet.] I suppose that you are referring to the precepts of Protagoras about wrestling and the other arts?


[Str.] Yes, my friend, and about a good many other things. In a word, is not the art of disputation a power of disputing about all things?


[Theaet.] Certainly; there does not seem to be much which is left out.


[Str.] But oh! my dear youth, do you suppose this possible? for perhaps your young eyes may see things which to our duller sight do not appear.


[Theaet.] To what are you alluding? I do not think that I understand your present question.


[Str.] I ask whether anybody can understand all things.


[Theaet.] Happy would mankind be if such a thing were possible!


[Soc.] But how can any one who is ignorant dispute in a rational manner against him who knows?


[Theaet.] He cannot.


[Str.] Then why has the sophistical art such a mysterious power?


[Theaet.] To what do you refer?


[Str.] How do the Sophists make young men believe in their supreme and universal wisdom? For if they neither disputed nor were thought to dispute rightly, or being thought to do so were deemed no wiser for their controversial skill, then, to quote your own observation, no one would give them money or be willing to learn their art.


[Theaet.] They certainly would not.


[Str.] But they are willing.


[Theaet.] Yes, they are.


[Str.] Yes, and the reason, as I should imagine, is that they are supposed to have knowledge of those things about which they dispute?


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] And they dispute about all things?


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And therefore, to their disciples, they appear to be all-wise?


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] But they are not; for that was shown to be impossible.


[Theaet.] Impossible, of course.


[Str.] Then the Sophist has been shown to have a sort of conjectural or apparent knowledge only of all things, which is not the truth?


[Theaet.] Exactly; no better description of him could be given.


[Str.] Let us now take an illustration, which will still more clearly explain his nature.


[Theaet.] What is it?


[Str.] I will tell you, and you shall answer me, giving your very closest attention. Suppose that a person were to profess, not that he could speak or dispute, but that he knew how to make and do all things, by a single art.


[Theaet.] All things?


[Str.] I see that you do not understand the first word that I utter, for you do not understand the meaning of “all.”


[Theaet.] No, I do not.


[Str.] Under all things, I include you and me, and also animals and trees.


[Theaet.] What do you mean?


[Str.] Suppose a person to say that he will make you and me, and all creatures.


[Theaet.] What would he mean by “making”? He cannot be a husbandman;-for you said that he is a maker of animals.


[Str.] Yes; and I say that he is also the maker of the sea, and the earth, and the heavens, and the gods, and of all other things; and, further, that he can make them in no time, and sell them for a few pence.


[Theaet.] That must be a jest.


[Str.] And when a man says that he knows all things, and can teach them to another at a small cost, and in a short time, is not that a jest?


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] And is there any more artistic or graceful form of jest than imitation?


[Theaet.] Certainly not; and imitation is a very comprehensive term, which includes under one class the most diverse sorts of things.


[Str.] We know, of course, that he who professes by one art to make all things is really a painter, and by the painter’s art makes resemblances of real things which have the same name with them; and he can deceive the less intelligent sort of young children, to whom he shows his pictures at a distance, into the belief that he has the absolute power of making whatever he likes.


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] And may there not be supposed to be an imitative art of reasoning? Is it not possible to enchant the hearts of young men by words poured through their ears, when they are still at a distance from the truth of facts, by exhibiting to them fictitious arguments, and making them think that they are true, and that the speaker is the wisest of men in all things?


[Theaet.] Yes; why should there not be another such art?


[Str.] But as time goes on, and their hearers advance in years, and come into closer contact with realities, and have learnt by sad experience to see and feel the truth of things, are not the greater part of them compelled to change many opinions which they formerly entertained, so that the great appears small to them, and the easy difficult, and all their dreamy speculations are overturned by the facts of life?


[Theaet.] That is my view, as far as I can judge, although, at my age, I may be one of those who see things at a distance only.


[Str.] And the wish of all of us, who are your friends, is and always will be to bring you as near to the truth as we can without the sad reality. And now I should like you to tell me, whether the Sophist is not visibly a magician and imitator of true being; or are we still disposed to think that he may have a true knowledge of the various matters about which he disputes?


[Theaet.] But how can he, Stranger? Is there any doubt, after what has been said, that he is to be located in one of the divisions of children’s play?


[Str.] Then we must place him in the class of magicians and mimics.


[Theaet.] Certainly we must.


[Str.] And now our business is not to let the animal out, for we have got him in a sort of dialectical net, and there is one thing which he decidedly will not escape.


[Theaet.] What is that?


[Str.] The inference that he is a juggler.


[Theaet.] Precisely my own opinion of him.


[Str.] Then, clearly, we ought as soon as possible to divide the image-making art, and go down into the net, and, if the Sophist does not run away from us, to seize him according to orders and deliver him over to reason, who is the lord of the hunt, and proclaim the capture of him; and if he creeps into the recesses of the imitative art, and secretes himself in one of them, to divide again and follow him up until in some sub-section of imitation he is caught. For our method of tackling each and all is one which neither he nor any other creature will ever escape in triumph.


[Theaet.] Well said; and let us do as you propose.


[Str.] Well, then, pursuing the same analytic method as before, I think that I can discern two divisions of the imitative art, but I am not as yet able to see in which of them the desired form is to be found.


[Theaet.] Will you tell me first what are two divisions of which you are speaking?


[Str.] One is the art of likeness-making;-generally a likeness of anything is made by producing a copy which is executed according to the proportions of the original, similar in length and breadth and depth, each thing receiving also its appropriate colour.


[Theaet.] Is not this always the aim of imitation?


[Str.] Not always; in works either of sculpture or of painting, which are of any magnitude, there is a certain degree of deception; -for artists were to give the true proportions of their fair works, the upper part, which is farther off, would appear to be out of proportion in comparison with the lower, which is nearer; and so they give up the truth in their images and make only the proportions which appear to be beautiful, disregarding the real ones.


[Theaet.] Quite true.


[Str.] And that which being other is also like, may we not fairly call a likeness or image?


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] And may we not, as I did just now, call that part of the imitative art which is concerned with making such images the art of likeness making?


[Theaet.] Let that be the name.


[Str.] And what shall we call those resemblances of the beautiful, which appear such owing to the unfavourable position of the spectator, whereas if a person had the power of getting a correct view of works of such magnitude, they would appear not even like that to which they profess to be like? May we not call these “appearances,” since they appear only and are not really like?


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] There is a great deal of this kind of thing in painting, and in all imitation.


[Theaet.] Of course.


[Str.] And may we not fairly call the sort of art, which produces an appearance and not an image, phantastic art?


[Theaet.] Most fairly.


[Str.] These then are the two kinds of image making-the art of making likenesses, and phantastic or the art of making appearances?


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] I was doubtful before in which of them I should place the Sophist, nor am I even now able to see clearly; verily he is a wonderful and inscrutable creature. And now in the cleverest manner he has got into an impossible place.


[Theaet.] Yes, he has.


[Str.] Do you speak advisedly, or are you carried away at the moment by the habit of assenting into giving a hasty answer?


[Theaet.] May I ask to what you are referring?


[Str.] My dear friend, we are engaged in a very difficult speculation-there can be no doubt of that; for how a thing can appear and seem, and not be, or how a man can say a thing which is not true, has always been and still remains a very perplexing question. Can any one say or think that falsehood really exists, and avoid being caught in a contradiction? Indeed, Theaetetus, the task is a difficult one.


[Theaet.] Why?


[Str.] He who says that falsehood exists has the audacity to assert the being of not-being; for this is implied in the possibility of falsehood. But, my boy, in the days when I was a boy, the great Parmenides protested against this doctrine, and to the end of his life he continued to inculcate the same lesson-always repeating both in verse and out of verse: Keep your mind from this way of enquiry, for never will you show that not-being is Such is his testimony, which is confirmed by the very expression when sifted a little. Would you object to begin with the consideration of the words themselves?


[Theaet.] Never mind about me; I am only desirous that you should carry on the argument in the best way, and that you should take me with you.


[Str.] Very good; and now say, do we venture to utter the forbidden word “not-being”?


[Theaet.] Certainly we do.


[Str.] Let us be serious then, and consider the question neither in strife nor play: suppose that one of the hearers of Parmenides was asked, “To is the term ‘not-being’ to be applied?”-do you know what sort of object he would single out in reply, and what answer he would make to the enquirer?


[Theaet.] That is a difficult question, and one not to be answered at all by a person like myself.


[Str.] There is at any rate no difficulty in seeing that the predicate “not-being” is not applicable to any being.


[Theaet.] None, certainly.


[Str.] And if not to being, then not to something.


[Theaet.] Of course not.


[Str.] It is also plain, that in speaking of something we speak of being, for to speak of an abstract something naked and isolated from all being is impossible.


[Theaet.] Impossible.


[Str.] You mean by assenting to imply that he who says something must say some one thing?


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] Some in the singular (ti) you would say is the sign of one, some in the dual (tine) of two, some in the plural (tines) of many?


[Theaet.] Exactly.


[Str.] Then he who says “not something” must say absolutely nothing.


[Theaet.] Most assuredly.


[Str.] And as we cannot admit that a man speaks and says nothing, he who says “not-being” does not speak at all.


[Theaet.] The difficulty of the argument can no further go.


[Str.] Not yet, my friend, is the time for such a word; for there still remains of all perplexities the first and greatest, touching the very foundation of the matter.


[Theaet.] What do you mean? Do not be afraid to speak.


[Str.] To that which is, may be attributed some other thing which is?


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] But can anything which is, be attributed to that which is not?


[Theaet.] Impossible.


[Str.] And all number is to be reckoned among things which are?


[Theaet.] Yes, surely number, if anything, has a real existence.


[Str.] Then we must not attempt to attribute to not-being number either in the singular or plural?


[Theaet.] The argument implies that we should be wrong in doing so.


[Str.] But how can a man either express in words or even conceive in thought things which are not or a thing which is not without number?


[Theaet.] How indeed?


[Str.] When we speak of things which are not attributing plurality to not-being?


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] But, on the other hand, when we say “what is not,” do we not attribute unity?


[Theaet.] Manifestly.


[Str.] Nevertheless, we maintain that you may not and ought not to attribute being to not-being?


[Theaet.] Most true.


[Str.] Do you see, then, that not-being in itself can neither be spoken, uttered, or thought, but that it is unthinkable, unutterable, unspeakable, indescribable?


[Theaet.] Quite true.


[Str.] But, if so, I was wrong in telling you just now that the difficulty which was coming is the greatest of all.


[Theaet.] What! is there a greater still behind?


[Str.] Well, I am surprised, after what has been said already, that you do not see the difficulty in which he who would refute the notion of not-being is involved. For he is compelled to contradict himself as soon as he makes the attempt.


[Theaet.] What do you mean? Speak more clearly.


[Str.] Do not expect clearness from me. For I, who maintain that not-being has no part either in the one or many, just now spoke and am still speaking of not-being as one; for I say “not-being.” Do you understand?


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] And a little while ago I said that not-being is unutterable, unspeakable, indescribable: do you follow?


[Theaet.] I do after a fashion.


[Str.] When I introduced the word “is,” did I not contradict what I said before?


[Theaet.] Clearly.


[Str.] And in using the singular verb, did I not speak of not-being as one?


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] And when I spoke of not-being as indescribable and unspeakable and unutterable, in using each of these words in the singular, did I not refer to not-being as one?


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] And yet we say that, strictly speaking, it should not be defined as one or many, and should not even be called “it,” for the use of the word “it” would imply a form of unity.


[Theaet.] Quite true.


[Str.] How, then, can any one put any faith in me? For now, as always, I am unequal to the refutation of not-being. And therefore, as I was saying, do not look to me for the right way of speaking about not-being; but come, let us try the experiment with you.


[Theaet.] What do you mean?


[Str.] Make a noble effort, as becomes youth, and endeavour with all your might to speak of not-being in a right manner, without introducing into it either existence or unity or plurality.


[Theaet.] It would be a strange boldness in me which would attempt the task when I see you thus discomfited.


[Str.] Say no more of ourselves; but until we find some one or other who can speak of not-being without number, we must acknowledge that the Sophist is a clever rogue who will not be got out of his hole.


[Theaet.] Most true.


[Str.] And if we say to him that he professes an art of making appearances, he will grapple with us and retort our argument upon ourselves; and when we call him an image-maker he will say, “Pray what do you mean at all by an image?” -and I should like to know, Theaetetus, how we can possibly answer the younker’s question?


[Theaet.] We shall doubtless tell him of the images which are reflected in water or in mirrors; also of sculptures, pictures, and other duplicates.


[Str.] I see, Theaetetus, that you have never made the acquaintance of the Sophist.


[Theaet.] Why do you think so?


[Str.] He will make believe to have his eyes shut, or to have none.


[Theaet.] What do you mean?


[Str.] When you tell him of something existing in a mirror, or in sculpture, and address him as though he had eyes, he will laugh you to scorn, and will pretend that he knows nothing of mirrors and streams, or of sight at all; he will say that he is asking about an idea.


[Theaet.] What can he mean?


[Str.] The common notion pervading all these objects, which you speak of as many, and yet call by the single name of image, as though it were the unity under which they were all included. How will you maintain your ground against him?


[Theaet.] How. Stranger, can I describe an image except as something fashioned in the likeness of the true?


[Str.] And do you mean this something to be some other true thing, or what do you mean?


[Theaet.] Certainly not another true thing, but only a resemblance.


[Str.] And you mean by true that which really is?


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] And the not true is that which is the opposite of the true?


[Theaet.] Exactly.


[Str.] A resemblance, then, is not really real, if, as you say, not true?


[Theaet.] Nay, but it is in a certain sense.


[Str.] You mean to say, not in a true sense?


[Theaet.] Yes; it is in reality only an image.


[Str.] Then what we call an image is in reality really unreal.


[Theaet.] In what a strange complication of being and not-being we are involved!


[Str.] Strange! I should think so. See how, by his reciprocation of opposites, the many-headed Sophist has compelled us, quite against our will, to admit the existence of not-being.


[Theaet.] Yes, indeed, I see.


[Str.] The difficulty is how to define his art without falling into a contradiction.


[Theaet.] How do you mean? And where does the danger lie?


[Str.] When we say that he deceives us with an illusion, and that his art is illusory, do we mean that our soul is led by his art to think falsely, or what do we mean?


[Theaet.] There is nothing else to be said.


[Str.] Again, false opinion is that form of opinion which thinks the opposite of the truth:-You would assent?


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] You mean to say that false opinion thinks what is not?


[Theaet.] Of course.


[Str.] Does false opinion think that things which are not are not, or that in a certain sense they are?


[Theaet.] Things that are not must be imagined to exist in a certain sense, if any degree of falsehood is to be possible.


[Str.] And does not false opinion also think that things which most certainly exist do not exist at all?


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] And here, again, is falsehood?


[Theaet.] Falsehood-yes.


[Str.] And in like manner, a false proposition will be deemed to be one which are, the nonexistence of things which are, and the existence of things which are not.


[Theaet.] There is no other way in which a false proposition can arise.


[Str.] There is not; but the Sophist will deny these statements. And indeed how can any rational man assent to them, when the very expressions which we have just used were before acknowledged by us to be unutterable, unspeakable, indescribable, unthinkable? Do you see his point, Theaetetus?


[Theaet.] Of course he will say that we are contradicting ourselves when we hazard the assertion, that falsehood exists in opinion and in words; for in maintaining this, we are compelled over and over again to assert being of not-being, which we admitted just now to be an utter impossibility.


[Str.] How well you remember! And now it is high time to hold a consultation as to what we ought to do about the Sophist; for if we persist in looking for him in the class of false workers and magicians, you see that the handles for objection and the difficulties which will arise are very numerous and obvious.


[Theaet.] They are indeed.


[Str.] We have gone through but a very small portion of them, and they are really infinite.


[Theaet.] If that is the case, we cannot possibly catch the Sophist.


[Str.] Shall we then be so faint-hearted as to give him up?


[Theaet.] Certainly not, I should say, if we can get the slightest hold upon him.


[Str.] Will you then forgive me, and, as your words imply, not be altogether displeased if I flinch a little from the grasp of such a sturdy argument?


[Theaet.] To be sure I will.


[Str.] I have a yet more urgent request to make.


[Theaet.] Which is-?


[Str.] That you will promise not to regard me as a parricide.


[Theaet.] And why?


[Str.] Because, in self-defence, I must test the philosophy of my father Parmenides, and try to prove by main force, that in a certain sense not-being is, and that being, on the other hand, is not.


[Theaet.] Some attempt of the kind is clearly needed.


[Str.] Yes, a blind man, as they say, might see that, and, unless these questions are decided in one way or another, no one when he speaks false words, or false opinion, or idols, or images or imitations or appearances, or about the arts which are concerned with them; can avoid falling into ridiculous contradictions.


[Theaet.] Most true.


[Str.] And therefore I must venture to lay hands on my father’s argument; for if I am to be over-scrupulous, I shall have to give the matter up.


[Theaet.] Nothing in the world should ever induce us to do so.


[Str.] I have a third little request which I wish to make.


[Theaet.] What is it?


[Str.] You heard me-say what-I have always felt and still feel-that I have no heart for this argument?


[Theaet.] I did.


[Str.] I tremble at the thought of what I have said, and expect that you will deem me mad, when you hear of my sudden changes and shiftings; let me therefore observe, that I am examining the question entirely out of regard for you.


[Theaet.] There is no reason for you to fear that I shall impute any impropriety to you, if you attempt this refutation and proof; take heart, therefore, and proceed.


[Str.] And where shall I begin the perilous enterprise? I think that the road which I must take is-


[Theaet.] Which?-Let me hear.


[Str.] I think that we had better, first of all, consider the points which at present are regard as self-evident, lest we may have fallen into some confusion, and be too ready to assent to one another, fancying that we are quite clear about them.


[Theaet.] Say more distinctly what you mean.


[Str.] I think that Parmenides, and all ever yet undertook to determine the number and nature of existences, talked to us in rather a light and easy strain.


[Theaet.] How?


[Str.] As if we had been children, to whom they repeated each his own mythus or story;-one said that there were three principles, and that at one time there was war between certain of them; and then again there was peace, and they were married and begat children, and brought them up; and another spoke of two principles,-a moist and a dry, or a hot and a cold, and made them marry and cohabit. The Eleatics, however, in our part of the world, say that things are many in name, but in nature one; this is their mythus, which goes back to Xenophanes, and is even older. Then there are Ionian, and in more recent times Sicilian muses, who have arrived at the conclusion that to unite the two principles is safer, and to say that being is one and many, and that these are held together by enmity and friendship, ever parting, ever meeting, as the-severer Muses assert, while the gentler ones do not insist on the perpetual strife and peace, but admit a relaxation and alternation of them; peace and unity sometimes prevailing under the sway of Aphrodite, and then again plurality and war, by reason of a principle of strife. Whether any of them spoke the truth in all this is hard to determine; besides, antiquity and famous men should have reverence, and not be liable to accusations; so serious; Yet one thing may be said of them without offence-


[Theaet.] What thing?


[Str.] That they went on their several ways disdaining to notice people like ourselves; they did not care whether they took us with them, or left us behind them.


[Theaet.] How do you mean?


[Str.] I mean to say, that when they talk of one, two, or more elements, which are or have become or are becoming, or again of heat mingling with cold, assuming in some other part of their works separations and mixtures,-tell me, Theaetetus, do you understand what they mean by these expressions? When I was a younger man, I used to fancy that I understood quite well what was meant by the term “not-being,” which is our present subject of dispute; and now you see in what a fix we are about it.


[Theaet.] I see.


[Str.] And very likely we have been getting into the same perplexity about “being,” and yet may fancy that when anybody utters the word, we understand him quite easily, although we do not know about not-being. But we may be; equally ignorant of both.


[Theaet.] I dare say.


[Str.] And the same may be said of all the terms just mentioned.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] The consideration of most of them may be deferred; but we had better now discuss the chief captain and leader of them.


[Theaet.] Of what are you speaking? You clearly think that we must first investigate what people mean by the word “being.”


[Str.] You follow close at heels, Theaetetus. For the right method, I conceive, will be to call into our presence the dualistic philosophers and to interrogate them. “Come,” we will say, “Ye, who affirm that hot and cold or any other two principles are the universe, what is this term which you apply to both of them, and what do you mean when you say that both and each of them ‘are’? How are we to understand the word ‘are’? Upon your view, are we to suppose that there is a third principle over and above the other two-three in all, and not two? For clearly you cannot say that one of the two principles is being, and yet attribute being equally to both of them; for, if you did, whichever of the two is identified with being, will comprehend the other; and so they will be one and not two.”


[Theaet.] Very true.


[Str.] But perhaps you mean to give the name of “being” to both of them together?


[Theaet.] Quite likely.


[Str.] “Then, friends,” we shall reply to them, “the answer is plainly that the two will still be resolved into one.”


[Theaet.] Most true.


[Str.] “Since then, we are in a difficulty, please to tell us what you mean, when you speak of being; for there can be no doubt that you always from the first understood your own meaning, whereas we once thought that we understood you, but now we are in a great strait. Please to begin by explaining this matter to us, and let us no longer fancy that we understand you, when we entirely misunderstand you.” There will be no impropriety in our demanding an answer to this question, either of the dualists or of the pluralists?


[Theaet.] Certainly not.


[Str.] And what about the assertors of the oneness of the all-must we not endeavour to ascertain from them what they mean by “being”?


[Theaet.] By all means.


[Str.] Then let them answer this question: One, you say, alone is? “Yes,” they will reply.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And there is something which you call “being”?


[Theaet.] “Yes.”


[Str.] And is being the same as one, and do you apply two names to the same thing?


[Theaet.] What will be their answer, Stranger?


[Str.] It is clear, Theaetetus, that he who asserts the unity of being will find a difficulty in answering this or any other question.


[Theaet.] Why so?


[Str.] To admit of two names, and to affirm that there is nothing but unity, is surely ridiculous?


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] And equally irrational to admit that a name is anything?


[Theaet.] How so?


[Str.] To distinguish the name from the thing, implies duality.


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] And yet he who identifies the name with the thing will be compelled to say that it is the name of nothing, or if he says that it is the name of something, even then the name will only be the name of a name, and of nothing else.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And the one will turn out to be only one of one, and being absolute unity, will represent a mere name.


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] And would they say that the whole is other than the one that is, or the same with it?


[Theaet.] To be sure they would, and they actually say so.


[Str.] If being is a whole, as Parmenides sings,- Every way like unto the fullness of a well-rounded sphere, Evenly balanced from the centre on every side, And must needs be neither greater nor less in any way, Neither on this side nor on that- then being has a centre and extremes, and, having these, must also have parts.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] Yet that which has parts may have the attribute of unity in all the parts, and in this way being all and a whole, may be one?


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] But that of which this is the condition cannot be absolute unity?


[Theaet.] Why not?


[Str.] Because, according to right reason, that which is truly one must be affirmed to be absolutely indivisible.


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] But this indivisible, if made up of many parts, will contradict reason.


[Theaet.] I understand.


[Str.] Shall we say that being is one and a whole, because it has the attribute of unity? Or shall we say that being is not a whole at all?


[Theaet.] That is a hard alternative to offer.


[Str.] Most true; for being, having in a certain sense the attribute of one, is yet proved not to be the same as one, and the all is therefore more than one.


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] And yet if being be not a whole, through having the attribute of unity, and there be such a thing as an absolute whole, being lacks something of its own nature?


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] Upon this view, again, being, having a defect of being, will become not-being?


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And, again, the all becomes more than one, for being and the whole will each have their separate nature.


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] But if the whole does not exist at all, all the previous difficulties remain the same, and there will be the further difficulty, that besides having no being, being can never have come into being.


[Theaet.] Why so?


[Str.] Because that which comes into being always comes into being as a whole, so that he who does not give whole a place among beings, cannot speak either of essence or generation as existing.


[Theaet.] Yes, that certainly appears to be true.


[Str.] Again; how can that which is not a whole have any quantity? For that which is of a certain quantity must necessarily be the whole of that quantity.


[Theaet.] Exactly.


[Str.] And there will be innumerable other points, each of them causing infinite trouble to him who says that being is either, one or two.


[Theaet.] The difficulties which are dawning upon us prove this; for one objection connects with another, and they are always involving what has preceded in a greater and worse perplexity.


[Str.] We are far from having exhausted the more exact thinkers who treat of being and not-being. But let us be content to leave them, and proceed to view those who speak less precisely; and we shall find as the result of all, that the nature of being is quite as difficult to comprehend as that of not-being.


[Theaet.] Then now we will go to the others.


[Str.] There appears to be a sort of war of Giants and Gods going on amongst them; they are fighting with one another about the nature of essence.


[Theaet.] How is that?


[Str.] Some of them are dragging down all things from heaven and from the unseen to earth, and they literally grasp in their hands rocks and oaks; of these they lay hold, and obstinately maintain, that the things only which can be touched or handled have being or essence, because they define being and body as one, and if any one else says that what is not a body exists they altogether despise him, and will hear of nothing but body.


[Theaet.] I have often met with such men, and terrible fellows they are.


[Str.] And that is the reason why their opponents cautiously defend themselves from above, out of an unseen world, mightily contending that true essence consists of certain intelligible and incorporeal ideas; the bodies of the materialists, which by them are maintained to be the very truth, they break up into little bits by their arguments, and affirm them to be, not essence, but generation and motion. Between the two armies, Theaetetus, there is always an endless conflict raging concerning these matters.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] Let us ask each party in turn, to give an account of that which they call essence.


[Theaet.] How shall we get it out of them?


[Str.] With those who make being to consist in ideas, there will be less difficulty, for they are civil people enough; but there will be very great difficulty, or rather an absolute impossibility, in getting an opinion out of those who drag everything down to matter. Shall I tell you what we must do?


[Theaet.] What?


[Str.] Let us, if we can, really improve them; but if this is not possible, let us imagine them to be better than they are, and more willing to answer in accordance with the rules of argument, and then their opinion will be more worth having; for that which better men acknowledge has more weight than that which is acknowledged by inferior men. Moreover we are no respecters of persons, but seekers after time.


[Theaet.] Very good.


[Str.] Then now, on the supposition that they are improved, let us ask them to state their views, and do you interpret them.


[Theaet.] Agreed.


[Str.] Let them say whether they would admit that there is such a thing as a mortal animal.


[Theaet.] Of course they would.


[Str.] And do they not acknowledge this to be a body having a soul?


[Theaet.] Certainly they do.


[Str.] Meaning to say the soul is something which exists?


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And do they not say that one soul is just, and another unjust, and that one soul is wise, and another foolish?


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] And that the just and wise soul becomes just and wise by the possession of justice and wisdom, and the opposite under opposite circumstances?


[Theaet.] Yes, they do.


[Str.] But surely that which may be present or may be absent will be admitted by them to exist?


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] And, allowing that justice, wisdom, the other virtues, and their opposites exist, as well as a soul in which they inhere, do they affirm any of them to be visible and tangible, or are they all invisible?


[Theaet.] They would say that hardly any of them are visible.


[Str.] And would they say that they are corporeal?


[Theaet.] They would distinguish: the soul would be said by them to have a body; but as to the other qualities of justice, wisdom, and the like, about which you asked, they would not venture either to deny their existence, or to maintain that they were all corporeal.


[Str.] Verily, Theaetetus, I perceive a great improvement in them; the real aborigines, children of the dragon’s teeth, would have been deterred by no shame at all, but would have obstinately asserted that nothing is which they are not able to squeeze in their hands.


[Theaet.] That is pretty much their notion.


[Str.] Let us push the question; for if they will admit that any, even the smallest particle of being, is incorporeal, it is enough; they must then say what that nature is which is common to both the corporeal and incorporeal, and which they have in their mind’s eye when they say of both of them that they “are.” Perhaps they may be in a difficulty; and if this is the case, there is a possibility that they may accept a notion of ours respecting the nature of being, having nothing of their own to offer.


[Theaet.] What is the notion? Tell me, and we shall soon see.


[Str.] My notion would be, that anything which possesses any sort of power to affect another, or to be affected by another, if only for a single moment, however trifling the cause and however slight the effect, has real existence; and I hold that the definition of being is simply power of


[Theaet.] They accept your suggestion, having nothing better of their own to offer.


[Str.] Very good; perhaps we, as well as they, may one day change our minds; but, for the present, this may be regarded as the understanding which is established with them.


[Theaet.] Agreed.


[Str.] Let us now go to the friends of ideas; of their opinions, too, you shall be the interpreter.


[Theaet.] I will.


[Str.] To them we say-You would distinguish essence from generation?


[Theaet.] “Yes,” they reply.


[Str.] And you would allow that we participate in generation, with the body, and through perception, but we participate with the soul through in true essence; and essence you would affirm to be always the same and immutable, whereas generation or becoming varies?


[Theaet.] Yes; that is what we should affirm.


[Str.] Well, fair sirs, we say to them, what is this participation, which you assert of both? Do you agree with our recent definition?


[Theaet.] What definition?


[Str.] We said that being was an active or passive energy, arising out of a certain power which proceeds from elements meeting with one another. Perhaps your cars, Theaetetus, may fail to catch their answer, which I recognize because I have been accustomed to hear it.


[Theaet.] And what is their answer?


[Str.] They deny the truth of what we were just now, saying to the aborigines about existence.


[Theaet.] What was that?


[Str.] Any power of doing or suffering in a degree however slight was held by us to be a sufficient definition of being?


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] They deny this, and say that the power of doing or suffering is confined to becoming, and that neither power is applicable to being.


[Theaet.] And is there not some truth in what they say?


[Str.] Yes; but our reply will be that we want to ascertain from them more distinctly, whether they further admit that the soul knows, and that being or essence is known.


[Theaet.] There can be no doubt that they say so.


[Str.] And is knowing and being known, doing or suffering, or both, or is the one doing and the other suffering, or has neither any share in either?


[Theaet.] Clearly, neither has any share in either; for if they say anything else, they will contradict themselves.


[Str.] I understand; but they will allow that if to know is active, then, of course, to be known is passive. And on this view being, in so far as it is known, is acted upon by knowledge, and is therefore in motion; for that which is in a state of rest cannot be acted upon, as we affirm.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And, O heavens, can we ever be made to believe that motion and life and soul and mind are not present with perfect being? Can we imagine that, being is devoid of life and mind, and exists in awful unmeaningness an everlasting fixture?


[Theaet.] That would be a dreadful thing to admit, Stranger.


[Str.] But shall we say that has mind and not life?


[Theaet.] How is that possible?


[Str.] Or shall we say that both inhere in perfect being, but that it has no soul which contains them?


[Theaet.] And in what other way can it contain them?


[Str.] Or that being has mind and life and soul, but although endowed with soul remains absolutely unmoved?


[Theaet.] All three suppositions appear to me to be irrational.


[Str.] Under being, then, we must include motion, and that which is moved.


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] Then, Theaetetus, our inference is, that if there is no motion, neither is there any mind anywhere, or about anything or belonging to any one.


[Theaet.] Quite true.


[Str.] And yet this equally follows, if we grant that all things are in motion-upon this view too mind has no existence.


[Theaet.] How so?


[Str.] Do you think that sameness of condition and mode and subject could ever exist without a principle of rest?


[Theaet.] Certainly not.


[Str.] Can you see how without them mind could exist, or come into existence anywhere?


[Theaet.] No.


[Str.] And surely contend we must in every possible way against him who would annihilate knowledge and reason and mind, and yet ventures to speak confidently about anything.


[Theaet.] Yes, with all our might.


[Str.] Then the philosopher, who has the truest reverence for these qualities, cannot possibly accept the notion of those who say that the whole is at rest, either as unity or in many forms: and he will be utterly deaf to those who assert universal motion. As children say entreatingly “Give us both.” so he will include both the moveable and immoveable in his definition of being and all.


[Theaet.] Most true.


[Str.] And now, do we seem to have gained a fair notion of being?


[Theaet.] Yes truly.


[Str.] Alas, Theaetetus, methinks that we are now only beginning to see the real difficulty of the enquiry into the nature of it.


[Theaet.] What do you mean?


[Str.] O my friend, do you not see that nothing can exceed out ignorance, and yet we fancy that we are saying something good?


[Theaet.] I certainly thought that we were; and I do not at all understand how we never found out our desperate case.


[Str.] Reflect: after having made, these admissions, may we not be justly asked, the same questions which we ourselves were asking of those who said that all was hot and cold?


[Theaet.] What were they? Will you recall them to my mind?


[Str.] To be sure, I will remind you of them, by putting the same questions, to you which I did to them, and then we shall get on.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] Would you not say that rest and motion are in the most entire opposition to one another?


[Theaet.] Of course.


[Str.] And yet you would say that both and either of them equally are?


[Theaet.] I should.


[Str.] And when you admit that both or either of them are, do you mean to say that both or either, of them are in motion?


[Theaet.] Certainly not.


[Str.] Or do you wish to imply that they are both at rest, when you say that they are?


[Theaet.] Of course not.


[Str.] Then you conceive of being as some third and distinct nature, under which rest and motion are alike included; and, observing that they both participate in being, you declare that they are.


[Theaet.] Truly we seem to have an intimation that being is some third thing, when we say that rest and motion are.


[Str.] Then being is not the combination of rest and motion, but something different from them.


[Theaet.] So it would appear.


[Str.] Being, then, according to its own nature, is neither in motion nor at rest.


[Theaet.] That is very much the truth.


[Str.] Where, then, is a man to look for help who would have any clear or fixed notion of being in his mind?


[Theaet.] Where, indeed?


[Str.] I scarcely think that he can look anywhere; for that which is not in motion must be at rest, and again, that which is not at rest must be in motion; but being is placed outside of both these classes. Is this possible?


[Theaet.] Utterly impossible.


[Str.] Here, then, is another thing which we ought to bear in mind.


[Theaet.] What?


[Str.] When we were asked to what we were to assign the appellation of not-being, we were in the greatest difficulty:-do you remember?


[Theaet.] To be sure.


[Str.] And are we not now in as a difficulty about being?


[Theaet.] I should say, Stranger, that we are in one which is, if possible, even greater.


[Str.] Then let us acknowledge the difficulty; and as being and not-being are involved in the same perplexity, there is hope that when the one appears more or less distinctly, the other will equally appear; and if we are able to see neither there may still be a chance of steering our way in between them, without any great discredit.


[Theaet.] Very good.


[Str.] Let us enquire, then, how we come to predicate many names of the same thing.


[Theaet.] Give an example.


[Str.] I mean that we speak of man, for example, under many names-that we attribute to him colours and forms and magnitudes and virtues and vices, in all of which instances and in ten thousand others we not only speak of him as a man, but also as good, and having number-less other attributes, and in the same way anything else which we originally supposed to be one is described by us as many, and under many names.


[Theaet.] That is true.


[Str.] And thus we provide a rich feast for tyros, whether young or old; for there is nothing easier than to argue that the one cannot be many, or the many one; and great is their delight in denying that a man is good; for man, they insist, is man and good is good. I dare say that you have met with persons who take-an interest in such matters-they are often elderly men, whose meagre sense is thrown into amazement by these discoveries of theirs, which they believe to be the height of wisdom.


[Theaet.] Certainly, I have.


[Str.] Then, not to exclude any one who has ever speculated at all upon the nature of being, let us put our questions to them as well as to our former friends.


[Theaet.] What questions?


[Str.] Shall we refuse to attribute being to motion and rest, or anything to anything, and assume that they do not mingle, and are incapable of participating in one another? Or shall we gather all into one class of things communicable with one another? Or are some things communicable and others not?-Which of these alternatives, Theaetetus, will they prefer?


[Theaet.] I have nothing to answer on their behalf. Suppose that you take all these hypotheses in turn, and see what are the consequences which follow from each of them.


[Str.] Very good, and first let us assume them to say that nothing is capable of participating in anything else in any respect; in that case rest and motion cannot participate in being at all.


[Theaet.] They cannot.


[Str.] But would either of them be if not participating in being?


[Theaet.] No.


[Str.] Then by this admission everything is instantly overturned, as well the doctrine of universal motion as of universal rest, and also the doctrine of those who distribute being into immutable and everlasting kinds; for all these add on a notion of being, some affirming that things “are” truly in motion, and others that they “are” truly at rest.


[Theaet.] Just so.


[Str.] Again, those who would at one time compound, and at another resolve all things, whether making them into one and out of one creating infinity, or dividing them into finite clements, and forming compounds out of these; whether they suppose the processes of creation to be successive or continuous, would be talking nonsense in all this if there were no admixture.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] Most ridiculous of all will the men themselves be who want to carry out the argument and yet forbid us to call anything, because participating in some affection from another, by the name of that other.


[Theaet.] Why so?


[Str.] Why, because they are compelled to use the words “to be,” “apart,” “from others. “in itself,” and ten thousand more, which they cannot give up, but must make the connecting links of discourse; and therefore they do not require to be refuted by others, but their enemy, as the saying is, inhabits the same house with them; they are always carrying about with them an adversary, like the wonderful ventriloquist, Eurycles, who out of their own bellies audibly contradicts them.


[Theaet.] Precisely so; a very true and exact illustration.


[Str.] And now, if we suppose that all things have the power of communion with one another -what will follow?


[Theaet.] Even I can solve that riddle.


[Str.] How?


[Theaet.] Why, because motion itself would be at rest, and rest again in motion, if they could be attributed to one another.


[Str.] But this is utterly impossible.


[Theaet.] Of course.


[Str.] Then only the third hypothesis remains.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] For, surely, either all things have communion with all; or nothing with any other thing; or some things communicate with some things and others not.


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] And two out of these three suppositions have been found to be impossible.


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] Every one then, who desires to answer truly, will adopt the third and remaining hypothesis of the communion of some with some.


[Theaet.] Quite true.


[Str.] This communion of some with some may be illustrated by the case of letters; for some letters do not fit each other, while others do.


[Theaet.] Of course.


[Str.] And the vowels, especially, are a sort of bond which pervades all the other letters, so that without a vowel one consonant cannot be joined to another.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] But does every one know what letters will unite with what? Or is art required in order to do so?


[Theaet.] What is required.


[Str.] What art?


[Theaet.] The art of grammar.


[Str.] And is not this also true of sounds high and low?-Is not he who has the art to know what sounds mingle, a musician, and he who is ignorant, not a musician?


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] And we shall find this to be generally true of art or the absence of art.


[Theaet.] Of course.


[Str.] And as classes are admitted by us in like manner to be some of them capable and others incapable of intermixture, must not he who would rightly show what kinds will unite and what will not, proceed by the help of science in the path of argument? And will he not ask if the connecting links are universal, and so capable of intermixture with all things; and again, in divisions, whether there are not other universal classes, which make them possible?


[Theaet.] To be sure he will require science, and, if I am not mistaken, the very greatest of all sciences.


[Str.] How are we to call it? By Zeus, have we not lighted unwittingly upon our free and noble science, and in looking for the Sophist have we not entertained the philosopher unawares?


[Theaet.] What do you mean?


[Str.] Should we not say that the division according to classes, which neither makes the same other, nor makes other the same, is the business of the dialectical science?


[Theaet.] That is what we should say.


[Str.] Then, surely, he who can divide rightly is able to see 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 and pervading many such wholes, and many forms, existing only in separation and isolation. This is the knowledge of classes which determines where they can have communion with one another and where not.


[Theaet.] Quite true.


[Str.] And the art of dialectic would be attributed by you only to the philosopher pure and true?


[Theaet.] Who but he can be worthy?


[Str.] In this region we shall always discover the philosopher, if we look for him; like the Sophist, he is not easily discovered, but for a different reason.


[Theaet.] For what reason?


[Str.] Because the Sophist runs away into the darkness of not-being, in which he has learned by habit to feel about, and cannot be discovered because of the darkness of the place. is not that true?


[Theaet.] It seems to be so.


[Str.] And the philosopher, always holding converse through reason with the idea of being, is also dark from excess of light; for the souls of the many have no eye which can endure the vision of the divine.


[Theaet.] Yes; that seems to be quite as true as the other.


[Str.] Well, the philosopher may hereafter be more fully considered by us, if we are disposed; but the Sophist must clearly not be allowed to escape until we have had a good look at him.


[Theaet.] Very good.


[Str.] Since, then, we are agreed that some classes have a communion with one another, and others not, and some have communion with a few and others with many, and that there is no reason why some should not have universal communion with all, let us now pursue the enquiry, as the argument suggests, not in relation to all ideas, lest the multitude of them should confuse us, but let us select a few of those which are reckoned to be the principal ones, and consider their several natures and their capacity of communion with one another, in order that if we are not able to apprehend with perfect clearness the notions of being and not-being, we may at least not fall short in the consideration of them, so far as they come within the scope of the present enquiry, if peradventure we may be allowed to assert the reality of not-being, and yet escape unscathed.


[Theaet.] We must do so.


[Str.] The most important of all the genera are those which we were just now mentioning-being and rest and motion.


[Theaet.] Yes, by far.


[Str.] And two of these are, as we affirm, incapable of communion with one another.


[Theaet.] Quite incapable.


[Str.] Whereas being surely has communion with both of them, for both of them are?


[Theaet.] Of course.


[Str.] That makes up three of them.


[Theaet.] To be sure.


[Str.] And each of them is other than the remaining two, but the same with itself.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] But then, what is the meaning of these two words, “same” and “other”? Are they two new kinds other than the three, and yet always of necessity intermingling with them, and are we to have five kinds instead of three; or when we speak of the same and other, are we unconsciously speaking of one of the three first kinds?


[Theaet.] Very likely we are.


[Str.] But, surely, motion and rest are neither the other nor the same.


[Theaet.] How is that?


[Str.] Whatever we attribute to motion and rest in common, cannot be either of them.


[Theaet.] Why not?


[Str.] Because motion would be at rest and rest in motion, for either of them, being predicated of both, will compel the other to change into the opposite of its own nature, because partaking of its opposite.


[Theaet.] Quite true.


[Str.] Yet they surely both partake of the same and of the other?


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] Then we must not assert that motion, any more than rest, is either the same or the other.


[Theaet.] No; we must not.


[Str.] But are we to conceive that being and the same are identical?


[Theaet.] Possibly.


[Str.] But if they are identical, then again in saying that motion and rest have being, we should also be saying that they are the same.


[Theaet.] Which surely cannot be.


[Str.] Then being and same cannot be one.


[Theaet.] Scarcely.


[Str.] Then we may suppose the same to be a fourth class, which is now to be added to the three others.


[Theaet.] Quite true.


[Str.] And shall we call the other a fifth class? Or should we consider being and other to be two names of the same class?


[Theaet.] Very likely.


[Str.] But you would agree, if I am not mistaken, that existences are relative as well as absolute?


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] And the other is always relative to other?


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] But this would not be the case unless being and the other entirely differed; for, if the other, like being, were absolute as well as relative, then there would have been a kind of other which was not other than other. And now we find that what is other must of necessity be what it is in relation to some other.


[Theaet.] That is the true state of the case.


[Str.] Then we must admit the other as the fifth of our selected classes.


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] And the fifth class pervades all classes, for they all differ from one another, not by reason of their own nature, but because they partake of the idea of the other.


[Theaet.] Quite true.


[Str.] Then let us now put the case with reference to each of the five.


[Theaet.] How?


[Str.] First there is motion, which we affirm to be absolutely “other” than rest: what else can we say?


[Theaet.] It is so.


[Str.] And therefore is not rest.


[Theaet.] Certainly not.


[Str.] And yet is, because partaking of being.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] Again, motion is other than the same?


[Theaet.] Just so.


[Str.] And is therefore not the same.


[Theaet.] It is not.


[Str.] Yet, surely, motion is the same, because all things partake of the same.


[Theaet.] Very true.


[Str.] Then we must admit, and not object to say, that motion is the same and is not the same, for we do not apply the terms “same” and “not the same,” in the same sense; but we call it the “same,” in relation to itself, because partaking of the same; and not the same, because having communion with the other, it is thereby severed from the same, and has become not that but other, and is therefore rightly spoken of as “not the same.”


[Theaet.] To be sure.


[Str.] And if absolute motion in any point of view partook of rest, there would be no absurdity in calling motion stationary.


[Theaet.] Quite right, -that is, on the supposition that some classes mingle with one another, and others not.


[Str.] That such a communion of kinds is according to nature, we had already proved before we arrived at this part of our discussion.


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] Let us proceed, then. we not say that motion is other than the other, having been also proved by us to be other than the same and other than rest?


[Theaet.] That is certain.


[Str.] Then, according to this view, motion is other and also not other?


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] What is the next step? Shall we say that motion is other than the three and not other than the fourth-for we agreed that there are five classes about and in the sphere of which we proposed to make enquiry?


[Theaet.] Surely we cannot admit that the number is less than it appeared to be just now.


[Str.] Then we may without fear contend that motion is other than being?


[Theaet.] Without the least fear.


[Str.] The plain result is that motion, since it partakes of being, really is and also is not?


[Theaet.] Nothing can be plainer.


[Str.] Then not-being necessarily exists in the case of motion and of every class; for the nature of the other entering into them all, makes each of them other than being, and so non-existent; and therefore of all of them, in like manner, we may truly say that they are not-and again, inasmuch as they partake of being, that they are and are existent.


[Theaet.] So we may assume.


[Str.] Every class, then, has plurality of being and infinity of not-being.


[Theaet.] So we must infer.


[Str.] And being itself may be said to be other than the other kinds.


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] Then we may infer that being is not, in respect of as many other things as there are; for not-being these it is itself one, and is: not the other things, which are infinite in number.


[Theaet.] That is not far from the truth.


[Str.] And we must not quarrel with this result, since it is of the nature of classes to have communion with one another; and if any one denies our present statement [viz., that being is not, etc.], let him first argue with our former conclusion [i.e., respecting the communion of ideas], and then he may proceed to argue with what follows.


[Theaet.] Nothing can be fairer.


[Str.] Let me ask you to consider a further question.


[Theaet.] What question?


[Str.] When we speak of not-being, we speak, I suppose, not of something opposed to being, but only different.


[Theaet.] What do you mean?


[Str.] When we speak of something as not great, does the expression seem to you to imply what is little any more than what is equal?


[Theaet.] Certainly not.


[Str.] The negative particles, ou and me, when prefixed to words, do not imply opposition, but only difference from the words, or more correctly from the things represented by the words, which follow them.


[Theaet.] Quite true.


[Str.] There is another point to be considered, if you do not object.


[Theaet.] What is it?


[Str.] The nature of the other appears to me to be divided into fractions like knowledge.


[Theaet.] How so?


[Str.] Knowledge, like the other, is one; and yet the various parts of knowledge have each of them their own particular name, and hence there are many arts and kinds of knowledge.


[Theaet.] Quite true.


[Str.] And is not the case the same with the parts of the other, which is also one?


[Theaet.] Very likely; but will you tell me how?


[Str.] There is some part of the other which is opposed to the beautiful?


[Theaet.] There is.


[Str.] Shall we say that this has or has not a name?


[Theaet.] It has; for whatever we call not beautiful is other than the beautiful, not than something else.


[Str.] And now tell me another thing.


[Theaet.] What?


[Str.] Is the not-beautiful anything but this-an existence parted off from a certain kind of existence, and again from another point of view opposed to an existing something?


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] Then the not-beautiful turns out to be the opposition of being to being?


[Theaet.] Very true.


[Str.] But upon this view, is the beautiful a more real and the not-beautiful a less real existence?


[Theaet.] Not at all.


[Str.] And the not-great may be said to exist, equally with the great?


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] And, in the same way, the just must be placed in the same category with the not-just the one cannot be said to have any more existence than the other.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] The same may be said of other things; seeing that the nature of the other has a real existence, the parts of this nature must equally be supposed to exist.


[Theaet.] Of course.


[Str.] Then, as would appear, the opposition of a part of the other, and of a part of being, to one another, is, if I may venture to say so, as truly essence as being itself, and implies not the opposite of being, but only what is other than being.


[Theaet.] Beyond question.


[Str.] What then shall we call it?


[Theaet.] Clearly, not-being; and this is the very nature for which the Sophist compelled us to search.


[Str.] And has not this, as you were saying, as real an existence as any other class? May I not say with confidence that not-being has an assured 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 manner not-being has been found to be and is not-being, and is to be reckoned one among the many classes of being. Do you, Theaetetus, still feel any doubt of this?


[Theaet.] None whatever.


[Str.] Do you observe that our scepticism has carried us beyond the range of Parmenides’ prohibition?


[Theaet.] In what?


[Str.] We have advanced to a further point, and shown him more than he for bad us to investigate.


[Theaet.] How is that?


[Str.] Why, because he says- Not-being never is, and do thou keep thy thoughts from this way of enquiry.


[Theaet.] Yes, he says so.


[Str.] Whereas, we have not only proved that things which are not are, but we have shown what form of being not-being is; for we have shown that the nature of the other is, and is distributed over all things in their relations to one another, and whatever part of the other is contrasted with being, this is precisely what we have ventured to call not-being.


[Theaet.] And surely, Stranger, we were quite right.


[Str.] Let not any one say, then, that while affirming the opposition of not-being to being, we still assert the being of not-being; for as to whether there is an opposite of being, to that enquiry we have long said good-bye-it may or may not be, and may or may not be capable of definition. But as touching our present account of not-being, let a man either convince us of error, or, so long as he cannot, he too must say, as we are saying, that there is a communion of classes, and that being, and difference or other, traverse all things and mutually interpenetrate, so that the other partakes of being, and by reason of this participation is, and yet is not that of which it partakes, but other, and being other than being, it is clearly a necessity that not-being should be. again, being, through partaking of the other, becomes a class other than the remaining classes, and being other than all of them, is not each one of them, and is not all the rest, so that undoubtedly there are thousands upon thousands of cases in which being is not, and all other things, whether regarded individually or collectively, in many respects are, and in many respects are not.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And he who is sceptical of this contradiction, must think how he can find something better to say; or if. he sees a puzzle, and his pleasure is to drag words this way and that, the argument will prove to him, that he is not making a worthy use of his faculties; for there is no charm in such puzzles, and there is no difficulty in detecting them; but we can tell him of something else the pursuit of which is noble and also difficult.


[Theaet.] What is it?


[Str.] A thing of which I have already spoken;-letting alone these puzzles as involving no difficulty, he should be able to follow, and criticize in detail every argument, and when a man says that the same is in a manner other, or that other is the same, to understand and refute him from his own point of view, and in the same respect in which he asserts either of these affections. But to show that somehow and in some sense the same is other, or the other same, or the great small, or the like unlike; and to delight in always bringing forward such contradictions, is no real refutation, but is clearly the new-born babe of some one who is only beginning to approach the problem of being.


[Theaet.] To be sure.


[Str.] For certainly, my friend, the attempt to separate all existences from one another is a barbarism and utterly unworthy of an educated or philosophical mind.


[Theaet.] Why so?


[Str.] The attempt at universal separation is the final annihilation of all reasoning; for only by the union of conceptions with one another do we attain to discourse of reason.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And, observe that we were only just in time in making a resistance to such separatists, and compelling them to admit that one thing mingles with another.


[Theaet.] Why so?


[Str.] Why, that we might be able to assert discourse to be a kind of being; for if we could not, the worst of all consequences would follow; we should have no philosophy. Moreover, the necessity for determining the nature of discourse presses upon us at this moment; if utterly deprived of it, we could no more hold discourse; and deprived of it we should be if we admitted that there was no admixture of natures at all.


[Theaet.] Very true. But I do not understand why at this moment we must determine the nature of discourse.


[Str.] Perhaps you will see more clearly by the help of the following explanation.


[Theaet.] What explanation?


[Str.] Not-being has been acknowledged by us to be one among many classes diffused over all being.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And thence arises the question, whether not-being mingles with opinion and language.


[Theaet.] How so?


[Str.] If not-being has no part in the proposition, then all things must be true; but if not-being has a part, then false opinion and false speech are possible, for. think or to say what is not-is falsehood, which thus arises in the region of thought and in speech.


[Theaet.] That is quite true.


[Str.] And where there is falsehood surely there must be deceit.


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] And if there is deceit, then all things must be full of idols and images and fancies.


[Theaet.] To be sure.


[Str.] Into that region the Sophist, as we said, made his escape, and, when he had got there, denied the very possibility of falsehood; no one, he argued, either conceived or uttered falsehood, inasmuch as not-being did not in any way partake of being.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And now, not-being has been shown to partake of being, and therefore he will not continue fighting in this direction, but he will probably say that some ideas partake of not-being, and some not, and that language and opinion are of the non-partaking class; and he will still fight to the death against the existence of the image-making and phantastic art, in which we have placed him, because, as he will say, opinion and language do not partake of not-being, and unless this participation exists, there can be no such thing as falsehood. And, with the view of meeting this evasion, we must begin by enquiring into the nature of language, opinion, and imagination, in order that when we find them we may find also that they have communion with not-being, and, having made out the connection of them, may thus prove that falsehood exists; and therein we will imprison the Sophist, if he deserves it, or, if not, we will let him go again and look for him in another class.


[Theaet.] Certainly, Stranger, there appears to be truth in what was said about the Sophist at first, that he was of a class not easily caught, for he seems to have abundance of defences, which he throws up, and which must every one of them be stormed before we can reach the man himself. And even now, we have with difficulty got through his first defence, which is the not-being of not-being, and lo! here is another; for we have still to show that falsehood exists in the sphere of language and opinion, and there will be another and another line of defence without end.


[Str.] Any one, Theaetetus, who is able to advance even a little ought to be of good cheer, for what would he who is dispirited at a little progress do, if he were making none at all, or even undergoing a repulse? Such a faint heart, as the proverb says, will never take a city: but now that we have succeeded thus far, the citadel is ours, and what remains is easier.


[Theaet.] Very true.


[Str.] Then, as I was saying, let us first of all obtain a conception of language and opinion, in order that we may have clearer grounds for determining, whether not-being has any concern with them, or whether they are both always true, and neither of them ever false.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] Then, now, let us speak of names, as before we were speaking of ideas and letters; for that is the direction in which the answer may be expected.


[Theaet.] And what is the question at issue about names?


[Str.] The question at issue is whether all names may be connected with one another, or none, or only some of them.


[Theaet.] Clearly the last is true.


[Str.] I understand you to say that words which have a meaning when in sequence may be connected, but that words which have no meaning when in sequence cannot be connected?


[Theaet.] What are you saying?


[Str.] What I thought that you intended when you gave your assent; for there are two sorts of intimation of being which are given by the voice.


[Theaet.] What are they?


[Str.] One of them is called nouns, and the other verbs.


[Theaet.] Describe them.


[Str.] That which denotes action we call a verb.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And the other, which is an articulate mark set on those who do the actions, we call a noun.


[Theaet.] Quite true.


[Str.] A succession of nouns only is not a sentence any more than of verbs without nouns.


[Theaet.] I do not understand you.


[Str.] I see that when you gave your assent you had something else in your mind. But what I intended to say was, that a mere succession of nouns or of verbs is not discourse.


[Theaet.] What do you mean?


[Str.] I mean that words like “walks,” “runs,” “sleeps,” or any other words which denote action, however many of them you string together, do not make discourse.


[Theaet.] How can they?


[Str.] Or, again, when you say “lion,” “stag,” “horse,” or any other words which denote agents -neither in this way of stringing words together do you attain to discourse; for there is no expression of action or inaction, or of the existence of existence or non-existence indicated by the sounds, until verbs are mingled with nouns; then the words fit, and the smallest combination of them forms language, and is the simplest and least form of discourse.


[Theaet.] Again I ask, What do you mean?


[Str.] When any one says “A man learns,” should you not call this the simplest and least of sentences?


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] Yes, for he now arrives at the point of giving an intimation about something which is, or is becoming, or has become, or will be. And he not only names, but he does something, by connecting verbs with nouns; and therefore we say that he discourses, and to this connection of words we give the name of discourse.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And as there are some things which fit one another, and other things which do not fit, so there are some vocal signs which do, and others which do not, combine and form discourse.


[Theaet.] Quite true.


[Str.] There is another small matter.


[Theaet.] What is it?


[Str.] A sentence must and cannot help having a subject.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And must be of a certain quality.


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] And now let us mind what we are about.


[Theaet.] We must do so.


[Str.] I will repeat a sentence to you in which a thing and an action are combined, by the help of a noun and a verb; and you shall tell me of whom the sentence speaks.


[Theaet.] I will, to the best my power.


[Str.] “Theaetetus sits”-not a very long sentence.


[Theaet.] Not very.


[Str.] Of whom does the sentence speak, and who is the subject that is what you have to tell.


[Theaet.] Of me; I am the subject.


[Str.] Or this sentence, again-


[Theaet.] What sentence?


[Str.] “Theaetetus, with whom I am now speaking, is flying.”


[Theaet.] That also is a sentence which will be admitted by every one to speak of me, and to apply to me.


[Str.] We agreed that every sentence must necessarily have a certain quality.


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] And what is the quality of each of these two sentences?


[Theaet.] The one, as I imagine, is false, and the other true.


[Str.] The true says what is true about you?


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] And the false says what is other than true?


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] And therefore speaks of things which are not as if they were?


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And say that things are real of you which are not; for, as we were saying, in regard to each thing or person, there is much that is and much that is not.


[Theaet.] Quite true.


[Str.] The second of the two sentences which related to you was first of all an example of the shortest form consistent with our definition.


[Theaet.] Yes, this was implied in recent admission.


[Str.] And, in the second place, it related to a subject?


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] Who must be you, and can be nobody else?


[Theaet.] Unquestionably.


[Str.] And it would be no sentence at all if there were no subject, for, as we proved, a sentence which has no subject is impossible.


[Theaet.] Quite true.


[Str.] When other, then, is asserted of you as the same, and not-being as being, such a combination of nouns and verbs is really and truly false discourse.


[Theaet.] Most true.


[Str.] And therefore thought, opinion, and imagination are now proved to exist in our minds both as true and false.


[Theaet.] How so?


[Str.] You will know better if you first gain a knowledge of what they are, and in what they severally differ from one another.


[Theaet.] Give me the knowledge which you would wish me to gain.


[Str.] Are not thought and speech the same, with this exception, that what is called thought is the unuttered conversation of the soul with herself?


[Theaet.] Quite true.


[Str.] But the stream of thought which flows through the lips and is audible is called speech?


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And we know that there exists in speech…


[Theaet.] What exists?


[Str.] Affirmation.


[Theaet.] Yes, we know it.


[Str.] When the affirmation or denial takes Place in silence and in the mind only, have you any other name by which to call it but opinion?


[Theaet.] There can be no other name.


[Str.] And when opinion is presented, not simply, but in some form of sense, would you not call it imagination?


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] And seeing that language is true and false, and that thought is the conversation of the soul with herself, and opinion is the end of thinking, and imagination or phantasy is the union of sense and opinion, the inference is that some of them, since they are akin to language, should have an element of falsehood as well as of truth?


[Theaet.] Certainly.


[Str.] Do you perceive, then, that false opinion and speech have been discovered sooner than we expected?-For just now we seemed to be undertaking a task which would never be accomplished.


[Theaet.] I perceive.


[Str.] Then let us not be discouraged about the future; but now having made this discovery, let us go back to our previous classification.


[Theaet.] What classification?


[Str.] We divided image-making into two sorts; the one likeness-making, the other imaginative or phantastic.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And we said that we were uncertain in which we should place the Sophist.


[Theaet.] We did say so.


[Str.] And our heads began to go round more and more when it was asserted that there is no such thing as an image or idol or appearance, because in no manner or time or place can there ever be such a thing as falsehood.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And now, since there has been shown to be false speech and false opinion, there may be imitations of real existences, and out of this condition of the mind an art of deception may arise.


[Theaet.] Quite possible.


[Str.] And we have: already admitted, in what preceded, that the Sophist was lurking in one of the divisions of the likeness-making art?


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] Let us, then, renew the attempt, and in dividing any class, always take the part to the right, holding fast to that which holds the Sophist, until we have stripped him of all his common properties, and reached his difference or peculiar. Then we may exhibit him in his true nature, first to ourselves and then to kindred dialectical spirits.


[Theaet.] Very good.


[Str.] You may remember that all art was originally divided by us into creative and acquisitive.


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] And the Sophist was flitting before us in the acquisitive class, in the subdivisions of hunting, contests, merchandise, and the like.


[Theaet.] Very true.


[Str.] But now that the imitative art has enclosed him, it is clear that we must begin by dividing the art of creation; for imitation is a kind of creation of images, however, as we affirm, and not of real things.


[Theaet.] Quite true.


[Str.] In the first place, there are two kinds of creation.


[Theaet.] What are they?


[Str.] One of them is human and the other divine.


[Theaet.] I do not follow.


[Str.] Every power, as you may remember our saying originally, which causes things to exist, not previously existing, was defined by us as creative.


[Theaet.] I remember.


[Str.] Looking, now, at the world and all the animals and plants, at things which grow upon the earth from seeds and roots, as well as at inanimate substances which are formed within the earth, fusile or non-fusile, shall we say that they come into existence-not having existed previously-by the creation of God, or shall we agree with vulgar opinion about them?


[Theaet.] What is it?


[Str.] The opinion that nature brings them into being from some spontaneous and unintelligent cause. Or shall we say that they are created by a divine reason and a knowledge which comes from God?


[Theaet.] I dare say that, owing to my youth, I may often waver in my view, but now when I look at you and see that you incline to refer them to God, I defer to your authority.


[Str.] Nobly said, Theaetetus, and if I thought that you were one of those who would hereafter change your mind, I would have gently argued with you, and forced you to assent; but as I perceive that you will come of yourself and without any argument of mine, to that belief which, as you say, attracts you, I will not forestall the work of time. Let me suppose then, that things which are said to be made by nature are the work of divine art, and that things which are made by man out of these are work of human art. And so there are two kinds of making and production, the one human and the other divine.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] Then, now, subdivide each of the two sections which we have already.


[Theaet.] How do you mean?


[Str.] I mean to say that you should make a vertical division of production or invention, as you have already made a lateral one.


[Theaet.] I have done so.


[Str.] Then, now, there are in all four parts or segments-two of them have reference to us and are human, and two of them have reference to the gods and are divine.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And, again, in the division which was supposed to be made in the other way, one part in each subdivision is the making of the things themselves, but the two remaining parts may be called the making of likenesses; and so the productive art is again divided into two parts.


[Theaet.] Tell me the divisions once more.


[Str.] I suppose that we, and the other animals, and the elements out of which things are made-fire, water, and the like-are known by us to be each and all the creation and work of God.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] And there are images of them, which are not them, but which correspond to them; and these are also the creation of a wonderful skill.


[Theaet.] What are they?


[Str.] The appearances which spring up of themselves in sleep or by day, such as a shadow when darkness arises in a fire, or the reflection which is produced when the light in bright and smooth objects meets on their surface with an external light, and creates a perception the opposite of our ordinary sight.


[Theaet.] Yes; and the images as well as the creation are equally the work of a divine hand.


[Str.] And what shall we say of human art? Do we not make one house by the art of building, and another by the art of drawing, which is a sort of dream created by man for those who are awake?


[Theaet.] Quite true.


[Str.] And other products of human creation are twofold and go in pairs; there is the thing, with which the art of making the thing is concerned, and the image, with which imitation is concerned.


[Theaet.] Now I begin to understand, and am ready to acknowledge that there are two kinds of production, and each of them two fold; in the lateral division there is both a divine and a human production; in the vertical there are realities and a creation of a kind of similitudes.


[Str.] And let us not forget that of the imitative class the one part to have been likeness making, and the other phantastic, if it could be shown that falsehood is a reality and belongs to the class of real being.


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] And this appeared to be the case; and therefore now, without hesitation, we shall number the different kinds as two.


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] Then, now, let us again divide the phantastic art.


[Theaet.] Where shall we make the division?


[Str.] There is one kind which is produced by an instrument, and another in which the creator of the appearance is himself the instrument.


[Theaet.] What do you mean?


[Str.] When any one makes himself appear like another in his figure or his voice, imitation is the name for this part of the phantastic art.


[Theaet.] Yes.


[Str.] Let this, then, be named the art of mimicry, and this the province assigned to it; as for the other division, we are weary and will give that up, leaving to some one else the duty of making the class and giving it a suitable name.


[Theaet.] Let us do as you say-assign a sphere to the one and leave the other.


[Str.] There is a further distinction, Theaetetus, which is worthy of our consideration, and for a reason which I will tell you.


[Theaet.] Let me hear.


[Str.] There are some who imitate, knowing what they imitate, and some who do not know. And what line of distinction can there possibly be greater than that which divides ignorance from knowledge?


[Theaet.] There can be no greater.


[Str.] Was not the sort of imitation of which we spoke just now the imitation of those who know? For he who would imitate you would surely know you and your figure?


[Theaet.] Naturally.


[Str.] And what would you say of the figure or form of justice or of virtue in general? Are we not well aware that many, having no knowledge of either, but only a sort of opinion, do their best to show that this opinion is really entertained by them, by expressing it, as far as they can, in word and deed?


[Theaet.] Yes, that is very common.


[Str.] And do they always fail in their attempt to be thought just, when they are not? Or is not the very opposite true?


[Theaet.] The very opposite.


[Str.] Such a one, then, should be described as an imitator-to be distinguished from the other, as he who is ignorant is distinguished from him who knows?


[Theaet.] True.


[Str.] Can we find a suitable name for each of them? This is clearly not an easy task; for among the ancients there was some confusion of ideas, which prevented them from attempting to divide genera into species; wherefore there is no great abundance of names. Yet, for the sake of distinctness, I will make bold to call the imitation which coexists with opinion, the imitation of appearance-that which coexists with science, a scientific or learned imitation.


[Theaet.] Granted.


[Str.] The former is our present concern, for the Sophist was classed with imitators indeed, but not among those who have knowledge.


[Theaet.] Very true.


[Str.] Let us, then, examine our imitator of appearance, and see whether he is sound, like a piece of iron, or whether there is still some crack in him.


[Theaet.] Let us examine him.


[Str.] Indeed there is a very considerable crack; for if you look, you find that one of the two classes of imitators is a simple creature, who thinks that he knows that which he only fancies; the other sort has knocked about among arguments, until he suspects and fears that he is ignorant of that which to the many he pretends to know.


[Theaet.] There are certainly the two kinds which you describe.


[Str.] Shall we regard one as the simple imitator-the other as the dissembling or ironical imitator?


[Theaet.] Very good.


[Str.] And shall we further speak of this latter class as having one or two divisions?


[Theaet.] Answer yourself.


[Str.] Upon consideration, then, there appear to me to be two; there is the dissembler, who harangues a multitude in public in a long speech, and the dissembler, who in private and in short speeches compels the person who is conversing with him to contradict himself.


[Theaet.] What you say is most true.


[Str.] And who is the maker of the longer speeches? Is he the statesman or the popular orator?


[Theaet.] The latter.


[Str.] And what shall we call the other? Is he the philosopher or the Sophist?


[Theaet.] The philosopher he cannot be, for upon our view he is ignorant; but since he is an imitator of the wise he will have a name which is formed by an adaptation of the word sothos. What shall we name him? I am pretty sure that I cannot be mistaken in terming him the true and very Sophist.


[Str.] Shall we bind up his name as we did before, making a chain from one end of his genealogy to the other?


[Theaet.] By all means.


[Str.] He, then, who traces the pedigree of his art as follows-who, belonging to the conscious or dissembling section of the art of causing self-contradiction, is an imitator of appearance, and is separated from the class of phantastic which is a branch of image-making into that further division of creation, the juggling of words, a creation human, and not divine-any one who affirms the real Sophist to be of this blood and lineage will say the very truth.


[Theaet.] Undoubtedly.



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Theaetetus – a Dialogue by Plato

01 Monday Jun 2009

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in BC, Greek, Philosophy, Plato

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Plato  [image by Leonardo da Vinci]


Theaetetus
by Plato
translated by Benjamin Jowett


Persons of the Dialogue:


SOCRATES;
THEODORUS;
THEAETETUS


Euclid and Terpsion meet in front of Euclid’s house in Megara; they enter the house, and the dialogue is read to them by a servant.


[Euclid.] Have you only just arrived from the country, Terpsion?

[Terpsion.] No, I came some time ago: and I have been in the Agora looking for you, and wondering that I could not find you.

[Euc.] But I was not in the city.

[Terp.] Where then?

[Euc.] As I was going down to the harbour, I met Theaetetus-he was being carried up to Athens from the army at Corinth.

[Terp.] Was he alive or dead?

[Euc.] He was scarcely alive, for he has been badly wounded; but he was suffering even more from the sickness which has broken out in the army.

[Terp.] The dysentery, you mean?

[Euc.] Yes.

[Terp.] Alas! what a loss he will be!

[Euc.] Yes, Terpsion, he is a noble fellow; only to-day I heard some people highly praising his behaviour in this very battle.

[Terp.] No wonder; I should rather be surprised at hearing anything else of him. But why did he go on, instead of stopping at Megara?

[Euc.] He wanted to get home: although I entreated and advised him to remain he would not listen to me; so I set him on his way, and turned back, and then I remembered what Socrates had said of him, and thought how remarkably this, like all his predictions, had been fulfilled. I believe that he had seen him a little before his own death, when Theaetetus was a youth, and he had a memorable conversation with him, which he repeated to me when I came to Athens; he was full of admiration of his genius, and said that he would most certainly be a great man, if he lived.

[Terp.] The prophecy has certainly been fulfilled; but what was the conversation? can you tell me?

[Euc.] No, indeed, not offhand; but I took notes of it as soon as I got home; these I filled up from memory, writing them out at leisure; and whenever I went to Athens, I asked Socrates about any point which I had forgotten, and on my return I made corrections; thus I have nearly the whole conversation written down.

[Terp.] I remember-you told me; and I have always been intending to ask you to show me the writing, but have put off doing so; and now, why should we not read it through?-having just come from the country, I should greatly like to rest.

[Euc.] I too shall be very glad of a rest, for I went with Theaetetus as far as Erineum. Let us go in, then, and, while we are reposing, the servant shall read to us.

[Terp.] Very good.

[Euc.] Here is the roll, Terpsion; I may observe that I have introduced Socrates, not as narrating to me, but as actually conversing with the persons whom he mentioned-these were, Theodorus the geometrician (of Cyrene), and Theaetetus. I have omitted, for the sake of convenience, the interlocutory words “I said,” “I remarked,” which he used when he spoke of himself, and again, “he agreed,” or “disagreed,” in the answer, lest the repetition of them should be troublesome.

[Terp.] Quite right, Euclid.

[Euc.] And now, boy, you may take the roll and read.

Euclid’s servant reads.

[Socrates.] If I cared enough about the Cyrenians, Theodorus, I would ask you whether there are any rising geometricians or philosophers in that part of the world. But I am more interested in our own Athenian youth, and I would rather know who among them are likely to do well. I observe them as far as I can myself, and I enquire of any one whom they follow, and I see that a great many of them follow you, in which they are quite right, considering your eminence in geometry and in other ways. Tell me then, if you have met with any one who is good for anything.

[Theodorus.] Yes, Socrates, I have become acquainted with one very remarkable Athenian youth, whom I commend to you as well worthy of your attention. If he had been a beauty I should have been afraid to praise him, lest you should suppose that I was in love with him; but he is no beauty, and you must not be offended if I say that he is very like you; for he has a snub nose and projecting eyes, although these features are less marked in him than in you. Seeing, then, that he has no personal attractions, I may freely say, that in all my acquaintance, which is very large, I never knew anyone who was his equal in natural gifts: for he has a quickness of apprehension which is almost unrivalled, and he is exceedingly gentle, and also the most courageous of men; there is a union of qualities in him such as I have never seen in any other, and should scarcely have thought possible; for those who, like him, have quick and ready and retentive wits, have generally also quick tempers; they are ships without ballast, and go darting about, and are mad rather than courageous; and the steadier sort, when they have to face study, prove stupid and cannot remember. Whereas he moves surely and smoothly and successfully in the path of knowledge and enquiry; and he is full of gentleness, flowing on silently like a river of oil; at his age, it is wonderful.

[Soc.] That is good news; whose son is he?

[Theod.] The name of his father I have forgotten, but the youth himself is the middle one of those who are approaching us; he and his companions have been anointing themselves in the outer court, and now they seem to have finished, and are towards us. Look and see whether you know him.

[Soc.] I know the youth, but I do not know his name; he is the son of Euphronius the Sunian, who was himself an eminent man, and such another as his son is, according to your account of him; I believe that he left a considerable fortune.

[Theod.] Theaetetus, Socrates, is his name; but I rather think that the property disappeared in the hands of trustees; notwithstanding which he is wonderfully liberal.

[Soc.] He must be a fine fellow; tell him to come and sit by me.

[Theod.] I will. Come hither, Theaetetus, and sit by Socrates.

[Soc.] By all means, Theaetetus, in order that I may see the reflection of myself in your face, for Theodorus says that we are alike; and yet if each of us held in his hands a lyre, and he said that they were, tuned alike, should we at once take his word, or should we ask whether he who said so was or was not a musician?

Theaetetus. We should ask.

[Soc.] And if we found that he was, we should take his word; and if not, not?

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] And if this supposed, likeness of our faces is a matter of any interest to us we should enquire whether he who says that we are alike is a painter or not?

[Theaet.] Certainly we should.

[Soc.] And is Theodorus a painter?

[Theaet.] I never heard that he was.

[Soc.] Is he a geometrician?

[Theaet.] Of course he is, Socrates.

[Soc.] And is he an astronomer and calculator and musician, and in general an educated man?

[Theaet.] I think so.

[Soc.] If, then, he remarks on a similarity in our persons, either by way of praise or blame, there is no particular reason why we should attend to him.

[Theaet.] I should say not.

[Soc.] But if he praises the virtue or wisdom which are the mental endowments of either of us, then he who hears the praises will naturally desire to examine him who is praised: and he again should be willing to exhibit himself.

[Theaet.] Very true, Socrates.

[Soc.] Then now is the time, my dear Theaetetus, for me to examine, and for you to exhibit; since although Theodorus has praised many a citizen and stranger in my hearing, never did I hear him praise any one as he has been praising you.

[Theaet.] I am glad to hear it, Socrates; but what if he was only in jest?

[Soc.] Nay, Theodorus is not given to jesting; and I cannot allow you to retract your consent on any such pretence as that. If you do, he will have to swear to his words; and we are perfectly sure that no one will be found to impugn him. Do not be shy then, but stand to your word.

[Theaet.] I suppose I must, if you wish it.

[Soc.] In the first place, I should like to ask what you learn of Theodorus: something of geometry, perhaps?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] And astronomy and harmony and calculation?

[Theaet.] I do my best.

[Soc.] Yes, my boy, and so do I: and my desire is to learn of him, or of anybody who seems to understand these things. And I get on pretty well in general; but there is a little difficulty which I want you and the company to aid me in investigating. Will you answer me a question: “Is not learning growing wiser about that which you learn?”

[Theaet.] Of course.

[Soc.] And by wisdom the wise are wise?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] And is that different in any way from knowledge?

[Theaet.] What?

[Soc.] Wisdom; are not men wise in that which they know?

[Theaet.] Certainly they are.

[Soc.] Then wisdom and knowledge are the same?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] Herein lies the difficulty which I can never solve to my satisfaction-What is knowledge? Can we answer that question? What say you? which of us will speak first? whoever misses shall sit down, as at a game of ball, and shall be donkey, as the boys say; he who lasts out his competitors in the game without missing, shall be our king, and shall have the right of putting to us any questions which he pleases. .. Why is there no reply? I hope, Theodorus, that I am not betrayed into rudeness by my love of conversation? I only want to make us talk and be friendly and sociable.

[Theod.] The reverse of rudeness, Socrates: but I would rather that you would ask one of the young fellows; for the truth is, that I am unused to your game of question and answer, and I am too old to learn; the young will be more suitable, and they will improve more than I shall, for youth is always able to improve. And so having made a beginning with Theaetetus, I would advise you to go on with him and not let him off.

[Soc.] Do you hear, Theaetetus, what Theodorus says? The philosopher, whom you would not like to disobey, and whose word ought to be a command to a young man, bids me interrogate you. Take courage, then, and nobly say what you think that knowledge is.

[Theaet.] Well, Socrates, I will answer as you and he bid me; and if make a mistake, you will doubtless correct me.

[Soc.] We will, if we can.

[Theaet.] Then, I think that the sciences which I learn from Theodorus — geometry, and those which you just now mentioned-are knowledge; and I would include the art of the cobbler and other craftsmen; these, each and all of, them, are knowledge.

[Soc.] Too much, Theaetetus, too much; the nobility and liberality of your nature make you give many and diverse things, when I am asking for one simple thing.

[Theaet.] What do you mean, Socrates?

[Soc.] Perhaps nothing. I will endeavour, however, to explain what I believe to be my meaning: When you speak of cobbling, you mean the art or science of making shoes?

[Theaet.] Just so.

[Soc.] And when you speak of carpentering, you mean the art of making wooden implements?

[Theaet.] I do.

[Soc.] In both cases you define the subject matter of each of the two arts?

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] But that, Theaetetus, was not the point of my question: we wanted to know not the subjects, nor yet the number of the arts or sciences, for we were not going to count them, but we wanted to know the nature of knowledge in the abstract. Am I not right?

[Theaet.] Perfectly right.

[Soc.] Let me offer an illustration: Suppose that a person were to ask about some very trivial and obvious thing-for example, What is clay? and we were to reply, that there is a clay of potters, there is a clay of oven-makers, there is a clay of brick-makers; would not the answer be ridiculous?

[Theaet.] Truly.

[Soc.] In the first place, there would be an absurdity in assuming that he who asked the question would understand from our answer the nature of “clay,” merely because we added “of the image-makers,” or of any other workers. How can a man understand the name of anything, when he does not know the nature of it?

[Theaet.] He cannot.

[Soc.] Then he who does not know what science or knowledge is, has no knowledge of the art or science of making shoes?

[Theaet.] None.

[Soc.] Nor of any other science?

[Theaet.] No.

[Soc.] And when a man is asked what science or knowledge is, to give in answer the name of some art or science is ridiculous; for the question is, “What is knowledge?” and he replies, “A knowledge of this or that.”

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] Moreover, he might answer shortly and simply, but he makes an enormous circuit. For example, when asked about the day, he might have said simply, that clay is moistened earth-what sort of clay is not to the point.

[Theaet.] Yes, Socrates, there is no difficulty as you put the question. You mean, if I am not mistaken, something like what occurred to me and to my friend here, your namesake Socrates, in a recent discussion.

[Soc.] What was that, Theaetetus?

[Theaet.] Theodorus was writing out for us something about roots, such as the roots of three or five, showing that they are incommensurable by the unit: he selected other examples up to seventeen-there he stopped. Now as there are innumerable roots, the notion occurred to us of attempting to include them all under one name or class.

[Soc.] And did you find such a class?

[Theaet.] I think that we did; but I should like to have your opinion.

[Soc.] Let me hear.

[Theaet.] We divided all numbers into two classes: those which are made up of equal factors multiplying into one another, which we compared to square figures and called square or equilateral numbers;-that was one class.

[Soc.] Very good.

[Theaet.] The intermediate numbers, such as three and five, and every other number which is made up of unequal factors, either of a greater multiplied by a less, or of a less multiplied by a greater, and when regarded as a figure, is contained in unequal sides;-all these we compared to oblong figures, and called them oblong numbers.

[Soc.] Capital; and what followed?

[Theaet.] The lines, or sides, which have for their squares the equilateral plane numbers, were called by us lengths or magnitudes; and the lines which are the roots of (or whose squares are equal to) the oblong numbers, were called powers or roots; the reason of this latter name being, that they are commensurable with the former [i.e., with the so-called lengths or magnitudes] not in linear measurement, but in the value of the superficial content of their squares; and the same about solids.

[Soc.] Excellent, my boys; I think that you fully justify the praises of Theodorus, and that he will not be found guilty of false witness.

[Theaet.] But I am unable, Socrates, to give you a similar answer about knowledge, which is what you appear to want; and therefore Theodorus is a deceiver after all.

[Soc.] Well, but if some one were to praise you for running, and to say that he never met your equal among boys, and afterwards you were beaten in a race by a grown-up man, who was a great runner-would the praise be any the less true?

[Theaet.] Certainly not.

[Soc.] And is the discovery of the nature of knowledge so small a matter, as just now said? Is it not one which would task the powers of men perfect in every way?

[Theaet.] By heaven, they should be the top of all perfection!

[Soc.] Well, then, be of good cheer; do not say that Theodorus was mistaken about you, but do your best to ascertain the true nature of knowledge, as well as of other things.

[Theaet.] I am eager enough, Socrates, if that would bring to light the truth.

[Soc.] Come, you made a good beginning just now; let your own answer about roots be your model, and as you comprehended them all in one class, try and bring the many sorts of knowledge under one definition.

[Theaet.] I can assure you, Socrates, that I have tried very often, when the report of questions asked by you was brought to me; but I can neither persuade myself that I have a satisfactory answer to give, nor hear of any one who answers as you would have him; and I cannot shake off a feeling of anxiety.

[Soc.] These are the pangs of labour, my dear Theaetetus; you have something within you which you are bringing to the birth.

[Theaet.] I do not know, Socrates; I only say what I feel.

[Soc.] And have you never heard, simpleton, that I am the son of a midwife, brave and burly, whose name was Phaenarete?

[Theaet.] Yes, I have.

[Soc.] And that I myself practise midwifery?

[Theaet.] No, never.

[Soc.] Let me tell you that I do though, my friend: but you must not reveal the secret, as the world in general have not found me out; and therefore they only say of me, that I am the strangest of mortals and drive men to their wits’ end. Did you ever hear that too?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] Shall I tell you the reason?

[Theaet.] By all means.

[Soc.] Bear in mind the whole business of the mid-wives, and then you will see my meaning better:-No woman, as you are probably aware, who is still able to conceive and bear, attends other women, but only those who are past bearing.

[Theaet.] Yes; I know.

[Soc.] The reason of this is said to be that Artemis-the goddess of childbirth-is not a mother, and she honours those who are like herself; but she could not allow the barren to be mid-wives, because human nature cannot know the mystery of an art without experience; and therefore she assigned this office to those who are too old to bear.

[Theaet.] I dare say.

[Soc.] And I dare say too, or rather I am absolutely certain, that the mid-wives know better than others who is pregnant and who is not?

[Theaet.] Very true.

[Soc.] And by the use of potions and incantations they are able to arouse the pangs and to soothe them at will; they can make those bear who have a difficulty in bearing, and if they think fit they can smother the embryo in the womb.

[Theaet.] They can.

[Soc.] Did you ever remark that they are also most cunning matchmakers, and have a thorough knowledge of what unions are likely to produce a brave brood?

[Theaet.] No, never.

[Soc.] Then let me tell you that this is their greatest pride, more than cutting the umbilical cord. And if you reflect, you will see that the same art which cultivates and gathers in the fruits of the earth, will be most likely to know in what soils the several plants or seeds should be deposited.

[Theaet.] Yes, the same art.

[Soc.] And do you suppose that with women the case is otherwise?

[Theaet.] I should think not.

[Soc.] Certainly not; but mid-wives are respectable women who have a character to lose, and they avoid this department of their profession, because they are afraid of being called procuresses, which is a name given to those who join together man and woman in an unlawful and unscientific way; and yet the true midwife is also the true and only matchmaker.

[Theaet.] Clearly.

[Soc.] Such are the mid-wives, whose task is a very important one but not so important as mine; for women do not bring into the world at one time real children, and at another time counterfeits which are with difficulty distinguished from them; if they did, then the, discernment of the true and false birth would be the crowning achievement of the art of midwifery-you would think so?

[Theaet.] Indeed I should.

[Soc.] Well, my art of midwifery is in most respects like theirs; but differs, in that I attend men and not women; and look after their souls when they are in labour, and not after their bodies: and the triumph of my art is in thoroughly examining whether the thought which the mind of the young man brings forth is a false idol or a noble and true birth. And like the mid-wives, I am barren, and the reproach which is often made against me, that I ask questions of others and have not the wit to answer them myself, is very just-the reason is, that the god compels-me to be a midwife, but does not allow me to bring forth. And therefore I am not myself at all wise, nor have I anything to show which is the invention or birth of my own soul, but those who converse with me profit. Some of them appear dull enough at first, but afterwards, as our acquaintance ripens, if the god is gracious to them, they all make astonishing progress; and this in the opinion of others as well as in their own. It is quite dear that they never learned anything from me; the many fine discoveries to which they cling are of their own making. But to me and the god they owe their delivery. And the proof of my words is, that many of them in their ignorance, either in their self-conceit despising me, or falling under the influence of others, have gone away too soon; and have not only lost the children of whom I had previously delivered them by an ill bringing up, but have stifled whatever else they had in them by evil communications, being fonder of lies and shams than of the truth; and they have at last ended by seeing themselves, as others see them, to be great fools. Aristeides, the son of Lysimachus, is one of them, and there are many others. The truants often return to me, and beg that I would consort with them again-they are ready to go to me on their knees and then, if my familiar allows, which is not always the case, I receive them, and they begin to grow again. Dire are the pangs which my art is able to arouse and to allay in those who consort with me, just like the pangs of women in childbirth; night and day they are full of perplexity and travail which is even worse than that of the women. So much for them. And there are -others, Theaetetus, who come to me apparently having nothing in them; and as I know that they have no need of my art, I coax them into marrying some one, and by the grace of God I can generally tell who is likely to do them good. Many of them I have given away to Prodicus, and many to other inspired sages. I tell you this long story, friend Theaetetus, because I suspect, as indeed you seem to think yourself, that you are in labour-great with some conception. Come then to me, who am a midwife’s son and myself a midwife, and do your best to answer the questions which I will ask you. And if I abstract and expose your first-born, because I discover upon inspection that the conception which you have formed is a vain shadow, do not quarrel with me on that account, as the manner of women is when their first children are taken from them. For I have actually known some who were ready to bite me when I deprived them of a darling folly; they did not perceive that I acted from good will, not knowing that no god is the enemy of man-that was not within the range of their ideas; neither am I their enemy in all this, but it would be wrong for me to admit falsehood, or to stifle the truth. Once more, then, Theaetetus, I repeat my old question, “What is knowledge?”-and do not say that you cannot tell; but quit yourself like a man, and by the help of God you will be able to tell.

[Theaet.] At any rate, Socrates, after such an exhortation I should be ashamed of not trying to do my best. Now he who knows perceives what he knows, and, as far as I can see at present, knowledge is perception.

[Soc.] Bravely said, boy; that is the way in which you should express your opinion. And now, let us examine together this conception of yours, and see whether it is a true birth or a mere, wind-egg:-You say that knowledge is perception?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] Well, you have delivered yourself of a very important doctrine about knowledge; it is indeed the opinion of Protagoras, who has another way of expressing it, Man, he says, is the measure of all things, of the existence of things that are, and of the non-existence of things that are not:-You have read him?

[Theaet.] O yes, again and again.

[Soc.] Does he not say that things are to you such as they appear to you, and to me such as they appear to me, and that you and I are men?

[Theaet.] Yes, he says so.

[Soc.] A wise man is not likely to talk nonsense. Let us try to understand him: the same wind is blowing, and yet one of us may be cold and the other not, or one may be slightly and the other very cold?

[Theaet.] Quite true.

[Soc.] Now is the wind, regarded not in relation to us but absolutely, cold or not; or are we to say, with Protagoras, that the wind is cold to him who is cold, and not to him who is not?

[Theaet.] I suppose the last.

[Soc.] Then it must appear so to each of them?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] And “appears to him” means the same as “he perceives.”

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] Then appearing and perceiving coincide in the case of hot and cold, and in similar instances; for things appear, or may be supposed to be, to each one such as he perceives them?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] Then perception is always of existence, and being the same as knowledge is unerring?

[Theaet.] Clearly.

[Soc.] In the name of the Graces, what an almighty wise man Protagoras must have been! He spoke these things in a parable to the common herd, like you and me, but told the truth, his Truth, in secret to his own disciples.

[Theaet.] What do you mean, Socrates?

[Soc.] I am about to speak of a high argument, in which all things are said to be relative; you cannot rightly call anything by any name, such as great or small, heavy or light, for the great will be small and the heavy light-there is no single thing or quality, but out of motion and change and admixture all things are becoming relatively to one another, which “becoming” is by us incorrectly called being, but is really becoming, for nothing ever is, but all things are becoming. Summon all philosophers-Protagoras, Heracleitus, Empedocles, and the rest of them, one after another, and with the exception of Parmenides they will agree with you in this. Summon the great masters of either kind of poetry-Epicharmus, the prince of Comedy, and Homer of Tragedy; when the latter sings of

Ocean whence sprang the gods, and mother Tethys,

does he not mean that all things are the offspring, of flux and motion?

[Theaet.] I think so.

[Soc.] And who could take up arms against such a great army having Homer for its general, and not appear ridiculous?

[Theaet.] Who indeed, Socrates?

[Soc.] Yes, Theaetetus; and there are plenty of other proofs which will show that motion is the source of what is called being and becoming, and inactivity of not-being and destruction; for fire and warmth, which are supposed to be the parent and guardian of all other things, are born of movement and friction, which is a kind of motion;-is not this the origin of fire?

[Theaet.] It is.

[Soc.] And the race of animals is generated in the same way?

[Theaet.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And is not the bodily habit spoiled by rest and idleness, but preserved for a long time by motion and exercise?

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] And what of the mental habit? Is not the soul informed, and improved, and preserved by study and attention, which are motions; but when at rest, which in the soul only means want of attention and study, is uninformed, and speedily forgets whatever she has learned?

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] Then motion is a good, and rest an evil, to the soul as well as to the body?

[Theaet.] Clearly.

[Soc.] I may add, that breathless calm, stillness and the like waste and impair, while wind and storm preserve; and the palmary argument of all, which I strongly urge, is the golden chain in Homer, by which he means the sun, thereby indicating that so long as the sun and the heavens go round in their orbits, all things human and divine are and are preserved, but if they were chained up and their motions ceased, then all things would be destroyed, and, as the saying is, turned upside down.

[Theaet.] I believe, Socrates, that you have truly explained his meaning.

[Soc.] Then now apply his doctrine to perception, my good friend, and first of all to vision; that which you call white colour is not in your eyes, and is not a distinct thing which exists out of them. And you must not assign any place to it: for if it had position it would be, and be at rest, and there would be no process of becoming.

[Theaet.] Then what is colour?

[Soc.] Let us carry the principle which has just been affirmed, that nothing is self-existent, and then we shall see that white, black, and every other colour, arises out of the eye meeting the appropriate motion, and that what we call a colour is in each case neither the active nor the passive element, but something which passes between them, and is peculiar to each percipient; are you quite certain that the several colours appear to a dog or to any animal whatever as they appear to you?

[Theaet.] Far from it.

[Soc.] Or that anything appears the same to you as to another man? Are you so profoundly convinced of this? Rather would it not be true that it never appears exactly the same to you, because you are never exactly the same?

[Theaet.] The latter.

[Soc.] And if that with which I compare myself in size, or which I apprehend by touch, were great or white or hot, it could not become different by mere contact with another unless it actually changed; nor again, if the comparing or apprehending subject were great or white or hot, could this, when unchanged from within become changed by any approximation or affection of any other thing. The fact is that in our ordinary way of speaking we allow ourselves to be driven into most ridiculous and wonderful contradictions, as Protagoras and all who take his line of argument would remark.

[Theaet.] How? and of what sort do you mean?

[Soc.] A little instance will sufficiently explain my meaning: Here are six dice, which are more by a half when compared with four, and fewer by a half than twelve-they are more and also fewer. How can you or any one maintain the contrary?

[Theaet.] Very true.

[Soc.] Well, then, suppose that Protagoras or some one asks whether anything can become greater or more if not by increasing, how would you answer him, Theaetetus?

[Theaet.] I should say “No,” Socrates, if I were to speak my mind in reference to this last question, and if I were not afraid of contradicting my former answer.

[Soc.] Capital excellent! spoken like an oracle, my boy! And if you reply “Yes,” there will be a case for Euripides; for our tongue will be unconvinced, but not our mind.

[Theaet.] Very true.

[Soc.] The thoroughbred Sophists, who know all that can be known about the mind, and argue only out of the superfluity of their wits, would have had a regular sparring-match over this, and would -have knocked their arguments together finely. But you and I, who have no professional aims, only desire to see what is the mutual relation of these principles-whether they are consistent with each or not.

[Theaet.] Yes, that would be my desire.

[Soc.] And mine too. But since this is our feeling, and there is plenty of time, why should we not calmly and patiently review our own thoughts, and thoroughly examine and see what these appearances in us really are? If I am not mistaken, they will be described by us as follows:-first, that nothing can become greater or less, either in number or magnitude, while remaining equal to itself-you would agree?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] Secondly, that without addition or subtraction there is no increase or diminution of anything, but only equality.

[Theaet.] Quite true.

[Soc.] Thirdly, that what was not before cannot be afterwards, without becoming and having become.

[Theaet.] Yes, truly.

[Soc.] These three axioms, if I am not mistaken, are fighting with one another in our minds in the case of the dice, or, again, in such a case as this-if I were to say that I, who am of a certain height and taller than you, may within a year, without gaining or losing in height, be not so tall-not that I should have lost, but that you would have increased. In such a case, I am afterwards what I once was not, and yet I have not become; for I could not have become without becoming, neither could I have become less without losing somewhat of my height; and I could give you ten thousand examples of similar contradictions, if we admit them at all. I believe that you follow me, Theaetetus; for I suspect that you have thought of these questions before now.

[Theaet.] Yes, Socrates, and I am amazed when I think of them; by the Gods I am! and I want to know what on earth they mean; and there are times when my head quite swims with the contemplation of them.

[Soc.] I see, my dear Theaetetus, that Theodorus had a true insight into your nature when he said that you were a philosopher, for wonder is the feeling of a philosopher, and philosophy begins in wonder. He was not a bad genealogist who said that Iris (the messenger of heaven) is the child of Thaumas (wonder). But do you begin to see what is the explanation of this perplexity on the hypothesis which we attribute to Protagoras?

[Theaet.] Not as yet.

[Soc.] Then you will be obliged to me if I help you to unearth the hidden “truth” of a famous man or school.

[Theaet.] To be sure, I shall be very much obliged.

[Soc.] Take a look round, then, and see that none of the uninitiated are listening. Now by the uninitiated I mean: the people who believe in nothing but what they can grasp in their hands, and who will not allow that action or generation or anything invisible can have real existence.

[Theaet.] Yes, indeed, Socrates, they are very hard and impenetrable mortals.

[Soc.] Yes, my boy, outer barbarians. Far more ingenious are the brethren whose mysteries I am about to reveal to you. Their first principle is, that all is motion, and upon this all the affections of which we were just now speaking, are supposed to depend: there is nothing but motion, which has two forms, one active and the other passive, both in endless number; and out of the union and friction of them there is generated a progeny endless in number, having two forms, sense and the object of sense, which are ever breaking forth and coming to the birth at the same moment. The senses are variously named hearing, seeing, smelling; there is the sense of heat, cold, pleasure, pain, desire, fear, and many more which have names, as well as innumerable others which are without them; each has its kindred object each variety of colour has a corresponding variety of sight, and so with sound and hearing, and with the rest of the senses and the objects akin to them. Do you see, Theaetetus, the bearings of this tale on the preceding argument?

[Theaet.] Indeed I do not.

[Soc.] Then attend, and I will try to finish the story. The purport is that all these things are in motion, as I was saying, and that this motion is of two kinds, a slower and a quicker; and the slower elements have their motions in the same place and with reference to things near them, and so they beget; but what is begotten is swifter, for it is carried to fro, and moves from place to place. Apply this to sense:-When the eye and the appropriate object meet together and give birth to whiteness and the sensation connatural with it, which could not have been given by either of them going elsewhere, then, while the sight: is flowing from the eye, whiteness proceeds from the object which combines in producing the colour; and so the eye is fulfilled with sight, and really sees, and becomes, not sight, but a seeing eye; and the object which combined to form the colour is fulfilled with whiteness, and becomes not whiteness but a white thing, whether wood or stone or whatever the object may be which happens to be colour,ed white. And this is true of all sensible objects, hard, warm, and the like, which are similarly to be regarded, as I was saying before, not as having any absolute existence, but as being all of them of whatever kind. generated by motion in their intercourse with one another; for of the agent and patient, as existing in separation, no trustworthy conception, as they say, can be formed, for the agent has no existence until united; with the patient, and the patient has no existence until united with the agent; and that which by uniting with something becomes an agent, by meeting with some other thing is converted into a patient. And from all these considerations, as I said at first, there arises a general reflection, that there is no one self-existent thing, but everything is becoming and in relation; and being must be altogether abolished, although from habit and ignorance we are compelled even in this discussion to retain the use of the term. But great philosophers tell us that we are not to allow either the word “something,” or “belonging to something,” or “to me,” or “this,” or “that,” or any other detaining name to be used, in the language of nature all things are being created and destroyed, coming into being and passing into new forms; nor can any name fix or detain them; he who attempts to fix them is easily refuted. And this should be the way of speaking, not only of particulars but of aggregates such aggregates as are expressed in the word “man,” or “stone,” or any name of animal or of a class. O Theaetetus, are not these speculations sweet as honey? And do you not like the taste of them in the mouth?

[Theaet.] I do not know what to say, Socrates, for, indeed, I cannot make out whether you are giving your own opinion or only wanting to draw me out.

[Soc.] You forget, my friend, that I neither know, nor profess to know, anything of! these matters; you are the person who is in labour, I am the barren midwife; and this is why I soothe you, and offer you one good thing after another, that you may taste them. And I hope that I may at last help to bring your own opinion into the light of day: when this has been accomplished, then we will determine whether what you have brought forth is only a wind-egg or a real and genuine birth. Therefore, keep up your spirits, and answer like a man what you think.

[Theaet.] Ask me.

[Soc.] Then once more: Is it your opinion that nothing is but what becomes? the good and the noble, as well; as all the other things which we were just now mentioning?

[Theaet.] When I hear you discoursing in this style, I think that there is a great deal in what you say, and I am very ready to assent. Soc. Let us not leave the argument unfinished, then; for there still remains to be considered an objection which may be raised about dreams and diseases, in particular about madness, and the various illusions of hearing and sight, or of other senses. For you know that in all these cases the esse-percipi theory appears to be unmistakably refuted, since in dreams and illusions we certainly have false perceptions; and far from saying that everything is which appears, we should rather say that nothing is which appears.

[Theaet.] Very true, Socrates.

[Soc.] But then, my boy, how can any one contend that knowledge is perception, or that to every man what appears is?

[Theaet.] I am afraid to say, Socrates, that I have nothing to answer, because you rebuked me just now for making this excuse; but I certainly cannot undertake to argue that madmen or dreamers think truly, when they imagine, some of them that they are gods, and others that they can fly, and are flying in their sleep.

[Soc.] Do you see another question which can be raised about these phenomena, notably about dreaming and waking?

[Theaet.] What question?

[Soc.] A question which I think that you must often have heard persons ask:-How can you determine whether at this moment we are sleeping, and all our thoughts are a dream; or whether we are awake, and talking to one another in the waking state?

[Theaet.] Indeed, Socrates, I do not know how to prove the one any more than the other, for in both cases the facts precisely correspond;-and there is no difficulty in supposing that during all this discussion we have been talking to one another in a dream; and when in a dream we seem to be narrating dreams, the resemblance of the two states is quite astonishing.

[Soc.] You see, then, that a doubt about the reality of sense is easily raised, since there may even be a doubt whether we are awake or in a dream. And as our time is equally divided between sleeping and waking, in either sphere of existence the soul contends that the thoughts which are present to our minds at the time are true; and during one half of our lives we affirm the truth of the one, and, during the other half, of the other; and are equally confident of both.

[Theaet.] Most true.

[Soc.] And may not the same be said of madness and other disorders? the difference is only that the times are not equal.

[Theaet.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And is truth or falsehood to be determined by duration of time?

[Theaet.] That would be in many ways ridiculous.

[Soc.] But can you certainly determine: by any other means which of these opinions is true?

[Theaet.] I do not think that I can.

[Soc.] Listen, then to a statement of the other side of the argument, which is made by the champions of appearance. They would say, as I imagine-can that which is wholly other than something, have the same quality as that from which it differs? and observe, -Theaetetus, that the word “other” means not “partially,” but “wholly other.”

[Theaet.] Certainly, putting the question as you do, that which is wholly other cannot either potentially or in any other way be the same.

[Soc.] And must therefore be admitted to be unlike?

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] If, then, anything happens to become like or unlike itself or another, when it becomes like we call it the same-when unlike, other?

[Theaet.] Certainly.

[Soc.] Were we not saying that there. are agents many and infinite, and patients many and infinite?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] And also that different combinations will produce results which are not the same, but different?

[Theaet.] Certainly.

[Soc.] Let us take you and me, or anything as an example:-There is Socrates in health, and Socrates sick-Are they like or unlike?

[Theaet.] You mean to, compare Socrates in health as a whole, and Socrates in sickness as a whole?

[Soc.] Exactly; that is my meaning.

[Theaet.] I answer, they are unlike.

[Soc.] And if unlike, they are other?

[Theaet.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And would you not say the same of Socrates sleeping and waking, or in any of the states which we were mentioning?

[Theaet.] I should.

[Soc.] All agents have a different patient in Socrates, accordingly as he is well or ill.

[Theaet.] Of course.

[Soc.] And I who am the patient, and that which is the agent, will produce something different in each of the two cases?

[Theaet.] Certainly.

[Soc.] The wine which I drink when I am in health, appears sweet and pleasant to me?

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] For, as has been already acknowledged, the patient and agent meet together and produce sweetness and a perception of sweetness, which are in simultaneous motion, and the perception which comes from the patient makes the tongue percipient, and the quality of sweetness which arises out of and is moving about the wine, makes the wine, both to be and to appear sweet to the healthy tongue.

[Theaet.] Certainly; that has been already acknowledged.

[Soc.] But when I am sick, the wine really acts upon another and a different person?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] The combination of the draught of wine, and the Socrates who is sick, produces quite another result; which is the sensation of bitterness in the tongue, and the, motion and creation of bitterness in and about the wine, which becomes not bitterness but something bitter; as I myself become not but percipient?

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] There is no, other object of which I shall ever have the same perception, for another object would give another perception, and would make the perception other and different; nor can that object which affects me, meeting another, subject, produce, the same, or become similar, for that too would produce another result from another subject, and become different.

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] Neither can by myself, have this sensation, nor the object by itself, this quality.

[Theaet.] Certainly not.

[Soc.] When I perceive I must become percipient of something-there can be no such thing as perceiving and perceiving nothing; the object, whether it become sweet, bitter, or of any other quality, must have relation to a percipient; nothing can become sweet which is sweet to no one.

[Theaet.] Certainly not.

[Soc.] Then the inference is, that we [the agent and patient] are or become in relation to one another; there is a law which binds us one to the other, but not to any other existence, nor each of us to himself; and therefore we can only be bound to one another; so that whether a person says that a thing is or becomes, he must say that it is or becomes to or of or in relation to something else; but he must not say or allow any one else to say that anything is or becomes absolutely: -such is our conclusion.

[Theaet.] Very true, Socrates.

[Soc.] Then, if that which acts upon me has relation to me and to no other, I and no other am the percipient of it?

[Theaet.] Of course.

[Soc.] Then my perception is true to me, being inseparable from my own being; and, as Protagoras says, to myself I am judge of what is and-what is not to me.

[Theaet.] I suppose so.

[Soc.] How then, if I never err, and if my mind never trips in the conception of being or becoming, can I fail of knowing that which I perceive?

[Theaet.] You cannot.

[Soc.] Then you were quite right in affirming that knowledge is only perception; and the meaning turns out to be the same, whether with Homer and Heracleitus, and all that company, you say that all is motion and flux, or with the great sage Protagoras, that man is the measure of all things; or with Theaetetus, that, given these premises, perception is knowledge. Am I not right, Theaetetus, and is not this your newborn child, of which I have delivered you? What say you?

[Theaet.] I cannot but agree, Socrates.

[Soc.] Then this is the child, however he may turn out, which you and I have with difficulty brought into the world. And now that he is born, we must run round the hearth with him, and see whether he is worth rearing, or is only a wind-egg and a sham. Is he to be reared in any case, and not exposed? or will you bear to see him rejected, and not get into a passion if I take away your first-born?

[Theod.] Theaetetus will not be angry, for he is very good-natured. But tell me, Socrates, in heaven’s name, is this, after all, not the truth?

[Soc.] You, Theodorus, are a lover of theories, and now you innocently fancy that I am a bag full of them, and can easily pull one out which will overthrow its predecessor. But you do not see that in reality none of these theories come from me; they all come from him who talks with me. I only know just enough to extract them from the wisdom of another, and to receive them in a spirit of fairness. And now I shall say nothing myself, but shall endeavour to elicit something from our young friend.

[Theod.] Do as you say, Socrates; you are quite right.

[Soc.] Shall I tell you, Theodorus, what amazes me in your acquaintance Protagoras?

[Theod.] What is it?

[Soc.] I am charmed with his doctrine, that what appears is to each one, but I wonder that he did not begin his book on Truth with a declaration that a pig or a dog-faced baboon, or some other yet stranger monster which has sensation, is the measure of all things; then he might have shown a magnificent contempt for our opinion of him by informing us at the outset that while we were reverencing him like a God for his wisdom he was no better than a tadpole, not to speak of his fellow-men-would not this have produced an over-powering effect? For if truth is only sensation, and no man can discern another’s feelings better than he, or has any superior right to determine whether his opinion is true or false, but each, as we have several times repeated, is to himself the sole judge, and everything that he judges is true and right, why, my friend, should Protagoras be preferred to the place of wisdom and instruction, and deserve to be well paid, and we poor ignoramuses have to go to him, if each one is the measure of his own wisdom? Must he not be talking ad captandum in all this? I say nothing of the ridiculous predicament in which my own midwifery and the whole art of dialectic is placed; for the attempt to supervise or refute the notions or opinions of others would be a tedious and enormous piece of folly, if to each man his own are right; and this must be the case if Protagoras Truth is the real truth, and the philosopher is not merely amusing himself by giving oracles out of the shrine of his book.

[Theod.] He was a friend of mine, Socrates, as you were saying, and therefore I cannot have him refuted by my lips, nor can I oppose you when I agree with you; please, then, to take Theaetetus again; he seemed to answer very nicely.

[Soc.] If you were to go into a Lacedaemonian palestra, Theodorus, would you have a right to look on at the naked wrestlers, some of them making a poor figure, if you did not strip and give them an opportunity of judging of your own person?

[Theod.] Why not, Socrates, if they would allow me, as I think you will in consideration of my age and stiffness; let some more supple youth try a fall with you, and do not drag me into the gymnasium.

[Soc.] Your will is my will, Theodorus, as the proverbial philosophers say, and therefore I will return to the sage Theaetetus: Tell me, Theaetetus, in reference to what I was saying, are you not lost in wonder, like myself, when you find that all of a sudden you are raised to the level of the wisest of men, or indeed of the gods?-for you would assume the measure of Protagoras to apply to the gods as well as men?

[Theaet.] Certainly I should, and I confess to you that I am lost in wonder. At first hearing, I was quite satisfied with the doctrine, that whatever appears is to each one, but now the face of things has changed.

[Soc.] Why, my dear boy, you are young, and therefore your ear is quickly caught and your mind influenced by popular arguments. Protagoras, or some one speaking on his behalf, will doubtless say in reply, good people, young and old, you meet and harangue, and bring in the gods, whose existence of non-existence I banish from writing and speech, or you talk about the reason of man being degraded to the level of the brutes, which is a telling argument with the multitude, but not one word of proof or demonstration do you offer. All is probability with you, and yet surely you and Theodorus had better reflect whether you are disposed to admit of probability and figures of speech in matters of such importance. He or any other mathematician who argued from probabilities and likelihoods in geometry, would not be worth an ace.

[Theaet.] But neither you nor we, Socrates, would be satisfied with such arguments.

[Soc.] Then you and Theodorus mean to say that we must look at the matter in some other way?

[Theaet.] Yes, in quite another way.

[Soc.] And the way will be to ask whether perception is or is not the same as knowledge; for this was the real point of our argument, and with a view to this we raised (did we not?) those many strange questions.

[Theaet.] Certainly.

[Soc.] Shall we say that we know every thing which we see and hear? for example, shall we say that not having learned, we do not hear the language of foreigners when they speak to us? or shall we say that we not only hear, but know what they are saying? Or again, if we see letters which we do not understand, shall we say that we do not see them? or shall we aver that, seeing them, we must know them?

[Theaet.] We shall say, Socrates, that we know what we actually see and hear of them-that is to say, we see and know the figure and colour of the letters, and we hear and know the elevation or depression of the sound of them; but we do not perceive by sight and hearing, or know, that which grammarians and interpreters teach about them.

[Soc.] Capital, Theaetetus; and about this there shall be no dispute, because I want you to grow; but there is another difficulty coming, which you will also have to repulse.

[Theaet.] What is it?

[Soc.] Some one will say, Can a man who has ever known anything, and still has and preserves a memory of that which he knows, not know that which he remembers at the time when he remembers? I have, I fear, a tedious way of putting a simple question, which is only, whether a man who has learned, and remembers, can fail to know?

[Theaet.] Impossible, Socrates; the supposition is monstrous.

[Soc.] Am I talking nonsense, then? Think: is not seeing perceiving, and is not sight perception?

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] And if our recent definition holds, every man knows that which he has seen?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] And you would admit that there is such a thing as memory?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] And is memory of something or of nothing?

[Theaet.] Of something, surely.

[Soc.] Of things learned and perceived, that is?

[Theaet.] Certainly.

[Soc.] Often a man remembers that which he has seen?

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] And if he closed his eyes, would he forget?

[Theaet.] Who, Socrates, would dare to say so?

[Soc.] But we must say so, if the previous argument is to be maintained.

[Theaet.] What do you mean? I am not quite sure that I understand you, though I have a strong suspicion that you are right.

[Soc.] As thus: he who sees knows, as we say, that which he sees; for perception and sight and knowledge are admitted to be the same.

[Theaet.] Certainly.

[Soc.] But he who saw, and has knowledge of that which he saw, remembers, when he closes his eyes, that which he no longer sees.

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] And seeing is knowing, and therefore not-seeing is not-knowing?

[Theaet.] Very true.

[Soc.] Then the inference is, that a man may have attained the knowledge, of something, which he may remember and yet not know, because he does not see; and this has been affirmed by us to be a monstrous supposition.

[Theaet.] Most true.

[Soc.] Thus, then, the assertion that knowledge and perception are one, involves a manifest impossibility?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] Then they must be distinguished?

[Theaet.] I suppose that they must.

[Soc.] Once more we shall have to begin, and ask “What is knowledge?” and yet, Theaetetus, what are we going to do?

[Theaet.] About what?

[Soc.] Like a good-for-nothing cock, without having won the victory, we walk away from the argument and crow.

[Theaet.] How do you mean?

[Soc.] After the manner of disputers, we were satisfied with mere verbal consistency, and were well pleased if in this way we could gain an advantage. Although professing not to be mere Eristics, but philosophers, I suspect that we have unconsciously fallen into the error of that ingenious class of persons.

[Theaet.] I do not as yet understand you.

[Soc.] Then I will try to explain myself: just now we asked the question, whether a man who had learned and remembered could fail to know, and we showed that a person who had seen might remember when he had his eyes shut and could not see, and then he would at the same time remember and not know. But this was an impossibility. And so the Protagorean fable came to nought, and yours also, who maintained that knowledge is the same as perception.

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] And yet, my friend, I rather suspect that the result would have been different if Protagoras, who was the father of the first of the two-brats, had been alive; he would have had a great deal to say on their behalf. But he is dead, and we insult over his orphan child; and even the guardians whom he left, and of whom our friend Theodorus is one, are unwilling to give any help, and therefore I suppose that must take up his cause myself, and see justice done?

[Theod.] Not I, Socrates, but rather Callias, the son of Hipponicus, is guardian of his orphans. I was too soon diverted from the abstractions of dialectic to geometry. Nevertheless, I shall be grateful to you if you assist him.

[Soc.] Very good, Theodorus; you shall see how I will come to the rescue. If a person does not attend to the meaning of terms as they are commonly used in argument, he may be involved even in greater paradoxes than these. Shall I explain this matter to you or to Theaetetus?

[Theod.] To both of us, and let the younger answer; he will incur less disgrace if he is discomfited.

[Soc.] Then now let me ask the awful question, which is this:-Can a man know and also not know that which he knows?

[Theod.] How shall we answer, Theaetetus?

[Theaet.] He cannot, I should say.

[Soc.] He can, if you maintain that seeing is knowing. When you are imprisoned in a well, as the saying is, and the self-assured adversary closes one of your eyes with his hand, and asks whether you can see his cloak with the eye which he has closed, how will you answer the inevitable man?

[Theaet.] I should answer, “Not with that eye but with the other.”

[Soc.] Then you see and do not see the same thing at the same time.

[Theaet.] Yes, in a certain sense.

[Soc.] None of that, he will reply; I do not ask or bid you answer in what sense you know, but only whether you know that which you do not know. You have been proved to see that which you do not see; and you have already admitted that seeing is knowing, and that not-seeing is not-knowing: I leave you to draw the inference.

[Theaet.] Yes, the inference is the contradictory of my assertion.

[Soc.] Yes, my marvel, and there might have been yet worse things in store for you, if an opponent had gone on to ask whether you can have a sharp and also a dull knowledge, and whether you can know near, but not at a distance, or know the same thing with more or less intensity, and so on without end. Such questions might have been put to you by a light-armed mercenary, who argued for pay. He would have lain in wait for you, and when you took up the position, that sense is knowledge, he would have made an assault upon hearing, smelling, and the other senses;-he would have shown you no mercy; and while you were lost in envy and admiration of his wisdom, he would have got you into his net, out of which you would not have escaped until you had come to an understanding about the sum to be paid for your release. Well, you ask, and how will Protagoras reinforce his position? Shall I answer for him?

[Theaet.] By all means.

[Soc.] He will repeat all those things which we have been urging on his behalf, and then he will close with us in disdain, and say:-The worthy Socrates asked a little boy, whether the same man could remember and not know the same thing, and the boy said No, because he was frightened, and could not see what was coming, and then Socrates made fun of poor me. The truth is, O slatternly Socrates, that when you ask questions about any assertion of mine, and the person asked is found tripping, if he has answered as I should have answered, then I am refuted, but if he answers something else, then he is refuted and not I. For do you really suppose that any one would admit the memory which a man has of an impression which has passed away to be the same with that which he experienced at the time? Assuredly not. Or would he hesitate to acknowledge that the same man may know and not know the same thing? Or, if he is afraid of making this admission, would he ever grant that one who has become unlike is the same as before he became unlike? Or would he admit that a man is one at all, and not rather many and infinite as the changes which take place in him? I speak by the card in order to avoid entanglements of words. But, O my good sir, he would say, come to the argument in a more generous spirit; and either show, if you can, that our sensations are not relative and individual, or, if you admit them to be so, prove that this does not involve the consequence that the appearance becomes, or, if you will have the word, is, to the individual only. As to your talk about pigs and baboons, you are yourself behaving like a pig, and you teach your hearers to make sport of my writings in the same ignorant manner; but this is not to your credit. For I declare that the truth is as I have written, and that each of us is a measure of existence and of non-existence. Yet one man may be a thousand times better than another in proportion as different things are and appear to him. And I am far from saying that wisdom and the wise man have no existence; but I say that the wise man is he who makes the evils which appear and are to a man, into goods which are and appear to him. And I would beg you not to my words in the letter, but to take the meaning of them as I will explain them. Remember what has been already said,-that to the sick man his food appears to be and is bitter, and to the man in health the opposite of bitter. Now I cannot conceive that one of these men can be or ought to be made wiser than the other: nor can you assert that the sick man because he has one impression is foolish, and the healthy man because he has another is wise; but the one state requires to be changed into the other, the worse into the better. As in education, a change of state has to be effected, and the sophist accomplishes by words the change which the physician works by the aid of drugs. Not that any one ever made another think truly, who previously thought falsely. For no one can think what is not, or think anything different from that which he feels; and this is always true. But as the inferior habit of mind has thoughts of kindred nature, so I conceive that a good mind causes men to have good thoughts; and these which the inexperienced call true, I maintain to be only better, and not truer than others. And, O my dear Socrates, I do not call wise men tadpoles: far from it; I say that they are the physicians of the human body, and the husbandmen of plants-for the husbandmen also take away the evil and disordered sensations of plants, and infuse into them good and healthy sensations-aye and true ones; and the wise and good rhetoricians make the good instead of the evil to seem just to states; for whatever appears to a state to be just and fair, so long as it is regarded as such, is just and fair to it; but the teacher of wisdom causes the good to take the place of the evil, both in appearance and in reality. And in like manner the Sophist who is able to train his pupils in this spirit is a wise man, and deserves to be well paid by them. And so one man is wiser than another; and no one thinks falsely, and you, whether you will or not, must endure to be a measure. On these foundations the argument stands firm, which you, Socrates, may, if you please, overthrow by an opposite argument, or if you like you may put questions to me-a method to which no intelligent person will object, quite the reverse. But I must beg you to put fair questions: for there is great inconsistency in saying that you have a zeal for virtue, and then always behaving unfairly in argument. The unfairness of which I complain is that you do not distinguish between mere disputation and dialectic: the disputer may trip up his opponent as often as he likes, and make fun; but the dialectician will be in earnest, and only correct his adversary when necessary, telling him the errors into which he has fallen through his own fault, or that of the company which he has previously kept. If you do so, your adversary will lay the blame of his own confusion and perplexity on himself, and not on you; will follow and love you, and will hate himself, and escape from himself into philosophy, in order that he may become different from what he was. But the other mode of arguing, which is practised by the many, will have just the opposite effect upon him; and as he grows older, instead of turning philosopher, he will come to hate philosophy. I would recommend you, therefore, as I said before, not to encourage yourself in this polemical and controversial temper, but to find out, in a friendly and congenial spirit, what we really mean when we say that all things are in motion, and that to every individual and state what appears, is. In this manner you will consider whether knowledge and sensation are the same or different, but you will not argue, as you were just now doing, from the customary use of names and words, which the vulgar pervert in all sorts of ways, causing infinite perplexity to one another. Such, Theodorus, is the very slight help which I am able to offer to your old friend; had he been living, he would have helped himself in a far more gloriose style.

[Theod.] You are jesting, Socrates; indeed, your defence of him has been most valorous.

[Soc.] Thank you, friend; and I hope that you observed Protagoras bidding us be serious, as the text, “Man is the measure of all things,” was a solemn one; and he reproached us with making a boy the medium of discourse, and said that the boy’s timidity was made to tell against his argument; he also declared that we made a joke of him.

[Theod.] How could I fail to observe all that, Socrates?

[Soc.] Well, and shall we do as he says?

[Theod.] By all means.

[Soc.] But if his wishes are to be regarded, you and I must take up the argument, and in all seriousness, and ask and answer one another, for you see that the rest of us are nothing but boys. In no other way can we escape the imputation, that in our fresh analysis of his thesis we are making fun with boys.

[Theod.] Well, but is not Theaetetus better able to follow a philosophical enquiry than a great many men who have long beards?

[Soc.] Yes, Theodorus, but not better than you; and therefore please not to imagine that I am to defend by every means in my power your departed friend; and that you are to defend nothing and nobody. At any rate, my good man, do not sheer off until we know whether you are a true measure of diagrams, or whether all men are equally measures and sufficient for themselves in astronomy and geometry, and the other branches of knowledge in which you are supposed to excel them.

[Theod.] He who is sitting by you, Socrates, will not easily avoid being drawn into an argument; and when I said just now that you would excuse me, and not, like the Lacedaemonians, compel me to strip and fight, I was talking nonsense-I should rather compare you to Scirrhon, who threw travellers from the rocks; for the Lacedaemonian rule is “strip or depart,” but you seem to go about your work more after the fashion of Antaeus: you will not allow any one who approaches you to depart until you have stripped him, and he has been compelled to try a fall with you in argument.

[Soc.] There, Theodorus, you have hit off precisely the nature of my complaint; but I am even more pugnacious than the giants of old, for I have met with no end of heroes; many a Heracles, many a Theseus, mighty in words, has broken my head; nevertheless I am always at this rough exercise, which inspires me like a passion. Please, then, to try a fall with me, whereby you will do yourself good as well as me.

[Theod.] I consent; lead me whither you will, for I know that you are like destiny; no man can escape from any argument which you may weave for him. But I am not disposed to go further than you suggest.

[Soc.] Once will be enough; and now take particular care that we do not again unwittingly expose ourselves to the reproach of talking childishly.

[Theod.] I will do my best to avoid that error.

[Soc.] In the first place, let us return to our old objection, and see whether we were right in blaming and taking offence at Protagoras on the ground that he assumed all to be equal and sufficient in wisdom; although he admitted that there was a better and worse, and that in respect of this, some who as he said were the wise excelled others.

[Theod.] Very true.

[Soc.] Had Protagoras been living and answered for himself, instead of our answering for him, there would have been no need of our reviewing or reinforcing the argument. But as he is not here, and some one may accuse us of speaking without authority on his behalf, had we not better come to a clearer agreement about his meaning, for a great deal may be at stake?

[Theod.] True.

[Soc.] Then let us obtain, not through any third person, but from his own statement and in the fewest words possible, the basis of agreement.

[Theod.] In what way?

[Soc.] In this way:-His words are, “What seems to a man, is to him.”

[Theod.] Yes, so he says.

[Soc.] And are not we, Protagoras, uttering the opinion of man, or rather of all mankind, when we say that every one thinks himself wiser than other men in some things, and their inferior in others? In the hour of danger, when they are in perils of war, or of the sea, or of sickness, do they not look up to their commanders as if they were gods, and expect salvation from them, only because they excel them in knowledge? Is not the world full of men in their several employments, who are looking for teachers and rulers of themselves and of the animals? and there are plenty who think that they are able to teach and able to rule. Now, in all this is implied that ignorance and wisdom exist among them, least in their own opinion.

[Theod.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And wisdom is assumed by them to be true thought, and ignorance to be false opinion.

[Theod.] Exactly.

[Soc.] How then, Protagoras, would you have us treat the argument? Shall we say that the opinions of men are always true, or sometimes true and sometimes false? In either case, the result is the same, and their opinions are not always true, but sometimes true and sometimes false. For tell me, Theodorus, do you suppose that you yourself, or any other follower of Protagoras, would contend that no one deems another ignorant or mistaken in his opinion?

[Theod.] The thing is incredible, Socrates.

[Soc.] And yet that absurdity is necessarily involved in the thesis which declares man to be the measure of all things.

[Theod.] How so?

[Soc.] Why, suppose that you determine in your own mind something to be true, and declare your opinion to me; let us assume, as he argues, that this is true to you. Now, if so, you must either say that the rest of us are not the judges of this opinion or judgment of yours, or that we judge you always to have a true opinion: But are there not thousands upon thousands who, whenever you form a judgment, take up arms against you and are of an opposite judgment and opinion, deeming that you judge falsely?

[Theod.] Yes, indeed, Socrates, thousands and tens of thousands, as Homer says, who give me a world of trouble.

[Soc.] Well, but are we to assert that what you think is true to you and false to the ten thousand others?

[Theod.] No other inference seems to be possible.

[Soc.] And how about Protagoras himself? If neither he nor the multitude thought, as indeed they do not think, that man is the measure of all things, must it not follow that the truth of which Protagoras wrote would be true to no one? But if you suppose that he himself thought this, and that the multitude does not agree with him, you must begin by allowing that in whatever proportion the many are more than one, in that proportion his truth is more untrue than true.

[Theod.] That would follow if the truth is supposed to vary with individual opinion.

[Soc.] And the best of the joke is, that he acknowledges the truth of their opinion who believe his own opinion to be false; for he admits that the opinions of all men are true.

[Theod.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And does he not allow that his own opinion is false, if he admits that the opinion of those who think him false is true?

[Theod.] Of course.

[Soc.] Whereas the other side do not admit that they speak falsely?

[Theod.] They do not.

[Soc.] And he, as may be inferred from his writings, agrees that this opinion is also true.

[Theod.] Clearly.

[Soc.] Then all mankind, beginning with Protagoras, will contend, or rather, I should say that he will allow, when he concedes that his adversary has a true opinion-Protagoras, I say, will himself allow that neither a dog nor any ordinary man is the measure of anything which he has not learned-am I not right?

[Theod.] Yes.

[Soc.] And the truth of Protagoras being doubted by all, will be true neither to himself to any one else?

[Theod.] I think, Socrates, that we are running my old friend too hard.

[Soc.] But do not know that we are going beyond the truth. Doubtless, as he is older, he may be expected to be wiser than we are. And if he could only just get his head out of the world below, he would have overthrown both of us again and again, me for talking nonsense and you for assenting to me, and have been off and underground in a trice. But as he is not within call, we must make the best use of our own faculties, such as they are, and speak out what appears to us to be true. And one thing which no one will deny is, that there are great differences in the understandings of men.

[Theod.] In that opinion I quite agree.

[Soc.] And is there not most likely to be firm ground in the distinction which we were indicating on behalf of Protagoras, viz., that most things, and all immediate sensations, such as hot, dry, sweet, are only such as they appear; if however difference of opinion is to be allowed at all, surely we must allow it in respect of health or disease? for every woman, child, or living creature has not such a knowledge of what conduces to health as to enable them to cure themselves.

[Theod.] I quite agree.

[Soc.] Or again, in politics, while affirming that just and unjust, honourable and disgraceful, holy and unholy, are in reality to each state such as the state thinks and makes lawful, and that in determining these matters no individual or state is wiser than another, still the followers of Protagoras will not deny that in determining what is or is not expedient for the community one state is wiser and one counsellor better that another-they will scarcely venture to maintain, that what a city enacts in the belief that it is expedient will always be really expedient. But in the other case, I mean when they speak of justice and injustice, piety and impiety, they are confident that in nature these have no existence or essence of their own-the truth is that which is agreed on at the time of the agreement, and as long as the agreement lasts; and this is the philosophy of many who do not altogether go along with Protagoras. Here arises a new question, Theodorus, which threatens to be more serious than the last.

[Theod.] Well, Socrates, we have plenty of leisure.

[Soc.] That is true, and your remark recalls to my mind an observation which I have often made, that those who have passed their days in the pursuit of philosophy are ridiculously at fault when they have to appear and speak in court. How natural is this!

[Theod.] What do you mean?

[Soc.] I mean to say, that those who have been trained in philosophy and liberal pursuits are as unlike those who from their youth upwards have been knocking about in the courts and such places, as a freeman is in breeding unlike a slave.

[Theod.] In what is the difference seen?

[Soc.] In the leisure spoken of by you, which a freeman can always command: he has his talk, out in peace, and, like ourselves, he wanders at will from one subject to another, and from a second to a third,-if the fancy takes him he begins again, as we are doing now, caring not whether his words are many or few; his only aim is to attain the truth. But the lawyer is always in a hurry; there is the water of the clepsydra driving him on, and not allowing him to expatiate at will: and there is his adversary standing over him, enforcing his rights; the indictment, which in their phraseology is termed the affidavit, is recited at the time: and from this he must not deviate. He is a servant, and is continually disputing about a fellow servant before his master, who is seated, and has the cause in his hands; the trial is never about some indifferent matter, but always concerns himself; and often the race is for his life. The consequence has been, that he has become keen and shrewd; he has learned how to flatter his master in word and indulge him in deed; but his soul is small and unrighteous. His condition, which has been that of a slave from his youth upwards, has deprived him of growth and uprightness and independence; dangers and fears, which were too much for his truth and honesty, came upon him in early years, when the tenderness of youth was unequal to them, and he has been driven into crooked ways; from the first he has practised deception and retaliation, and has become stunted and warped. And so he has passed out of youth into manhood, having no soundness in him; and is now, as he thinks, a master in wisdom. Such is the lawyer, Theodorus. Will you have the companion picture of the philosopher, who is of our brotherhood; or shall we return to the argument? Do not let us abuse the freedom of digression which we claim.

[Theod.] Nay, Socrates, not until we have finished what we are about; for you truly said that we belong to a brotherhood which is free, and are not the servants of the argument; but the argument is our servant, and must wait our leisure. Who is our judge? Or where is the spectator having any right to censure or control us, as he might the poets?

[Soc.] Then, as this is your wish, I will describe the leaders; for there is no use in talking about the inferior sort. In the first place, the lords of philosophy have never, from their youth upwards, known their way to the Agora, or the dicastery, or the council, or any other political assembly; they neither see nor hear the laws or decrees, as they are called, of the state written or recited; the eagerness of political societies in the attainment of office-clubs, and banquets, and revels, and singing-maidens,-do not enter even into their dreams. Whether any event has turned out well or ill in the city, what disgrace may have descended to any one from his ancestors, male or female, are matters of which the philosopher no more knows than he can tell, as they say, how many pints are contained in the ocean. Neither is he conscious of his ignorance. For he does not hold aloof in order; that he may gain a reputation; but the truth is, that the outer form of him only is in the city: his mind, disdaining the littlenesses and nothingnesses of human things, is “flying all abroad” as Pindar says, measuring earth and heaven and the things which are under and on the earth and above the heaven, interrogating the whole nature of each and all in their entirety, but not condescending to anything which is within reach.

[Theod.] What do you mean, Socrates?

[Soc.] I will illustrate my meaning, Theodorus, by the jest which the clever witty Thracian handmaid is said to have made about Thales, when he fell into a well as he was looking up at the stars. She said, that he was so eager to know what was going on in heaven, that he could not see what was before his feet. This is a jest which is equally applicable to all philosophers. For the philosopher is wholly unacquainted with his next-door neighbour; he is ignorant, not only of what he is doing, but he hardly knows whether he is a man or an animal; he is searching into the essence of man, and busy in enquiring what belongs to such a nature to do or suffer different from any other;-I think that you understand me, Theodorus?

[Theod.] I do, and what you say is true.

[Soc.] And thus, my friend, on every occasion, private as well as public, as I said at first, when he appears in a law-court, or in any place in which he has to speak of things which are at his feet and before his eyes, he is the jest, not only of Thracian handmaids but of the general herd, tumbling into wells and every sort of disaster through his inexperience. His awkwardness is fearful, and gives the impression of imbecility. When he is reviled, he has nothing personal to say in answer to the civilities of his adversaries, for he knows no scandals of any one, and they do not interest him; and therefore he is laughed at for his sheepishness; and when others are being praised and glorified, in the simplicity of his heart he cannot help going into fits of laughter, so that he seems to be a downright idiot. When he hears a tyrant or king eulogized, he fancies that he is listening to the praises of some keeper of cattle-a swineherd, or shepherd, or perhaps a cowherd, who is congratulated on the quantity of milk which he squeezes from them; and he remarks that the creature whom they tend, and out of whom they squeeze the wealth, is of a less traitable and more insidious nature. Then, again, he observes that the great man is of necessity as ill-mannered and uneducated as any shepherd-for he has no leisure, and he is surrounded by a wall, which is his mountain-pen. Hearing of enormous landed proprietors of ten thousand acres and more, our philosopher deems this to be a trifle, because he has been accustomed to think of the whole earth; and when they sing the, praises of family, and say that someone is a gentleman because he can show seven generations of wealthy ancestors, he thinks that their sentiments only betray a dull and narrow vision in those who utter them, and who are not educated enough to look at the whole, nor to consider that every man has had thousands and ten thousands of progenitors, and among them have been rich and poor, kings and slaves, Hellenes and barbarians, innumerable. And when people pride themselves on having a pedigree of twenty-five ancestors, which goes back to Heracles, the son of Amphitryon, he cannot understand their poverty of ideas. Why are they unable to calculate that Amphitryon had a twenty-fifth ancestor, who might have been anybody, and was such as fortune made him and he had a fiftieth, and so on? He amuses himself with the notion that they cannot count, and thinks that a little arithmetic would have got rid of their senseless vanity. Now, in all these cases our philosopher is derided by the vulgar, partly because he is thought to despise them, and also because he is ignorant of what is before him, and always at a loss.

[Theod.] That is very true, Socrates.

[Soc.] But, O my friend, when he draws the other into upper air, and gets him out of his pleas and rejoinders into the contemplation of justice and injustice in their own nature and in their difference from one another and from all other things; or from the commonplaces about the happiness of a king or of a rich man to the consideration of government, and of human happiness and misery in general-what they are, and how a man is to attain the one and avoid the other-when that narrow, keen, little legal mind is called to account about all this, he gives the philosopher his revenge; for dizzied by the height at which he is hanging, whence he looks down into space, which is a strange experience to him, he being dismayed, and lost, and stammering broken words, is laughed at, not by Thracian handmaidens or any other uneducated persons, for they have no eye for the situation, but by every man who has not been brought up a slave. Such are the two characters, Theodorus: the one of the freeman, who has becomes trained in liberty and leisure, whom you call the philosopher-him we cannot blame because he appears simple and of no account when he has to perform some menial task, such as packing up bed-clothes, or flavouring a sauce or fawning speech; the other character is that of the man who is able to do all this kind of service smartly and neatly, but knows not how to wear his cloak like a gentleman; still less with the music of discourse can he hymn the true life aright which is lived by immortals or men blessed of heaven.

[Theod.] If you could only persuade everybody, Socrates, as you do me, of the truth of your words, there would be more peace and fewer evils among men.

[Soc.] Evils, Theodorus, can never pass away; for there must always remain something which is antagonistic to good. Having no place among the gods in heaven, of necessity they hover around the mortal nature, and this earthly sphere. Wherefore we ought to fly away from earth to heaven as quickly as we can; and to fly away is to become like God, as far as this is possible; and to become like him, is to become holy, just, and wise. But, O my friend, you cannot easily convince mankind that they should pursue virtue or avoid vice, not merely in order that a man may seem to be good, which is the reason given by the world, and in my judgment is only a repetition of an old wives fable. Whereas, the truth is that God is never in any way unrighteous-he is perfect righteousness; and he of us who is the most righteous is most like him. Herein is seen the true cleverness of a man, and also his nothingness and want of manhood. For to know this is true wisdom and virtue, and ignorance of this is manifest folly and vice. All other kinds of wisdom or cleverness, which seem only, such as the wisdom of politicians, or the wisdom of the arts, are coarse and vulgar. The unrighteous man, or the sayer and doer of unholy things, had far better not be encouraged in the illusion that his roguery is clever; for men glory in their shame -they fancy that they hear others saying of them, “These are not mere good-for nothing persons, mere burdens of the earth, but such as men should be who mean to dwell safely in a state.” Let us tell them that they are all the more truly what they do not think they are because they do not know it; for they do not know the penalty of injustice, which above all things they ought to know-not stripes and death, as they suppose, which evil-doers often escape, but a penalty which cannot be escaped.

[Theod.] What is that?

[Soc.] There are two patterns eternally set before them; the one blessed and divine, the other godless and wretched: but they do not see them, or perceive that in their utter folly and infatuation they are growing like the one and unlike the other, by reason of their evil deeds; and the penalty is, that they lead a life answering to the pattern which they are growing like. And if we tell them, that unless they depart from their cunning, the place of innocence will not receive them after death; and that here on earth, they will live ever in the likeness of their own evil selves, and with evil friends-when they hear this they in their superior cunning will seem to be listening to the talk of idiots.

[Theod.] Very true, Socrates.

[Soc.] Too true, my friend, as I well know; there is, however, one peculiarity in their case: when they begin to reason in private about their dislike of philosophy, if they have the courage to hear the argument out and do not run away, they grow at last strangely discontented with themselves; their rhetoric fades away, and they become helpless as children. These however are digressions from which we must now desist, or they will overflow, and drown the original argument; to which, if you please, we will now return.

[Theod.] For my part, Socrates, I would rather have the digressions, for at my age I find them easier to follow; but if you wish, let us go back to the argument.

[Soc.] Had we not reached the point at which the partisans of the perpetual flux, who say that things are as they seem to each one, were confidently maintaining that the ordinances which the state commanded 2nd thought just, were just to the state which imposed them, while they were in force; this was especially asserted of justice; but as to the good, no one had any longer the hardihood to contend of any ordinances which the state thought and enacted to be good that these, while they were in force, were really good;-he who said so would be playing with the name “good,” and would, not touch the real question-it would be a mockery, would it not?

[Theod.] Certainly it would.

[Soc.] He ought not to speak of the name, but of the thing which is contemplated under the name.

[Theod.] Right.

[Soc.] Whatever be the term used, the good or expedient is the aim of legislation, and as far as she has an opinion, the state imposes all laws with a view to the greatest expediency; can legislation have any other aim?

[Theod.] Certainly not.

[Soc.] But is the aim attained always? do not mistakes often happen?

[Theod.] Yes, I think that there are mistakes.

[Soc.] The possibility of error will be more distinctly recognized, if we put the question in reference to the whole class under which the good or expedient fall That whole class has to do with the future, and laws are passed under the idea that they will be useful in after-time; which, in other words, is the future.

[Theod.] Very true.

[Soc.] Suppose now, that we ask Protagoras, or one of his disciples, a question:-O, Protagoras, we will say to him, Man is, as you declare, the measure of all things-white, heavy, light: of all such things he is the judge; for he has the criterion of them in himself, and when he thinks that things are such as he experiences them to be, he thinks what is and is true to himself. Is it not so?

[Theod.] Yes.

[Soc.] And do you extend your doctrine, Protagoras (as we shall further say), to the future as well as to the present; and has he the criterion not only of what in his opinion is but of what will be, and do things always happen to him as he expected? For example, take the case of heat:-When an ordinary man thinks that he is going to have a fever, and that this kind of heat is coming on, and another person, who is a physician, thinks the contrary, whose opinion is likely to prove right? Or are they both right?-he will have a heat and fever in his own judgment, and not have a fever in the physician’s judgment?

[Theod.] How ludicrous!

[Soc.] And the vinegrower, if I am not mistaken, is a better judge of the sweetness or dryness of the vintage which is not yet gathered than the harp-player?

[Theod.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And in musical composition-the musician will know better than the training master what the training master himself will hereafter think harmonious or the reverse?

[Theod.] Of course.

[Soc.] And the cook will be a better judge than the guest, who is not a cook, of the pleasure to be derived from the dinner which is in preparation; for of present or past pleasure we are not as yet arguing; but can we say that every one will be to himself the best judge of the pleasure which will seem to be and will be to him in the future?-nay, would not you, Protagoras, better guess which arguments in a court would convince any one of us than the ordinary man?

[Theod.] Certainly, Socrates, he used to profess in the strongest manner that he was the superior of all men in this respect.

[Soc.] To be sure, friend: who would have paid a large sum for the privilege of talking to him, if he had really persuaded his visitors that neither a prophet nor any other man was better able to judge what will be and seem to be in the future than every one could for himself?

[Theod.] Who indeed?

[Soc.] And legislation and expediency are all concerned with the future; and every one will admit that states, in passing laws, must often fail of their highest interests?

[Theod.] Quite true.

[Soc.] Then we may fairly argue against your master, that he must admit one man to be wiser than another, and that the wiser is a measure: but I, who know nothing, am not at all obliged to accept the honour which the advocate of Protagoras was just now forcing upon me, whether I would or not, of being a measure of anything.

[Theod.] That is the best refutation of him, Socrates; although he is also caught when he ascribes truth to the opinions of others, who give the lie direct to his own opinion.

[Soc.] There are many ways, Theodorus, in which the doctrine that every opinion of: every man is true may be refuted; but there is more difficulty, in proving that states of feeling, which are present to a man, and out of which arise sensations and opinions in accordance with them, are also untrue. And very likely I have been talking nonsense about them; for they may be unassailable, and those who say that there is clear evidence of them, and that they are matters of knowledge, may probably be right; in which case our friend Theaetetus was not so far from the mark when he identified perception and knowledge. And therefore let us draw nearer, as the advocate of Protagoras desires; and the truth of the universal flux a ring: is the theory sound or not? at any rate, no small war is raging about it, and there are combination not a few.

[Theod.] No small, war, indeed, for in most the sect makes rapid strides, the disciples of Heracleitus are most energetic. upholders of the doctrine.

[Soc.] Then we are the more bound, my dear Theodorus, to examine the question from the foundation as it is set forth by themselves.

[Theod.] Certainly we are. About these speculations of Heracleitus, which, as you say, are as old as Homer, or even older still, the Ephesians themselves, who profess to know them, are downright mad, and you cannot talk with them on the subject. For, in accordance with their text-books, they are always in motion; but as for dwelling upon an argument or a question, and quietly asking and answering in turn, they can no more do so than they can fly; or rather, the determination of these fellows not to have a particle of rest in them is more than the utmost powers of negation can express. If you ask any of them a question, he will produce, as from a quiver, sayings brief and dark, and shoot them at you; and if you inquire the reason of what he has said, you will be hit by some other newfangled word, and will make no way with any of them, nor they with one another; their great care is, not to allow of any settled principle either in their arguments or in their minds, conceiving, as I imagine, that any such principle would be stationary; for they are at war with the stationary, and do what they can to drive it out everywhere.

[Soc.] I suppose, Theodorus, that you have only seen them when they were fighting, and have never stayed with them in time of peace, for they are no friends of yours; and their peace doctrines are only communicated by them at leisure, as I imagine, to those disciples of theirs whom they want to make like themselves.

[Theod.] Disciples! my good sir, they have none; men of their sort are not one another’s disciples, but they grow up at their own sweet will, and get their inspiration anywhere, each of them saying of his neighbour that he knows nothing. Fro these men, then, as I was going to remark, you will never get a reason, whether with their will or without their will; we must take the question out of their hands, and make the analysis ourselves, as if we were doing geometrical problem.

[Soc.] Quite right too; but as touching the aforesaid problem, have we not heard from the ancients, who concealed their wisdom from the many in poetical figures, that Oceanus and Tethys, the origin of all things, are streams, and that nothing is at rest? And now the moderns, in their superior wisdom, have declared the same openly, that the cobbler too may hear and learn of them, and no longer foolishly imagine that some things are at rest and others in motion-having learned that all is motion, he will duly honour his teachers. I had almost forgotten the opposite doctrine, Theodorus,

Alone Being remains unmoved, which is the name for the all.

This is the language of Parmenides, Melissus, and their followers, who stoutly maintain that all being is one and self-contained, and has no place which to move. What shall we do, friend, with all these people; for, advancing step by step, we have imperceptibly got between the combatants, and, unless we can protect our retreat, we shall pay the penalty of our rashness-like the players in the palaestra who are caught upon the line, and are dragged different ways by the two parties. Therefore I think that we had better begin by considering those whom we first accosted, “the river-gods,” and, if we find any truth in them, we will help them to pull us over, and try to get away from the others. But if the partisans of “the whole” appear to speak more truly, we will fly off from the party which would move the immovable, to them. And if I find that neither of them have anything reasonable to say, we shall be in a ridiculous position, having so great a conceit of our own poor opinion and rejecting that of ancient and famous men. O Theodorus, do you think that there is any use in proceeding when the danger is so great?

[Theod.] Nay, Socrates, not to examine thoroughly what the two parties have to say would be quite intolerable.

[Soc.] Then examine we must, since you, who were so reluctant. to begin, are so eager to proceed. The nature of motion appears to be the question with which we begin. What do they mean when they say that all things are in motion? Is there only one kind of motion, or, as I rather incline to think, two? should like to have your opinion upon this point in addition to my own, that I may err, if I must err, in your company; tell me, then, when a thing changes from one place to another, or goes round in the same place, is not that what is called motion?

[Theod.] Yes.

[Soc.] Here then we have one kind of motion. But when a thing, remaining on the same spot, grows old, or becomes black from being white, or hard from being soft, or undergoes any other change, may not this be properly called motion of another kind?

[Theod.] I think so.

[Soc.] Say rather that it must be so. Of motion then there are these two kinds, “change,” and “motion in place.”

[Theod.] You are right.

[Soc.] And now, having made this distinction, let us address ourselves to those who say that all is motion, and ask them whether all things according to them have the two kinds of motion, and are changed as well as move in place, or is one thing moved in both ways, and another in one only?

[Theod.] Indeed, I do not know what to answer; but I think they would say that all things are moved in both ways.

[Soc.] Yes, comrade; for, if not, they would have to say that the same things are in motion and at rest, and there would be no more truth in saying that all things are in motion, than that all things are at rest.

[Theod.] To be sure.

[Soc.] And if they are to be in motion, and nothing is to be devoid of motion, all things must always have every sort of motion?

[Theod.] Most true.

[Soc.] Consider a further point: did we not understand them to explain the generation of heat, whiteness, or anything else, in some such manner as the following:-were they not saying that each of them is moving between the agent and the patient, together with a perception, and that the patient ceases to be a perceiving power and becomes a percipient, and the agent a quale instead of a quality? I suspect that quality may appear a strange and uncouth term to you, and that you do not understand the abstract expression. Then I will take concrete instances: I mean to say that the producing power or agent becomes neither heat nor whiteness but hot and white, and the like of other things. For I must repeat what I said before, that neither the agent nor patient have any absolute existence, but when they come together and generate sensations and their objects, the one becomes a thing a certain quality, and the other a percipient. You remember?

[Theod.] Of course.

[Soc.] We may leave the details of their theory unexamined, but we must not forget to ask them the only question with which we are concerned: Are all things in motion and flux?

[Theod.] Yes, they will reply.

[Soc.] And they are moved in both those ways which we distinguished, that is to Way, they move in place and are also changed?

[Theod.] Of course, if the motion is to be perfect.

[Soc.] If they only moved in place and were not changed, we should be able to say what is the nature of the things which are in motion and flux.

[Theod.] Exactly.

[Soc.] But now, since not even white continues to flow white, and whiteness itself is a flux or change which is passing into another colour, and is never to be caught standing still, can the name of any colour be rightly used at all?

[Theod.] How is that possible, Socrates, either in the case of this or of any other quality-if while we are using the word the object is escaping in the flux?

[Soc.] And what would you say of perceptions, such as sight and hearing, or any other kind of perception? Is there any stopping in the act of seeing and hearing?

[Theod.] Certainly not, if all things are in motion.

[Soc.] Then we must not speak of seeing any more than of not-seeing, nor of any other perception more than of any non-perception, if all things partake of every kind of motion?

[Theod.] Certainly not.

[Soc.] Yet perception is knowledge: so at least Theaetetus and I were saying.

[Theod.] Very true.

[Soc.] Then when we were asked what is knowledge, we no more answered what is knowledge than what is not knowledge?

[Theod.] I suppose not.

[Soc.] Here, then, is a fine result: we corrected our first answer in our eagerness to prove that nothing is at rest. But if nothing is at rest, every answer upon whatever subject is equally right: you may say that a thing is or is not thus; or, if you prefer, “becomes” thus; and if we say “becomes,” we shall not then hamper them with words expressive of rest.

[Theod.] Quite true.

[Soc.] Yes, Theodorus, except in saying “thus” and “not thus.” But you ought not to use the word “thus,” for there is no motion in “thus” or in “not thus.” The maintainers of the doctrine have as yet no words in which to express themselves, and must get a new language. I know of no word that will suit them, except perhaps “no how,” which is perfectly indefinite.

[Theod.] Yes, that is a manner of speaking in which they will be quite at home.

[Soc.] And so, Theodorus, we have got rid of your friend without assenting to his doctrine, that every man is the measure of all things-a wise man only is a measure; neither can we allow that knowledge is perception, certainly not on the hypothesis of a perpetual flux, unless perchance our friend Theaetetus is able to convince us that it is.

[Theod.] Very good, Socrates; and now that the argument about the doctrine of Protagoras has been completed, I am absolved from answering; for this was the agreement.

[Theaet.] Not, Theodorus, until you and Socrates have discussed the doctrine of those who say that all things are at rest, as you were proposing.

[Theod.] You, Theaetetus, who are a young rogue, must not instigate your elders to a breach of faith, but should prepare to answer Socrates in the remainder of the argument.

[Theaet.] Yes, if he wishes; but I would rather have heard about the doctrine of rest.

[Theod.] Invite Socrates to an argument-invite horsemen to the open plain; do but ask him, and he will answer.

[Soc.] Nevertheless, Theodorus, I am afraid that I shall not be able to comply with the request of Theaetetus.

[Theod.] Not comply! for what reason?

[Soc.] My reason is that I have a kind of reverence; not so much for Melissus and the others, who say that “All is one and at rest,” as for the great leader himself, Parmenides, venerable and awful, as in Homeric language he may be called;-him I should be ashamed to approach in a spirit unworthy of him. I met him when he was an old man, and I was a mere youth, and he appeared to me to have a glorious depth of mind. And I am afraid that we may not understand his words, and may be still further from understanding his meaning; above all I fear that the nature of knowledge, which is the main subject of our discussion, may be thrust out of sight by the unbidden guests who will come pouring in upon our feast of discourse, if we let them in-besides, the question which is now stirring is of immense extent, and will be treated unfairly if only considered by the way; or if treated adequately and at length, will put into the shade the other question of knowledge. Neither the one nor the other can be allowed; but I must try by my art of midwifery to deliver Theaetetus of his conceptions about knowledge.

[Theaet.] Very well; do so if you will.

[Soc.] Then now, Theaetetus, take another view of the subject: you answered that knowledge is perception?

[Theaet.] I did.

[Soc.] And if any one were to ask you: With what does a man see black and white colours? and with what does he hear high and low sounds?-you would say, if I am not mistaken, “With the eyes and with the ears.”

[Theaet.] I should.

[Soc.] The free use of words and phrases, rather than minute precision, is generally characteristic of a liberal education, and the opposite is pedantic; but sometimes precision. is necessary, and I believe that the answer which you have just given is open to the charge of incorrectness; for which is more correct, to say that we see or hear with the eyes and with the ears, or through the eyes and through the ears.

[Theaet.] I should say “through,” Socrates, rather than “with.”

[Soc.] Yes, my boy, for no one can suppose that in each of us, as in a sort of Trojan horse, there are perched a number of unconnected senses, which do not all meet in some one nature, the mind, or whatever we please to call it, of which they are the instruments, and with which through them we perceive objects of sense.

[Theaet.] I agree with you in that opinion.

[Soc.] The reason why I am thus precise is, because I want to know whether, when we perceive black and white through the eyes, and again, other qualities through other organs, we do not perceive them with one and the same part of ourselves, and, if you were asked, you might refer all such perceptions to the body. Perhaps, however, I had better allow you to answer for yourself and not interfere; Tell me, then, are not the organs through which you perceive warm and hard and light and sweet, organs of the body?

[Theaet.] Of the body, certainly.

[Soc.] And you would admit that what you perceive through one faculty you cannot perceive through another; the objects of hearing, for example, cannot be perceived through sight, or the objects of sight through hearing?

[Theaet.] Of course not.

[Soc.] If you have any thought about both of them, this common perception cannot come to you, either through the one or the other organ?

[Theaet.] It cannot.

[Soc.] How about sounds and colours: in the first place you would admit that they both exist?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] And that either of them is different from the other, and the same with itself?

[Theaet.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And that both are two and each of them one?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] You can further observe whether they are like or unlike one another?

[Theaet.] I dare say.

[Soc.] But through what do you perceive all this about them? for neither through hearing nor yet through seeing can you apprehend that which they have in common. Let me give you an illustration of the point at issue:-If there were any meaning in asking whether sounds and colours are saline or not, you would be able to tell me what faculty would consider the question. It would not be sight or hearing, but some other.

[Theaet.] Certainly; the faculty of taste.

[Soc.] Very good; and now tell me what is the power which discerns, not only in sensible objects, but in all things, universal notions, such as those which are called being and not-being, and those others about which we were just asking-what organs will you assign for the perception of these notions?

[Theaet.] You are thinking of being and not being, likeness and unlikeness, sameness and difference, and also of unity and other numbers which are applied to objects of sense; and you mean to ask, through what bodily organ the soul perceives odd and even numbers and other arithmetical conceptions.

[Soc.] You follow me excellently, Theaetetus; that is precisely what I am asking.

[Theaet.] Indeed, Socrates, I cannot answer; my only notion is, that these, unlike objects of sense, have no separate organ, but that the mind, by a power of her own, contemplates the universals in all things.

[Soc.] You are a beauty, Theaetetus, and not ugly, as Theodorus was saying; for he who utters the beautiful is himself beautiful and good. And besides being beautiful, you have done me a kindness in releasing me from a very long discussion, if you are clear that the soul views some things by herself and others through the bodily organs. For that was my own opinion, and I wanted you to agree with me.

[Theaet.] I am quite clear.

[Soc.] And to which class would you refer being or essence; for this, of all our notions, is the most universal?

[Theaet.] I should say, to that class which the soul aspires to know of herself.

[Soc.] And would you say this also of like and unlike, same and other?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] And would you say the same of the noble and base, and of good and evil?

[Theaet.] These I conceive to be notions which are essentially relative, and which the soul also perceives by comparing in herself things past and present with the future.

[Soc.] And does she not perceive the hardness of that which is hard by the touch, and the softness of that which is soft equally by the touch?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] But their essence and what they are, and their opposition to one another, and the essential nature of this opposition, the soul herself endeavours to decide for us by the review and comparison of them?

[Theaet.] Certainly.

[Soc.] The simple sensations which reach the soul through the body are given at birth to men and animals by nature, but their reflections on the being and use of them are slowly and hardly gained, if they are ever gained, by education and long experience.

[Theaet.] Assuredly.

[Soc.] And can a man attain truth who fails of attaining being?

[Theaet.] Impossible.

[Soc.] And can he who misses the truth of anything, have a knowledge of that thing?

[Theaet.] He cannot.

[Soc.] Then knowledge does not consist in impressions of sense, but in reasoning about them; in that only, and not in the mere impression, truth and being can be attained?

[Theaet.] Clearly.

[Soc.] And would you call the two processes by the same name, when there is so great difference between them?

[Theaet.] That would certainly not be right.

[Soc.] And what name would you give to seeing, hearing, smelling, being cold and being hot?

[Theaet.] I should call all of them perceiving-what other name could be given to them?

[Soc.] Perception would be the collective name of them?

[Theaet.] Certainly.

[Soc.] Which, as we say, has no part in the attainment of truth any more of being?

[Theaet.] Certainly not.

[Soc.] And therefore not in. science or knowledge?

[Theaet.] No.

[Soc.] Then perception, Theaetetus, can never be the same as knowledge or science?

[Theaet.] Clearly not, Socrates; and knowledge has now been most distinctly proved to be different from perception.

[Soc.] But the original aim of our discussion was to find out rather what knowledge is than what it is not; at the same time we have made some progress, for we no longer seek for knowledge, in perception at all, but in that other process, however called, in which the mind is alone and engaged with being.

[Theaet.] You mean, Socrates, if I am not mistaken, what is called thinking or opining.

[Soc.] You conceive truly. And now, my friend, Please to begin again at this point; and having wiped out of your memory all that has preceded, see if you have arrived at any clearer view, and once more say what is knowledge.

[Theaet.] I cannot say, Socrates, that all opinion is knowledge, because there may be a false opinion; but I will venture to assert, that knowledge is true opinion: let this then be my reply; and if this is hereafter disproved, I must try to find another.

[Soc.] That is the way in which you ought to answer, Theaetetus, and not in your former hesitating strain, for if we are bold we shall gain one of two advantages; either we shall find what we seek, or we shall be less likely to think that we know what we do not know-in either case we shall be richly rewarded. And now, what are you saying?-Are there two sorts of opinion, one true and the other false; and do you define knowledge to be the true?

[Theaet.] Yes, according to my present view.

[Soc.] Is it still worth our while to resume the discussion touching opinion?

[Theaet.] To what are you alluding?

[Soc.] There is a point which often troubles me, and is a great perplexity to me, both in regard to myself and others. I cannot make out the nature or origin of the mental experience to which I refer.

[Theaet.] Pray what is it?

[Soc.] How there can be-false opinion-that difficulty still troubles the eye of my mind; and I am uncertain whether I shall leave the question, or over again in a new way.

[Theaet.] Begin again, Socrates,-at least if you think that there is the slightest necessity for doing so. Were not you and Theodorus just now remarking very truly, that in discussions of this kind we may take our own time?

[Soc.] You are quite right, and perhaps there will be no harm in retracing our steps and beginning again. Better a little which is well done, than a great deal imperfectly.

[Theaet.] Certainly.

[Soc.] Well, and what is the difficulty? Do we not speak of false opinion, and say that one man holds a false and another a true opinion, as though there were some natural distinction between them?

[Theaet.] We certainly say so.

[Soc.] All things and everything are either known or not known. I leave out of view the intermediate conceptions of learning and forgetting, because they have nothing to do with our present question.

[Theaet.] There can be no doubt, Socrates, if you exclude these, that there is no other alternative but knowing or not knowing a thing.

[Soc.] That point being now determined, must we not say that he who has an opinion, must have an opinion about something which he knows or does not know?

[Theaet.] He must.

[Soc.] He who knows, cannot but know; and he who does not know, cannot know?

[Theaet.] Of course.

[Soc.] What shall we say then? When a man has a false opinion does he think that which he knows to be some other thing which he knows, and knowing both, is he at the same time ignorant of both?

[Theaet.] That, Socrates, is impossible.

[Soc.] But perhaps he thinks of something which he does not know as some other thing which he does not know; for example, he knows neither Theaetetus nor Socrates, and yet he fancies that Theaetetus is Socrates, or Socrates Theaetetus?

[Theaet.] How can he?

[Soc.] But surely he cannot suppose what he knows to be what he does not know, or what he does not know to be what he knows?

[Theaet.] That would be monstrous.

[Soc.] Where, then, is false opinion? For if all things are either known or unknown, there can be no opinion which is not comprehended under this alternative, and so false opinion is excluded. Theaes. Most true.

[Soc.] Suppose that we remove the question out of the sphere of knowing or not knowing, into that of being and not-being.

[Theaet.] What do you mean?

[Soc.] May we not suspect the simple truth to be that he who thinks about anything, that which. is not, will necessarily think what is false, whatever in other respects may be the state of his mind?

[Theaet.] That, again, is not unlikely, Socrates.

[Soc.] Then suppose some one to say to us, Theaetetus:-Is it possible for any man to think that which is not, either as a self-existent substance or as a predicate of something else? And suppose that we answer, “Yes, he can, when he thinks what is not true.”-That will be our answer?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] But is there any parallel to this?

[Theaet.] What do you mean?

[Soc.] Can a man see something and yet see nothing?

[Theaet.] Impossible.

[Soc.] But if he sees any one thing, he sees something that exists. Do you suppose that what is one is ever to be found among nonexisting things?

[Theaet.] I do not.

[Soc.] He then who sees some one thing, sees something which is?

[Theaet.] Clearly.

[Soc.] And he who hears anything, hears some one thing, and hears that which is?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] And he who touches anything, touches something which is one and therefore is?

[Theaet.] That again is true.

[Soc.] And does not he who thinks, think some one thing?

[Theaet.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And does not he who thinks some one thing, think something which is?

[Theaet.] I agree.

[Soc.] Then he who thinks of that which is not, thinks of nothing?

[Theaet.] Clearly.

[Soc.] And he who thinks of nothing, does not think at all?

[Theaet.] Obviously.

[Soc.] Then no one can think that which is not, either as a self-existent substance or as a predicate of something else?

[Theaet.] Clearly not.

[Soc.] Then to think falsely is different from thinking that which is not?

[Theaet.] It would seem so.

[Soc.] Then false opinion has no existence in us, either in the sphere of being or of knowledge?

[Theaet.] Certainly not.

[Soc.] But may not the following be the description of what we express by this name?

[Theaet.] What?

[Soc.] May we not suppose that false opinion or thought is a sort of heterodoxy; a person may make an exchange in his mind, and say that one real object is another real object. For thus he always thinks that which is, but he puts one thing in place of another; and missing the aim of his thoughts, he may be truly said to have false opinion.

[Theaet.] Now you appear to me to have spoken the exact truth: when a man puts the base in the place of the noble, or the noble in the place of the base, then he has truly false opinion.

[Soc.] I see, Theaetetus, that your fear has disappeared, and that you are beginning to despise me.

[Theaet.] What makes you say so?

[Soc.] You think, if I am not mistaken, that your “truly false” is safe from censure, and that I shall never ask whether there can be a swift which is slow, or a heavy which is light, or any other self-contradictory thing, which works, not according to its own nature, but according to that of its opposite. But I will not insist upon this, for I do not wish needlessly to discourage you. And so you are satisfied that false opinion is heterodoxy, or the thought of something else?

[Theaet.] I am.

[Soc.] It is possible then upon your view for the mind to conceive of one thing as another?

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] But must not the mind, or thinking power, which misplaces them, have a conception either of both objects or of one of them?

[Theaet.] Certainly.

[Soc.] Either together or in succession?

[Theaet.] Very good.

[Soc.] And do you mean by conceiving, the same which I mean?

[Theaet.] What is that?

[Soc.] I mean the conversation which the soul holds with herself in considering of anything. I speak of what I scarcely understand; but the soul when thinking appears to me to be just talking-asking questions of herself and answering them, affirming and denying. And when she has arrived at a decision, either gradually or by a sudden impulse, and has at last agreed, and does not doubt, this is called her opinion. I say, then, that to form an opinion is to speak, and opinion is a word spoken,-I mean, to oneself and in silence, not aloud or to another: What think you?

[Theaet.] I agree.

[Soc.] Then when any one thinks of one thing as another, he is saying to himself that one thing is another?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] But do you ever remember saying to yourself that the noble is certainly base, or the unjust just; or, best of all-have you ever attempted to convince yourself that one thing is another? Nay, not even in sleep, did you ever venture to say to yourself that odd is even, or anything of the kind?

[Theaet.] Never.

[Soc.] And do you suppose that any other man, either in his senses or out of them, ever seriously tried to persuade himself that an ox is a horse, or that two are one?

[Theaet.] Certainly not.

[Soc.] But if thinking is talking to oneself, no one speaking and thinking of two objects, and apprehending them both in his soul, will say and think that the one is the other of them, and I must add, that even you, lover of dispute as you are, had better let the word “other” alone [i.e., not insist that “one” and “other” are the same]. I mean to say, that no one thinks the noble to be base, or anything of the kind.

[Theaet.] I will give up the word “other,” Socrates; and I agree to what you say.

[Soc.] If a man has both of them in his thoughts, he cannot think that the one of them is the other? Theat. True.

[Soc.] Neither, if he has one of them only in his mind and not the other, can he think that one is the other?

[Theaet.] True; for we should have to suppose that he apprehends that which is not in his thoughts at all.

[Soc.] Then no one who has either both or only one of the two objects in his mind can think that the one is the other. And therefore, he who maintains that false opinion is heterodoxy is talking nonsense; for neither in this, any more than in the previous way, can false opinion exist in us.

[Theaet.] No.

[Soc.] But if, Theaetetus, this is not admitted, we shall be driven into many absurdities.

[Theaet.] What are they?

[Soc.] I will not tell you until I have endeavoured to consider the matter from every point of view. For I should be ashamed of us if we were driven in our perplexity to admit the absurd consequences of which I speak. But if we find the solution, and get away from them, we may regard them only as the difficulties of others, and the ridicule will not attach to us. On the other hand, if we utterly fail, I suppose that we must be humble, and allow the argument to trample us under foot, as the sea-sick passenger is trampled upon by the sailor, and to do anything to us. Listen, then, while I tell you how I hope to find a way out of our difficulty.

[Theaet.] Let me hear.

[Soc.] I think that we were wrong in denying that a man could think what he knew to be what he did not know; and that there is a way in which such a deception is possible.

[Theaet.] You mean to say, as I suspected at the time, that I may know Socrates, and at a distance see some one who is unknown to me, and whom I mistake for him-them the deception will occur?

[Soc.] But has not that position been relinquished by us, because involving the absurdity that we should know and not know the things which we know?

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] Let us make the assertion in another form, which may or may not have a favourable issue; but as we are in a great strait, every argument should be turned over and tested. Tell me, then, whether I am right in saying that you may learn a thing which at one time you did not know?

[Theaet.] Certainly you may.

[Soc.] And another and another?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] I would have you imagine, then, that there exists in the mind of man a block of wax, which is of different sizes in different men; harder, moister, and having more or less of purity in one than another, and in some of an intermediate quality.

[Theaet.] I see.

[Soc.] Let us say that this tablet is a gift of Memory, the mother of the Muses; and that when we wish to remember anything which we have seen, or heard, or thought in our own minds, we hold the wax to the perceptions and thoughts, and in that material receive the impression of them as from the seal of a ring; and that we remember and know what is imprinted as long as the image lasts; but when the image is effaced, or cannot be taken, then we forget and do not know.

[Theaet.] Very good.

[Soc.] Now, when a person has this knowledge, and is considering something which he sees or hears, may not false opinion arise in the following manner?

[Theaet.] In what manner?

[Soc.] When he thinks what he knows, sometimes to be what he knows, and sometimes to be what he does not know. We were wrong before in denying the possibility of this.

[Theaet.] And how would you amend the former statement?

[Soc.] I should begin by making a list of the impossible cases which must be excluded. (1) No one can think one thing to be another when he does not perceive either of them, but has the memorial or seal of both of them in his mind; nor can any mistaking of one thing for another occur, when he only knows one, and does not know, and has no impression of the other; nor can he think that one thing which he does not know is another thing which he does not know, or that what he does not know is what he knows; nor (2) that one thing which he perceives is another thing which he perceives, or that something which he perceives is something which he does not perceive; or that something which he does not perceive is something else which he does not perceive; or that something which he does not perceive is something which he perceives; nor again (3) can he think that something which he knows and perceives, and of which he has the impression coinciding with sense, is something else which he knows and perceives, and of which he has the impression coinciding with sense;-this last case, if possible, is still more inconceivable than the others; nor (4) can he think that something which he knows and perceives, and of which he has the memorial coinciding with sense, is something else which he knows; nor so long as these agree, can he think that a thing which he knows and perceives is another thing which he perceives; or that a thing which he does not know and does not perceive, is the same as another thing which he does not know and does not perceive;-nor again, can he suppose that a thing which he does not know and does not perceive is the same as another thing which he does not know; or that a thing which he does not know and does not perceive is another thing which he does not perceive:-All these utterly and absolutely exclude the possibility of false opinion. The only cases, if any, which remain, are the following.

[Theaet.] What are they? If you tell me, I may perhaps understand you better; but at present I am unable to follow you.

[Soc.] A person may think that some things which he knows, or which he perceives and does not know, are some other things which he knows and perceives; or that some things which he knows and perceives, are other things which he knows and perceives.

[Theaet.] I understand you less than ever now.

[Soc.] Hear me once more, then:-I, knowing Theodorus, and remembering in my own mind what sort of person he is, and also what sort of person Theaetetus is, at one time see them, and at another time do not see them, and sometimes I touch them, and at another time not, or at one time I may hear them or perceive them in some other way, and at another time not perceive them, but still I remember them, and know them in my own mind.

[Theaet.] Very true.

[Soc.] Then, first of all, I want you to understand that a man may or may not perceive sensibly that which he knows.

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] And that which he does not know will sometimes not be perceived by him and sometimes will be perceived and only perceived?

[Theaet.] That is also true.

[Soc.] See whether you can follow me better now: Socrates can recognize Theodorus and Theaetetus, but he sees neither of them, nor does he perceive them in any other way; he cannot then by any possibility imagine in his own mind that Theaetetus is Theodorus. Am I not right?

[Theaet.] You are quite right.

[Soc.] Then that was the first case of which I spoke.

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] The second case was, that I, knowing one of you and not knowing the other, and perceiving neither, can never think him whom I know to be him whom I do not know.

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] In the third case, not knowing and not perceiving either of you, I cannot think that one of you whom I do not know is the other whom I do not know. I need not again go over the catalogue of excluded cases, in which I cannot form a false opinion about you and Theodorus, either when I know both or when I am in ignorance of both, or when I know one and not the other. And the same of perceiving: do you understand me?

[Theaet.] I do.

[Soc.] The only possibility of erroneous opinion is, when knowing you and Theodorus, and having on the waxen block the impression of both of you given as by a seal, but seeing you imperfectly and at a distance, I try to assign the right impression of memory to the right visual impression, and to fit this into its own print: if I succeed, recognition will take place; but if I fad and transpose them, putting the foot into the wrong shoe-that is to say, putting the vision of either of you on to the wrong impression, or if my mind, like the sight in a mirror, which is transferred from right to left, err by reason of some similar affection, then “heterodoxy” and false opinion ensues.

[Theaet.] Yes, Socrates, you have described the nature of opinion with wonderful exactness.

[Soc.] Or again, when I know both of you, and perceive as well as know one of you, but not the other, and my knowledge of him does not accord with perception-that was the case put by me just now which you did not understand

[Theaet.] No, I did not.

[Soc.] I meant to say, that when a person knows and perceives one of you, his knowledge coincides with his perception, he will never think him to be some other person, whom he knows and perceives, and the knowledge of whom coincides with his perception-for that also was a case supposed.

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] But there was an omission of the further case, in which, as we now say, false opinion may arise, when knowing both, and seeing, or having some other sensible perception of both, I fail in holding the seal over against the corresponding sensation; like a bad archer, I miss and fall wide of the mark-and this is called falsehood.

[Theaet.] Yes; it is rightly so called.

[Soc.] When, therefore, perception is present to one of the seals or impressions but not to the other, and the mind fits the seal of the absent perception on the one which is present, in any case of this sort the mind is deceived; in a word, if our view is sound, there can be no error or deception about things which a man does not know and has never perceived, but only in things which are known and perceived; in these alone opinion turns and twists about, and becomes alternately true and false;-true when the seals and impressions of sense meet straight and opposite-false when they go awry and crooked.

[Theaet.] And is not that, Socrates, nobly said?

[Soc.] Nobly! yes; but wait a little and hear the explanation, and then you will say so with more reason; for to think truly is noble and to be deceived is base.

[Theaet.] Undoubtedly.

[Soc.] And the origin of truth and error is as follows:-When the wax in the soul of any one is deep and abundant, and smooth and perfectly tempered, then the impressions which pass through the senses and sink into the heart of the soul, as Homer says in a parable, meaning to indicate the likeness of the soul to wax (Kerh Kerhos); these, I say, being pure and clear, and having a sufficient depth of wax, are also lasting, and minds, such as these, easily learn and easily retain, and are not liable to confusion, but have true thoughts, for they have plenty of room, and having clear impressions of things, as we term them, quickly distribute them into their proper places on the block. And such men are called wise. Do you agree?

[Theaet.] Entirely.

[Soc.] But when the heart of any one is shaggy-a quality which the all-wise poet commends, or muddy and of impure wax, or very soft, or very hard, then there is a corresponding defect in the mind -the soft are good at learning, but apt to forget; and the hard are the reverse; the shaggy and rugged and gritty, or those who have an admixture of earth or dung in their composition, have the impressions indistinct, as also the hard, for there is no depth in them; and the soft too are indistinct, for their impressions are easily confused and effaced. Yet greater is the indistinctness when they are all jostled together in a little soul, which has no room. These are the natures which have false opinion; for when they see or hear or think of anything, they are slow in assigning the right objects to the right impressions-in their stupidity they confuse them, and are apt to see and hear and think amiss-and such men are said to be deceived in their knowledge of objects, and ignorant.

[Theaet.] No man, Socrates, can say anything truer than that.

[Soc.] Then now we may admit the existence of false opinion in us?

[Theaet.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And of true opinion also?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] We have at length satisfactorily proven beyond a doubt there are these two sorts of opinion?

[Theaet.] Undoubtedly.

[Soc.] Alas, Theaetetus, what a tiresome creature is a man who is fond of talking!

[Theaet.] What makes you say so?

[Soc.] Because I am disheartened at my own stupidity and tiresome garrulity; for what other term will describe the habit of a man who is always arguing on all sides of a question; whose dulness cannot be convinced, and who will never leave off?

[Theaet.] But what puts you out of heart?

[Soc.] I am not only out of heart, but in positive despair; for I do not know what to answer if any one were to ask me:-O Socrates, have you indeed discovered that false opinion arises neither in the comparison of perceptions with one another nor yet in thought, but in union of thought and perception? Yes, I shall say, with the complacence of one who thinks that he has made a noble discovery.

[Theaet.] I see no reason why we should be ashamed of our demonstration, Socrates.

[Soc.] He will say: You mean to argue that the man whom we only think of and do not see, cannot be confused with the horse which we do not see or touch, but only think of and do not perceive? That I believe to be my meaning, I shall reply.

[Theaet.] Quite right.

[Soc.] Well, then, he will say, according to that argument, the number eleven, which is only thought, never be mistaken for twelve, which is only thought: How would you answer him?

[Theaet.] I should say that a mistake may very likely arise between the eleven or twelve which are seen or handled, but that no similar mistake can arise between the eleven and twelve which are in the mind.

[Soc.] Well, but do you think that no one ever put before his own mind five and seven, -I do not mean five or seven men or horses, but five or seven in the abstract, which, as we say, are recorded on the waxen block, and in which false opinion is held to be impossible; did no man ever ask himself how many these numbers make when added together, and answer that they are eleven, while another thinks that they are twelve, or would all agree in thinking and saying that they are twelve?

[Theaet.] Certainly not; many would think that they are eleven, and in the higher numbers the chance of error is greater still; for I assume you to be speaking of numbers in general.

[Soc.] Exactly; and I want you to consider whether this does not imply that the twelve in the waxen block are supposed to be eleven?

[Theaet.] Yes, that seems to be the case.

[Soc.] Then do we not come back to the old difficulty? For he who makes such a mistake does think one thing which he knows to be another thing which he knows; but this, as we said, was impossible, and afforded an irresistible proof of the non-existence of false opinion, because otherwise the same person would inevitably know and not know the same thing at the same time.

[Theaet.] Most true.

[Soc.] Then false opinion cannot be explained as a confusion of thought and sense, for in that case we could not have been mistaken about pure conceptions of thought; and thus we are obliged to say, either that false opinion does not exist, or that a man may not know that which he knows;-which alternative do you prefer?

[Theaet.] It is hard to determine, Socrates.

[Soc.] And yet the argument will scarcely admit of both. But, as we are at our wits’ end, suppose that we do a shameless thing?

[Theaet.] What is it?

[Soc.] Let us attempt to explain the verb “to know.”

[Theaet.] And why should that be shameless?

[Soc.] You seem not to be aware that the whole of our discussion from the very beginning has been a search after knowledge, of which we are assumed not to know the nature.

[Theaet.] Nay, but I am well aware.

[Soc.] And is it not shameless when we do not know what knowledge is, to be explaining the verb “to know”? The truth is, Theaetetus, that we have long been infected with logical impurity. Thousands of times have we repeated the words “we know,” and “do not know,” and “we have or have not science or knowledge,” as if we could understand what we are saying to one another, so long as we remain ignorant about knowledge; and at this moment we are using the words “we understand,” “we are ignorant,” as though we could still employ them when deprived of knowledge or science.

[Theaet.] But if you avoid these expressions, Socrates, how will you ever argue at all?

[Soc.] I could not, being the man I am. The case would be different if I were a true hero of dialectic: and O that such an one were present! for he would have told us to avoid the use of these terms; at the same time he would not have spared in you and me the faults which I have noted. But, seeing that we are no great wits, shall I venture to say what knowing is? for I think that the attempt may be worth making.

[Theaet.] Then by all means venture, and no one shall find fault with you for using the forbidden terms.

[Soc.] You have heard the common explanation of the verb “to know”?

[Theaet.] I think so, but I do not remember it at the moment.

[Soc.] They explain the word “to know” as meaning “to have knowledge.”

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] I should like to make a slight change, and say “to possess” knowledge.

[Theaet.] How do the two expressions differ?

[Soc.] Perhaps there may be no difference; but still I should like you to hear my view, that you may help me to test it.

[Theaet.] I will, if I can.

[Soc.] I should distinguish “having” from “possessing”: for example, a man may buy and keep under his control a garment which he does not wear; and then we should say, not that he has, but that he possesses the garment.

[Theaet.] It would be the correct expression.

[Soc.] Well, may not a man “possess” and yet not “have” knowledge in the sense of which I am speaking? As you may suppose a man to have caught wild birds -doves or any other birds-and to be keeping them in an aviary which he has constructed at home; we might say of him in one sense, that he always has them because he possesses them, might we not?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] And yet, in another sense, he has none of them; but they are in his power, and he has got them under his hand in an enclosure of his own, and can take and have them whenever he likes;-he can catch any which he likes, and let the bird go again, and he may do so as often as he pleases.

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] Once more, then, as in what preceded we made a sort of waxen figment in the mind, so let us now suppose that in the mind of each man there is an aviary of all sorts of birds-some flocking together apart from the rest, others in small groups, others solitary, flying anywhere and everywhere.

[Theaet.] Let us imagine such an aviary-and what is to follow?

[Soc.] We may suppose that the birds are kinds of knowledge, and that when we were children, this receptacle was empty; whenever a man has gotten and detained in the enclosure a kind of knowledge, he may be said to have learned or discovered the thing which is the subject of the knowledge: and this is to know.

[Theaet.] Granted.

[Soc.] And further, when any one wishes to catch any of these knowledges or sciences, and having taken, to hold it, and again to let them go, how will he express himself?-will he describe the “catching” of them and the original “possession” in the same words? I will make my meaning clearer by an example:-You admit that there is an art of arithmetic?

[Theaet.] To be sure.

[Soc.] Conceive this under the form of a hunt after the science of odd and even in general.

[Theaet.] I follow.

[Soc.] Having the use of the art, the arithmetician, if I am not mistaken, has the conceptions of number under his hand, and can transmit them to another.

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] And when transmitting them he may be said to teach them, and when receiving to learn them, and when receiving to learn them, and when having them in possession in the aforesaid aviary he may be said to know them.

[Theaet.] Exactly.

[Soc.] Attend to what follows: must not the perfect arithmetician know all numbers, for he has the science of all numbers in his mind?

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] And he can reckon abstract numbers in his head, or things about him which are numerable?

[Theaet.] Of course he can.

[Soc.] And to reckon is simply to consider how much such and such a number amounts to?

[Theaet.] Very true.

[Soc.] And so he appears to be searching into something which he knows, as if he did not know it, for we have already admitted that he knows all numbers;-you have heard these perplexing questions raised?

[Theaet.] I have.

[Soc.] May we not pursue the image of the doves, and say that the chase after knowledge is of two kinds? one kind is prior to possession and for the sake of possession, and the other for the sake of taking and holding in the hands that which is possessed already. And thus, when a man has learned and known something long ago, he may resume and get hold of the knowledge which he has long possessed, but has not at hand in his mind.

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] That was my reason for asking how we ought to speak when an arithmetician sets about numbering, or a grammarian about reading? Shall we say, that although he knows, he comes back to himself to learn what he already knows?

[Theaet.] It would be too absurd, Socrates.

[Soc.] Shall we say then that he is going to read or number what he does not know, although we have admitted that he knows all letters and all numbers?

[Theaet.] That, again, would be an absurdity.

[Soc.] Then shall we say that about names we care nothing?-any one may twist and turn the words “knowing” and “learning” in any way which he likes, but since we have determined that the possession of knowledge is not the having or using it, we do assert that a man cannot not possess that which he possesses; and, therefore, in no case can a man not know that which he knows, but he may get a false opinion about it; for he may have the knowledge, not of this particular thing, but of some other;-when the various numbers and forms of knowledge are flying about in the aviary, and wishing to capture a certain sort of knowledge out of the general store, he takes the wrong one by mistake, that is to say, when he thought eleven to be twelve, he got hold of the ringdove which he had in his mind, when he wanted the pigeon.

[Theaet.] A very rational explanation.

[Soc.] But when he catches the one which he wants, then he is not deceived, and has an opinion of what is, and thus false and true opinion may exist, and the difficulties which were previously raised disappear. I dare say that you agree with me, do you not?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] And so we are rid of the difficulty of a man’s not knowing what he knows, for we are not driven to the inference that he does not possess what he possesses, whether he be or be not deceived. And yet I fear that a greater difficulty is looking in at the window.

[Theaet.] What is it?

[Soc.] How can the exchange of one knowledge for another ever become false opinion?

[Theaet.] What do you mean?

[Soc.] In the first place, how can a man who has the knowledge of anything be ignorant of that which he knows, not by reason of ignorance, but by reason of his own knowledge? And, again, is it not an extreme absurdity that he should suppose another thing to be this, and this to be another thing;-that, having knowledge present with him in his mind, he should still know nothing and be ignorant of all things?-you might as well argue that ignorance may make a man know, and blindness make him see, as that knowledge can make him ignorant.

[Theaet.] Perhaps, Socrates, we may have been wrong in making only forms of knowledge our birds: whereas there ought to have been forms of ignorance as well, flying about together in the mind, and then he who sought to take one of them might sometimes catch a form of knowledge, and sometimes a form of ignorance; and thus he would have a false opinion from ignorance, but a true one from knowledge, about the same thing.

[Soc.] I cannot help praising you, Theaetetus, and yet I must beg you to reconsider your words. Let us grant what you say-then, according to you, he who takes ignorance will have a false opinion-am I right?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] He will certainly not think that he has a false opinion?

[Theaet.] Of course not.

[Soc.] He will think that his opinion is true, and he will fancy that he knows the things about which he has been deceived?

[Theaet.] Certainly.

[Soc.] Then he will think that he has captured knowledge and not ignorance?

[Theaet.] Clearly.

[Soc.] And thus, after going a long way round, we are once more face to face with our original difficulty. The hero of dialectic will retort upon us:-“O my excellent friends, he will say, laughing, if a man knows the form of ignorance and the form of knowledge, can he think that one of them which he knows is the other which he knows? or, if he knows neither of them, can he think that the one which he knows not is another which he knows not? or, if he knows one and not the other, can he think the one which he knows to be the one which he does not know? or the one which he does not know to be the one which he knows? or will you tell me that there are other forms of knowledge which distinguish the right and wrong birds, and which the owner keeps in some other aviaries or graven on waxen blocks according to your foolish images, and which he may be said to know while he possesses them, even though he have them not at hand in his mind? And thus, in a perpetual circle, you will be compelled to go round and round, and you will make no progress.” What are we to say in reply, Theaetetus?

[Theaet.] Indeed, Socrates, I do not know what we are to say.

[Soc.] Are not his reproaches just, and does not the argument truly show that we are wrong in seeking for false opinion until we know what knowledge is; that must be first ascertained; then, the nature of false opinion?

[Theaet.] I cannot but agree with you, Socrates, so far as we have yet gone.

[Soc.] Then, once more, what shall we say that knowledge is?-for we are not going to lose heart as yet.

[Theaet.] Certainly, I shall not lose heart, if you do not.

[Soc.] What definition will be most consistent with our former views?

[Theaet.] I cannot think of any but our old one, Socrates.

[Soc.] What was it?

[Theaet.] Knowledge was said by us to be true opinion; and true opinion is surely unerring, and the results which follow from it are all noble and good.

[Soc.] He who led the way into the river, Theaetetus, said “The experiment will show”; and perhaps if we go forward in the search, we may stumble upon the thing which we are looking for; but if we stay where we are, nothing will come to light.

[Theaet.] Very true; let us go forward and try.

[Soc.] The trail soon comes to an end, for a whole profession is against us.

[Theaet.] How is that, and what profession do you mean?

[Soc.] The profession of the great wise ones who are called orators and lawyers; for these persuade men by their art and make them think whatever they like, but they do not teach them. Do you imagine that there are any teachers in the world so clever as to be able to convince others of the truth about acts of robbery or violence, of which they were not eyewitnesses, while a little water is flowing in the clepsydra?

[Theaet.] Certainly not, they can only persuade them.

[Soc.] And would you not say that persuading them is making them have an opinion?

[Theaet.] To be sure.

[Soc.] When, therefore, judges are justly persuaded about matters which you can know only by seeing them, and not in any other way, and when thus judging of them from report they attain a true opinion about them, they judge without knowledge and yet are rightly persuaded, if they have judged well.

[Theaet.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And yet, O my friend, if true opinion in law courts and knowledge are the same, the perfect judge could not have judged rightly without knowledge; and therefore I must infer that they are not the same.

[Theaet.] That is a distinction, Socrates, which I have heard made by some one else, but I had forgotten it. He said that true opinion, combined with reason, was knowledge, but that the opinion which had no reason was out of the sphere of knowledge; and that things of which there is no rational account are not knowable-such was the singular expression which he used-and that things which have a reason or explanation are knowable.

[Soc.] Excellent; but then, how did he distinguish between things which are and are not “knowable”? I wish that you would repeat to me what he said, and then I shall know whether you and I have heard the same tale.

[Theaet.] I do not know whether I can recall it; but if another person would tell me, I think that I could follow him.

[Soc.] Let me give you, then, a dream in return for a dream:-Methought that I too had a dream, and I heard in my dream that the primeval letters or elements out of which you and I and all other things are compounded, have no reason or explanation; you can only name them, but no predicate can be either affirmed or denied of them, for in the one case existence, in the other non-existence is already implied, neither of which must be added, if you mean to speak of this or that thing by itself alone. It should not be called itself, or that, or each, or alone, or this, or the like; for these go about everywhere and are applied to all things, but are distinct from them; whereas, if the first elements could be described, and had a definition of their own, they would be spoken of apart from all else. But none of these primeval elements can be defined; they can only be named, for they have nothing but a name, and the things which are compounded of them, as they are complex, are expressed by a combination of names, for the combination of names is the essence of a definition. Thus, then, the elements or letters are only objects of perception, and cannot be defined or known; but the syllables or combinations of them are known and expressed, and are apprehended by true opinion. When, therefore, any one forms the true opinion of anything without rational explanation, you may say that his mind is truly exercised, but has no knowledge; for he who cannot give and receive a reason for a thing, has no knowledge of that thing; but when he adds rational explanation, then, he is perfected in knowledge and may be all that I have been denying of him. Was that the form in which the dream appeared to you?

[Theaet.] Precisely.

[Soc.] And you allow and maintain that true opinion, combined with definition or rational explanation, is knowledge?

[Theaet.] Exactly.

[Soc.] Then may we assume, Theaetetus, that to-day, and in this casual manner, we have found a truth which in former times many wise men have grown old and have not found?

[Theaet.] At any rate, Socrates, I am satisfied with the present statement.

[Soc.] Which is probably correct-for how can there be knowledge apart from definition and true opinion? And yet there is one point in what has been said which does not quite satisfy me.

[Theaet.] What was it?

[Soc.] What might seem to be the most ingenious notion of all:-That the elements or letters are unknown, but the combination or syllables known.

[Theaet.] And was that wrong?

[Soc.] We shall soon know; for we have as hostages the instances which the author of the argument himself used.

[Theaet.] What hostages?

[Soc.] The letters, which are the clements; and the syllables, which are the combinations;-he reasoned, did he not, from the letters of the alphabet?

[Theaet.] Yes; he did.

[Soc.] Let us take them and put them to the test, or rather, test ourselves:-What was the way in which we learned letters? and, first of all, are we right in saying that syllables have a definition, but that letters have no definition?

[Theaet.] I think so.

[Soc.] I think so too; for, suppose that some one asks you to spell the first syllable of my name:-Theaetetus, he says, what is SO?

[Theaet.] I should reply S and O.

[Soc.] That is the definition which you would give of the syllable?

[Theaet.] I should.

[Soc.] I wish that you would give me a similar definition of the S.

[Theaet.] But how can any one, Socrates, tell the elements of an element? I can only reply, that S is a consonant, a mere noise, as of the tongue hissing; B, and most other letters, again, are neither vowel-sounds nor noises. Thus letters may be most truly said to be undefined; for even the most distinct of them, which are the seven vowels, have a sound only, but no definition at all.

[Soc.] Then, I suppose, my friend, that we have been so far right in our idea about knowledge?

[Theaet.] Yes; I think that we have.

[Soc.] Well, but have we been right in maintaining that the syllables can be known, but not the letters?

[Theaet.] I think so.

[Soc.] And do we mean by a syllable two letters, or if there are more, all of them, or a single idea which arises out of the combination of them?

[Theaet.] I should say that we mean all the letters.

[Soc.] Take the case of the two letters S and O, which form the first syllable of my own name; must not he who knows the syllable, know both of them?

[Theaet.] Certainly.

[Soc.] He knows, that is, the S and O?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] But can he be ignorant of either singly and yet know both together?

[Theaet.] Such a supposition, Socrates, is monstrous and unmeaning.

[Soc.] But if he cannot know both without knowing each, then if he is ever to know the syllable, he must know the letters first; and thus the fine theory has again taken wings and departed.

[Theaet.] Yes, with wonderful celerity.

[Soc.] Yes, we did not keep watch properly. Perhaps we ought to have maintained that a syllable is not the letters, but rather one single idea framed out of them, having a separate form distinct from them.

[Theaet.] Very true; and a more likely notion than the other.

[Soc.] Take care; let us not be cowards and betray a great and imposing theory.

[Theaet.] No, indeed.

[Soc.] Let us assume then, as we now say, that the syllable is a simple form arising out of the several combinations of harmonious elements-of letters or of any other elements.

[Theaet.] Very good.

[Soc.] And it must have no parts.

[Theaet.] Why?

[Soc.] Because that which has parts must be a whole of all the parts. Or would you say that a whole, although formed out of the parts, is a single notion different from all the parts?

[Theaet.] I should.

[Soc.] And would you say that all and the whole are the same, or different?

[Theaet.] I am not certain; but, as you like me to answer at once, I shall hazard the reply, that they are different.

[Soc.] I approve of your readiness, Theaetetus, but I must take time to think whether I equally approve of your answer.

[Theaet.] Yes; the answer is the point.

[Soc.] According to this new view, the whole is supposed to differ from all?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] Well, but is there any difference between all [in the plural] and the all [in the singular]? Take the case of number:-When we say one, two, three, four, five, six; or when we say twice three, or three times two, or four and two, or three and two and one, are we speaking of the same or of different numbers?

[Theaet.] Of the same.

[Soc.] That is of six?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] And in each form of expression we spoke of all the six?

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] Again, in speaking of all [in the plural] is there not one thing which we express?

[Theaet.] Of course there is.

[Soc.] And that is six?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] Then in predicating the word “all” of things measured by number, we predicate at the same time a singular and a plural?

[Theaet.] Clearly we do.

[Soc.] Again, the number of the acre and the acre are the same; are they not?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] And the number of the stadium in like manner is the stadium?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] And the army is the number of the army; and in all similar cases, the entire number of anything is the entire thing?

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] And the number of each is the parts of each?

[Theaet.] Exactly.

[Soc.] Then as many things as have parts are made up of parts?

[Theaet.] Clearly.

[Soc.] But all the parts are admitted to be the all, if the entire number is the all?

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] Then the whole is not made up of parts, for it would be the all, if consisting of all the parts?

[Theaet.] That is the inference.

[Soc.] But is a part a part of anything but the whole?

[Theaet.] Yes, of the all.

[Soc.] You make a valiant defence, Theaetetus. And yet is not the all that of which nothing is wanting?

[Theaet.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And is not a whole likewise that from which nothing is absent? but that from which anything is absent is neither a whole nor all;-if wanting in anything, both equally lose their entirety of nature.

[Theaet.] I now think that there is no difference between a whole and all.

[Soc.] But were we not saying that when a thing has parts, all the parts will be a whole and all?

[Theaet.] Certainly.

[Soc.] Then, as I was saying before, must not the alternative be that either the syllable is not the letters, and then the letters are not parts of the syllable, or that the syllable will be the same with the letters, and will therefore be equally known with them?

[Theaet.] You are right.

[Soc.] And, in order to avoid this, we suppose it to be different from them?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] But if letters are not parts of syllables, can you tell me of any other parts of syllables, which are not letters?

[Theaet.] No, indeed, Socrates; for if I admit the existence of parts in a syllable, it would be ridiculous in me to give up letters and seek for other parts.

[Soc.] Quite true, Theaetetus, and therefore, according to our present view, a syllable must surely be some indivisible form?

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] But do you remember, my friend, that only a little while ago we admitted and approved the statement, that of the first elements out of which all other things are compounded there could be no definition, because each of them when taken by itself is uncompounded; nor can one rightly attribute to them the words “being” or “this,” because they are alien and inappropriate words, and for this reason the letters or clements were indefinable and unknown?

[Theaet.] I remember.

[Soc.] And is not this also the reason why they are simple and indivisible? I can see no other.

[Theaet.] No other reason can be given.

[Soc.] Then is not the syllable in the same case as the elements or letters, if it has no parts and is one form?

[Theaet.] To be sure.

[Soc.] If, then, a syllable is a whole, and has many parts or letters, the letters as well as the syllable must be intelligible and expressible, since all the parts are acknowledged to be the same as the whole?

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] But if it be one and indivisible, then the syllables and the letters are alike undefined and unknown, and for the same reason?

[Theaet.] I cannot deny that.

[Soc.] We cannot, therefore, agree in the opinion of him who says that the syllable can be known and expressed, but not the letters.

[Theaet.] Certainly not; if we may trust the argument.

[Soc.] Well, but will you not be equally inclined to, disagree with him, when you remember your own experience in learning to read?

[Theaet.] What experience?

[Soc.] Why, that in learning you were kept trying to distinguish the separate letters both by the eye and by the car, in order that, when you heard them spoken or saw them written, you might not be confused by their position.

[Theaet.] Very true.

[Soc.] And is the education of the harp-player complete unless he can tell what string answers to a particular note; the notes, as every one would allow, are the elements or letters of music?

[Theaet.] Exactly.

[Soc.] Then, if we argue from the letters and syllables which we know to other simples and compounds, we shall say that the letters or simple clements as a class are much more certainly known than the syllables, and much more indispensable to a perfect knowledge of any subject; and if some one says that the syllable is known and the letter unknown, we shall consider that either intentionally or unintentionally he is talking nonsense?

[Theaet.] Exactly.

[Soc.] And there might be given other proofs of this belief, if I am not mistaken. But do not let us in looking for them lose sight of the question before us, which is the meaning of the statement, that right opinion with rational definition or explanation is the most perfect form of knowledge.

[Theaet.] We must not.

[Soc.] Well, and what is the meaning of the term “explanation”? I think that we have a choice of three meanings.

[Theaet.] What are they?

[Soc.] In the first place, the meaning may be, manifesting one’s thought by the voice with verbs and nouns, imaging an opinion in the stream which flows from the lips, as in a mirror or water. Does not explanation appear to be of this nature?

[Theaet.] Certainly; he who so manifests his thought, is said to explain himself.

[Soc.] And every one who is not born deaf or dumb is able sooner or later to manifest what he thinks of anything; and if so, all those who have a right opinion about anything will also have right explanation; nor will right opinion be anywhere found to exist apart from knowledge.

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] Let us not, therefore, hastily charge him who gave this account of knowledge with uttering an unmeaning word; for perhaps he only intended to say, that when a person was asked what was the nature of anything, he should be able to answer his questioner by giving the clements of the thing.

[Theaet.] As for example, Socrates…?

[Soc.] As, for example, when Hesiod says that a waggon is made up of a hundred planks. Now, neither you nor I could describe all of them individually; but if any one asked what is a waggon, we should be content to answer, that a waggon consists of wheels, axle, body, rims, yoke.

[Theaet.] Certainly.

[Soc.] And our opponent will probably laugh at us, just as he would if we professed to be grammarians and to give a grammatical account of the name of Theaetetus, and yet could only tell the syllables and not the letters of your name-that would be true opinion, and not knowledge; for knowledge, as has been already remarked, is not attained until, combined with true opinion, there is an enumeration of the elements out of which is composed.

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] In the same general way, we might also have true opinion about a waggon; but he who can describe its essence by an enumeration of the hundred planks, adds rational explanation to true opinion, and instead of opinion has art and knowledge of the nature of a waggon, in that he attains to the whole through the elements.

[Theaet.] And do. you not agree in that view, Socrates?

[Soc.] If you do, my friend; but I want to know first, whether you admit the resolution of all things into their elements to be a rational explanation of them, and the consideration of them in syllables or larger combinations of them to be irrational-is this your view?

[Theaet.] Precisely.

[Soc.] Well, and do you conceive that a man has knowledge of any element who at one time affirms and at another time denies that clement of something, or thinks that. the same thing is composed of different elements at different times?

[Theaet.] Assuredly not.

[Soc.] And do you not remember that in your case and in of others this often occurred in the process of learning to read?

[Theaet.] You mean that I mistook the letters and misspelt the syllables?

[Soc.] Yes.

[Theaet.] To be sure; I perfectly remember, and I am very far from supposing that they who are in this condition, have knowledge.

[Soc.] When a person, at the time of learning writes the name of Theaetetus, and thinks that he ought to write and does write Th and e; but, again meaning to write the name of Theododorus, thinks that he ought to write and does write T and e-can we suppose that he knows the first syllables of your two names?

[Theaet.] We have already admitted that such a one has not yet attained knowledge.

[Soc.] And in like manner be may enumerate without knowing them the second and third and fourth syllables of your name?

[Theaet.] He may.

[Soc.] And in that case, when he knows the order of the letters and can write them out correctly, he has right opinion?

[Theaet.] Clearly.

[Soc.] But although we admit that he has right opinion, he will still be without knowledge?

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] And yet he will have explanations, as well as right opinion, for he knew the order of the letters when he wrote; and this we admit be explanation.

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] Then, my friend, there is such a thing as right opinion united with definition or explanation, which does not as yet attain to the exactness of knowledge.

[Theaet.] It would seem so.

[Soc.] And what we fancied to be a perfect definition of knowledge is a dream only. But perhaps we had better not say so as yet, for were there not three explanations of knowledge, one of which must, as we said, be adopted by him who maintains knowledge to be true opinion combined with rational explanation? And very likely there may be found some one who will not prefer this but the third.

[Theaet.] You are quite right; there is still one remaining. The first was the image or expression of the mind in speech; the second, which has just been mentioned, is a way of reaching the whole by an enumeration of the elements. But what is; the third definition?

[Soc.] There is, further, the popular notion of telling the mark or sign of difference which distinguishes the thing in question from all others.

[Theaet.] Can you give me any example of such a definition?

[Soc.] As, for example, in the case of the sun, I think that you would be contented with the statement that the sun is, the brightest of the heavenly bodies which revolve about the earth.

[Theaet.] Certainly.

[Soc.] Understand why:-the reason is, as I was just now saying, that if you get at the difference and distinguishing characteristic of each thing, then, as many persons affirm, you will get at the definition or explanation of it; but while you lay hold only of the common and not of the characteristic notion, you will only have the definition of those things to which this common quality belongs.

[Theaet.] I understand you, and your account of definition is in my judgment correct.

[Soc.] But he, who having right opinion about anything, can find out the difference which distinguishes it from other things will know that of which before he had only an opinion.

[Theaet.] Yes; that is what we are maintaining.

[Soc.] Nevertheless, Theaetetus, on a nearer view, I find myself quite disappointed; the picture, which at a distance was not so bad, has now become altogether unintelligible.

[Theaet.] What do you mean?

[Soc.] I will endeavour to explain: I will suppose myself to have true opinion of you, and if to this I add your definition, then I have knowledge, but if not, opinion only.

[Theaet.] Yes.

[Soc.] The definition was assumed to be the interpretation of your difference.

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] But when I had only opinion, I had no conception of your distinguishing characteristics.

[Theaet.] I suppose not.

[Soc.] Then I must have conceived of some general or common nature which no more belonged to you than to another.

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] Tell me, now-How in that case could I have formed a judgment of you any more than of any one else? Suppose that I imagine Theaetetus to be a man who has nose, eyes, and mouth, and every other member complete; how would that enable me to distinguish Theaetetus from Theodorus, or from some outer barbarian?

[Theaet.] How could it?

[Soc.] Or if I had further conceived of you, not only as having nose and eyes, but as having a snub nose and prominent eyes, should I have any more notion of you than of myself and others who resemble me?

[Theaet.] Certainly not.

[Soc.] Surely I can have no conception of Theaetetus until your snub-nosedness has left an impression on my mind different from the snub-nosedness of all others whom I have ever seen, and until your other peculiarities have a like distinctness; and so when I meet you tomorrow the right opinion will be re-called?

[Theaet.] Most true.

[Soc.] Then right opinion implies the perception of differences?

[Theaet.] Clearly.

[Soc.] What, then, shall we say of adding reason or explanation to right opinion? If the meaning is, that we should form an opinion of the way in which something differs from another thing, the proposal is ridiculous.

[Theaet.] How so?

[Soc.] We are supposed to acquire a right opinion of the differences which distinguish one thing from another when we have already a right opinion of them, and so we go round and round:-the revolution of the scytal, or pestle, or any other rotatory machine, in the same circles, is as nothing compared with such a requirement; and we may be truly described as the blind directing the blind; for to add those things which we already have, in order that we may learn what we already think, is like a soul utterly benighted.

[Theaet.] Tell me; what were you going to say just now, when you asked the question?

[Soc.] If, my boy, the argument, in speaking of adding the definition, had used the word to “know,” and not merely “have an opinion” of the difference, this which is the most promising of all the definitions of knowledge would have come to a pretty end, for to know is surely to acquire knowledge.

[Theaet.] True.

[Soc.] And so, when the question is asked, What is knowledge? this fair argument will answer “Right opinion with knowledge,”-knowledge, that is, of difference, for this, as the said argument maintains, is adding the definition.

[Theaet.] That seems to be true.

[Soc.] But how utterly foolish, when we are asking what is knowledge, that the reply should only be, right opinion with knowledge of difference or of anything! And so, Theaetetus, knowledge is neither sensation nor true opinion, nor yet definition and explanation accompanying and added to true opinion?

[Theaet.] I suppose not.

[Soc.] And are you still in labour and travail, my dear friend, or have you brought all that you have to say about knowledge to the birth?

[Theaet.] I am sure, Socrates, that you have elicited from me a good deal more than ever was in me.

[Soc.] And does not my art show that you have brought forth wind, and that the offspring of your brain are not worth bringing up?

[Theaet.] Very true.

[Soc.] But if, Theaetetus, you should ever conceive afresh, you will be all the better for the present investigation, and if not, you will be soberer and humbler and gentler to other men, and will be too modest to fancy that you know what you do not know. These are the limits of my art; I can no further go, nor do I know aught of the things which great and famous men know or have known in this or former ages. The office of a midwife I, like my mother, have received from God; she delivered women, I deliver men; but they must be young and noble and fair.

And now I have to go to the porch of the King Archon, where I am to meet Meletus and his indictment. To-morrow morning, Theodorus, I shall hope to see you again at this place.



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Parmenides – a Dialogue by Plato

01 Monday Jun 2009

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in BC, Greek, Philosophy, Plato

≈ 2 Comments

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Plato  [image by Leonardo da Vinci]


Parmenides
by Plato
translated by Benjamin Jowett


Persons of the Dialogue:
CEPHALUS;
ADEIMANTUS;
GLAUCON;
ANTIPHON;
PYTHODORUS;
SOCRATES;
ZENO;
PARMENIDES;
ARISTOTELES.


Cephalus rehearses a dialogue which is supposed to have been narrated in his presence by Antiphon, the half-brother of Adeimantus and Glaucon, to certain Clazomenians.


We had come from our home at Clazomenae to Athens, and met Adeimantus and Glaucon in the Agora. Welcome, Cephalus, said Adeimantus, taking me by the hand; is there anything which we can do for you in Athens?


Yes; that is why I am here; I wish to ask a favour of you.


What may that be? he said.


I want you to tell me the name of your half brother, which I have forgotten; he was a mere child when I last came hither from Clazomenae, but that was a long time ago; his father’s name, if I remember rightly, was Pyrilampes?


Yes, he said, and the name of our brother, Antiphon; but why do you ask?


Let me introduce some countrymen of mine, I said; they are lovers of philosophy, and have heard that Antiphon was intimate with a certain Pythodorus, a friend of Zeno, and remembers a conversation which took place between Socrates, Zeno, and Parmenides many years ago, Pythodorus having often recited it to him.


Quite true.


And could we hear it? I asked.


Nothing easier, he replied; when he was a youth he made a careful study of the piece; at present his thoughts run in another direction; like his grandfather Antiphon he is devoted to horses. But, if that is what you want, let us go and look for him; he dwells at Melita, which is quite near, and he has only just left us to go home.


Accordingly we went to look for him; he was at home, and in the act of giving a bridle to a smith to be fitted. When he had done with the smith, his brothers told him the purpose of our visit; and he saluted me as an acquaintance whom he remembered from my former visit, and we asked him to repeat the dialogue. At first he was not very willing, and complained of the trouble, but at length he consented. He told us that Pythodorus had described to him the appearance of Parmenides and Zeno; they came to Athens, as he said, at the great Panathenaea; the former was, at the time of his visit, about 65 years old, very white with age, but well favoured. Zeno was nearly 40 years of age, tall and fair to look upon; in the days of his youth he was reported to have been beloved by Parmenides. He said that they lodged with Pythodorus in the Ceramicus, outside the wall, whither Socrates, then a very young man, came to see them, and many others with him; they wanted to hear the writings of Zeno, which had been brought to Athens for the first time on the occasion of their visit. These Zeno himself read to them in the absence of Parmenides, and had very nearly finished when Pythodorus entered, and with him Parmenides and Aristoteles who was afterwards one of the Thirty, and heard the little that remained of the dialogue. Pythodorus had heard Zeno repeat them before.


When the recitation was completed, Socrates requested that the first thesis of the first argument might be read over again, and this having been done, he said: What is your meaning, Zeno? Do you maintain that if being is many, it must be both like and unlike, and that this is impossible, for neither can the like be unlike, nor the unlike like-is that your position?


Just so, said Zeno.


And if the unlike cannot be like, or the like unlike, then according to you, being could not be many; for this would involve an impossibility. In all that you say have you any other purpose except to disprove the being of the many? and is not each division of your treatise intended to furnish a separate proof of this, there being in all as many proofs of the not-being of the many as you have composed arguments? Is that your meaning, or have I misunderstood you?


No, said Zeno; you have correctly understood my general purpose.


I see, Parmenides, said Socrates, that Zeno would like to be not only one with you in friendship but your second self in his writings too; he puts what you say in another way, and would fain make believe that he is telling us something which is new. For you, in your poems, say The All is one, and of this you adduce excellent proofs; and he on the other hand says There is no many; and on behalf of this he offers overwhelming evidence. You affirm unity, he denies plurality. And so you deceive the world into believing that you are saying different things when really you are saying much the same. This is a strain of art beyond the reach of most of us.


Yes, Socrates, said Zeno. But although you are as keen as a Spartan hound in pursuing the track, you do not fully apprehend the true motive of the composition, which is not really such an artificial work as you imagine; for what you speak of was an accident; there was no pretence of a great purpose; nor any serious intention of deceiving the world. The truth is, that these writings of mine were meant to protect the arguments of Parmenides against those who make fun of him and seek to show the many ridiculous and contradictory results which they suppose to follow from the affirmation of the one. My answer is addressed to the partisans of the many, whose attack I return with interest by retorting upon them that their hypothesis of the being of many, if carried out, appears to be still more ridiculous than the hypothesis of the being of one. Zeal for my master led me to write the book in the days of my youth, but some one stole the copy; and therefore I had no choice whether it should be published or not; the motive, however, of writing, was not the ambition of an elder man, but the pugnacity of a young one. This you do not seem to see, Socrates; though in other respects, as I was saying, your notion is a very just one.


I understand, said Socrates, and quite accept your account. But tell me, Zeno, do you not further think that there is an idea of likeness in itself, and another idea of unlikeness, which is the opposite of likeness, and that in these two, you and I and all other things to which we apply the term many, participate-things which participate in likeness become in that degree and manner like; and so far as they participate in unlikeness become in that degree unlike, or both like and unlike in the degree in which they participate in both? And may not all things partake of both opposites, and be both like and unlike, by reason of this participation?-Where is the wonder? Now if a person could prove the absolute like to become unlike, or the absolute unlike to become like, that, in my opinion, would indeed be a wonder; but there is nothing extraordinary, Zeno, in showing that the things which only partake of likeness and unlikeness experience both. Nor, again, if a person were to show that all is one by partaking of one, and at the same time many by partaking of many, would that be very astonishing. But if he were to show me that the absolute one was many, or the absolute many one, I should be truly amazed. And so of all the rest: I should be surprised to hear that the natures or ideas themselves had these opposite qualities; but not if a person wanted to prove of me that I was many and also one. When he wanted to show that I was many he would say that I have a right and a left side, and a front and a back, and an upper and a lower half, for I cannot deny that I partake of multitude; when, on the other hand, he wants to prove that I am one, he will say, that we who are here assembled are seven, and that I am one and partake of the one. In both instances he proves his case. So again, if a person shows that such things as wood, stones, and the like, being many are also one, we admit that he shows the coexistence the one and many, but he does not show that the many are one or the one many; he is uttering not a paradox but a truism. If however, as I just now suggested, some one were to abstract simple notions of like, unlike, one, many, rest, motion, and similar ideas, and then to show that these admit of admixture and separation in themselves, I should be very much astonished. This part of the argument appears to be treated by you, Zeno, in a very spirited manner; but, as I was saying, I should be far more amazed if any one found in the ideas themselves which are apprehended by reason, the same puzzle and entanglement which you have shown to exist in visible objects.


While Socrates was speaking, Pythodorus thought that Parmenides and Zeno were not altogether pleased at the successive steps of the argument; but still they gave the closest attention and often looked at one another, and smiled as if in admiration of him. When he had finished, Parmenides expressed their feelings in the following words:-


Socrates, he said, I admire the bent of your mind towards philosophy; tell me now, was this your own distinction between ideas in themselves and the things which partake of them? and do you think that there is an idea of likeness apart from the likeness which we possess, and of the one and many, and of the other things which Zeno mentioned?


I think that there are such ideas, said Socrates. Parmenides proceeded: And would you also make absolute ideas of the just and the beautiful and the good, and of all that class? Yes, he said, I should.


And would you make an idea of man apart from us and from all other human creatures, or of fire and water?


I am often undecided, Parmenides, as to whether I ought to include them or not.


And would you feel equally undecided, Socrates, about things of which the mention may provoke a smile?-I mean such things as hair, mud, dirt, or anything else which is vile and paltry; would you suppose that each of these has an idea distinct from the actual objects with which we come into contact, or not?


Certainly not, said Socrates; visible things like these are such as they appear to us, and I am afraid that there would be an absurdity in assuming any idea of them, although I sometimes get disturbed, and begin to think that there is nothing without an idea; but then again, when I have taken up this position, I run away, because I am afraid that I may fall into a bottomless pit of nonsense, and perish; and so I return to the ideas of which I was just now speaking, and occupy myself with them.


Yes, Socrates, said Parmenides; that is because you are still young; the time will come, if I am not mistaken, when philosophy will have a firmer grasp of you, and then you will not despise even the meanest things; at your age, you are too much disposed to regard opinions of men. But I should like to know whether you mean that there are certain ideas of which all other things partake, and from which they derive their names; that similars, for example, become similar, because they partake of similarity; and great things become great, because they partake of greatness; and that just and beautiful things become just and beautiful, because they partake of justice and beauty?


Yes, certainly, said Socrates that is my meaning.


Then each individual partakes either of the whole of the idea or else of a part of the idea? Can there be any other mode of participation?


There cannot be, he said.


Then do you think that the whole idea is one, and yet, being one, is in each one of the many?


Why not, Parmenides? said Socrates.


Because one and the same thing will exist as a whole at the same time in many separate individuals, and will therefore be in a state of separation from itself.


Nay, but the idea may be like the day which is one and the same in many places at once, and yet continuous with itself; in this way each idea may be one; and the same in all at the same time.


I like your way, Socrates, of making one in many places at once. You mean to say, that if I were to spread out a sail and cover a number of men, there would be one whole including many-is not that your meaning? I think so.


And would you say that the whole sail includes each man, or a part of it only, and different parts different men?


The latter.


Then, Socrates, the ideas themselves will be divisible, and things which participate in them will have a part of them only and not the whole idea existing in each of them?


That seems to follow.


Then would you like to say, Socrates, that the one idea is really divisible and yet remains one?


Certainly not, he said.


Suppose that you divide absolute greatness, and that of the many great things, each one is great in virtue of a portion of greatness less than absolute greatness-is that conceivable?


No.


Or will each equal thing, if possessing some small portion of equality less than absolute equality, be equal to some other thing by virtue of that portion only?


Impossible.


Or suppose one of us to have a portion of smallness; this is but a part of the small, and therefore the absolutely small is greater; if the absolutely small be greater, that to which the part of the small is added will be smaller and not greater than before.


How absurd!


Then in what way, Socrates, will all things participate in the ideas, if they are unable to participate in them either as parts or wholes?


Indeed, he said, you have asked a question which is not easily answered.


Well, said Parmenides, and what do you say of another question?


What question?


I imagine that the way in which you are led to assume one idea of each kind is as follows: -You see a number of great objects, and when you look at them there seems to you to be one and the same idea (or nature) in them all; hence you conceive of greatness as one.


Very true, said Socrates.


And if you go on and allow your mind in like manner to embrace in one view the idea of greatness and of great things which are not the idea, and -to compare them, will not another greatness arise, which will appear to be the source of all these?


It would seem so.


Then another idea of greatness now comes into view over and above absolute greatness, and the individuals which partake of it; and then another, over and above all these, by virtue of which they will all be great, and so each idea instead of being one will be infinitely multiplied.


But may not the ideas, asked Socrates, be thoughts only, and have no proper existence except in our minds, Parmenides? For in that case each idea may still be one, and not experience this infinite multiplication.


And can there be individual thoughts which are thoughts of nothing?


Impossible, he said.


The thought must be of something?


Yes.


Of something which is or which is not?


Of something which is.


Must it not be of a single something, which the thought recognizes as attaching to all, being a single form or nature?


Yes.


And will not the something which is apprehended as one and the same in all, be an idea?


From that, again, there is no escape.


Then, said Parmenides, if you say that everything else participates in the ideas, must you not say either that everything is made up of thoughts, and that all things think; or that they are thoughts but have no thought?


The latter view, Parmenides, is no more rational than the previous one. In my opinion, the ideas are, as it were, patterns fixed in nature, and other things are like them, and resemblances of them-what is meant by the participation of other things in the ideas, is really assimilation to them.


But if, said he, the individual is like the idea, must not the idea also be like the individual, in so far as the individual is a resemblance of the idea? That which is like, cannot be conceived of as other than the like of like.


Impossible.


And when two things are alike, must they not partake of the same idea?


They must.


And will not that of which the two partake, and which makes them alike, be the idea itself?


Certainly.


Then the idea cannot be like the individual, or the individual like the idea; for if they are alike, some further idea of likeness will always be coming to light, and if that be like anything else, another; and new ideas will be always arising, if the idea resembles that which partakes of it?


Quite true.


The theory, then that other things participate in the ideas by resemblance, has to be given up, and some other mode of participation devised?


It would seem so.


Do you see then, Socrates, how great is the difficulty of affirming the ideas to be absolute?


Yes, indeed.


And, further, let me say that as yet you only understand a small part of the difficulty which is involved if you make of each thing a single idea, parting it off from other things.


What difficulty? he said.


There are many, but the greatest of all is this:-If an opponent argues that these ideas, being such as we say they ought to be, must remain unknown, no one can prove to him that he is wrong, unless he who denies their existence be a man of great ability and knowledge, and is willing to follow a long and laborious demonstration; he will remain unconvinced, and still insist that they cannot be known.


What do you mean, Parmenides? said Socrates.


In the first place, I think, Socrates, that you, or any one who maintains the existence of absolute essences, will admit that they cannot exist in us.


No, said Socrates; for then they would be no longer absolute.


True, he said; and therefore when ideas are what they are in relation to one another, their essence is determined by a relation among themselves, and has nothing to do with the resemblances, or whatever they are to be termed, which are in our sphere, and from which we receive this or that name when we partake of them. And the things which are within our sphere and have the same names with them, are likewise only relative to one another, and not to the ideas which have the same names with them, but belong to themselves and not to them.


What do you mean? said Socrates.


I may illustrate my meaning in this way, said Parmenides:-A master has a slave; now there is nothing absolute in the relation between them, which is simply a relation of one man to another. But there is also an idea of mastership in the abstract, which is relative to the idea of slavery in the abstract. These natures have nothing to do with us, nor we with them; they are concerned with themselves only, and we with ourselves. Do you see my meaning?


Yes, said Socrates, I quite see your meaning.


And will not knowledge-I mean absolute knowledge-answer to absolute truth?


Certainly.


And each kind of absolute knowledge will answer to each kind of absolute being?


Yes.


But the knowledge which we have, will answer to the truth which we have; and again, each kind of knowledge which we have, will be a knowledge of each kind of being which we have?


Certainly.


But the ideas themselves, as you admit, we have not, and cannot have?


No, we cannot.


And the absolute natures or kinds are known severally by the absolute idea of knowledge?


Yes.


And we have not got the idea of knowledge?


No.


Then none of the ideas are known to us, because we have no share in absolute knowledge?


I suppose not.


Then the nature of the beautiful in itself, and of the good in itself, and all other ideas which we suppose to exist absolutely, are unknown to us?


It would seem so.


I think that there is a stranger consequence still.


What is it?


Would you, or would you not say, that absolute knowledge, if there is such a thing, must be a far more exact knowledge than our knowledge; and the same of beauty and of the rest?


Yes.


And if there be such a thing as participation in absolute knowledge, no one is more likely than God to have this most exact knowledge?


Certainly.


But then, will God, having absolute knowledge, have a knowledge of human things?


Why not?


Because, Socrates, said Parmenides, we have admitted that the ideas are not valid in relation to human things; nor human things in relation to them; the relations of either are limited to their respective spheres.


Yes, that has been admitted.


And if God has this perfect authority, and perfect knowledge, his authority cannot rule us, nor his knowledge know us, or any human thing; just as our authority does not extend to the gods, nor our knowledge know anything which is divine, so by parity of reason they, being gods, are not our masters, neither do they know the things of men.


Yet, surely, said Socrates, to deprive God of knowledge is monstrous.


These, Socrates, said Parmenides, are a few, and only a few of the difficulties in which we are involved if ideas really are and we determine each one of them to be an absolute unity. He who hears what may be said against them will deny the very existence of them-and even if they do exist, he will say that they must of necessity be unknown to man; and he will seem to have reason on his side, and as we were remarking just now, will be very difficult to convince; a man must be gifted with very considerable ability before he can learn that everything has a class and an absolute essence; and still more remarkable will he be who discovers all these things for himself, and having thoroughly investigated them is able to teach them to others.


I agree with you, Parmenides, said Socrates; and what you say is very much to my mind.


And yet, Socrates, said Parmenides, if a man, fixing his attention on these and the like difficulties, does away with ideas of things and will not admit that every individual thing has its own determinate idea which is always one and the same, he will have nothing on which his mind can rest; and so he will utterly destroy the power of reasoning, as you seem to me to have particularly noted.


Very true, he said.


But, then, what is to become of philosophy? Whither shall we turn, if the ideas are unknown?


I certainly do not see my way at present.


Yes, said Parmenides; and I think that this arises, Socrates, out of your attempting to define the beautiful, the just, the good, and the ideas generally, without sufficient previous training. I noticed your deficiency, when I heard you talking here with your friend Aristoteles, the day before yesterday. The impulse that carries you towards philosophy is assuredly noble and divine; but there is an art which is called by the vulgar idle talking, and which is of imagined to be useless; in that you must train and exercise yourself, now that you are young, or truth will elude your grasp.


And what is the nature of this exercise, Parmenides, which you would recommend?


That which you heard Zeno practising; at the same time, I give you credit for saying to him that you did not care to examine the perplexity in reference to visible things, or to consider the question that way; but only in reference to objects of thought, and to what may be called ideas.


Why, yes, he said, there appears to me to be no difficulty in showing by this method that visible things are like and unlike and may experience anything.


Quite true, said Parmenides; but I think that you should go a step further, and consider not only the consequences which flow from a given hypothesis, but also the consequences which flow from denying the hypothesis; and that will be still better training for you.


What do you mean? he said.


I mean, for example, that in the case of this very hypothesis of Zeno’s about the many, you should inquire not only what will be the consequences to the many in relation to themselves and to the one, and to the one in relation to itself and the many, on the hypothesis of the being of the many, but also what will be the consequences to the one and the many in their relation to themselves and to each other, on the opposite hypothesis. Or, again, if likeness is or is not, what will be the consequences in either of these cases to the subjects of the hypothesis, and to other things, in relation both to themselves and to one another, and so of unlikeness; and the same holds good of motion and rest, of generation and destruction, and even of being and not-being. In a word, when you suppose anything to be or not to be, or to be in any way affected, you must look at the consequences in relation to the thing itself, and to any other things which you choose-to each of them singly, to more than one, and to all; and so of other things, you must look at them in relation to themselves and to anything else which you suppose either to be or not to be, if you would train yourself perfectly and see the real truth.


That, Parmenides, is a tremendous business of which you speak, and I do not quite understand you; will you take some hypothesis and go through the steps?-then I shall apprehend you better.


That, Socrates, is a serious task to impose on a man of my years.


Then will you, Zeno? said Socrates.


Zeno answered with a smile:-Let us make our petition to Parmenides himself, who is quite right in saying that you are hardly aware of the extent of the task which you are imposing on him; and if there were more of us I should not ask him, for these are not subjects which any one, especially at his age, can well speak of before a large audience; most people are not aware that this round-about progress through all things is the only way in which the mind can attain truth and wisdom. And therefore, Parmenides, I join in the request of Socrates, that I may hear the process again which I have not heard for a long time.


When Zeno had thus spoken, Pythodorus, according to Antiphon’s report of him, said, that he himself and Aristoteles and the whole company entreated Parmenides to give an example of the process. I cannot refuse, said Parmenides; and yet I feel rather like Ibycus, who, when in his old age, against his will, he fell in love, compared himself to an old racehorse, who was about to run in a chariot race, shaking with fear at the course he knew so well-this was his simile of himself. And I also experience a trembling when I remember through what an ocean of words I have to wade at my time of life. But I must indulge you, as Zeno says that I ought, and we are alone. Where shall I begin? And what shall be our first hypothesis, if I am to attempt this laborious pastime? Shall I begin with myself, and take my own hypothesis the one? and consider the consequences which follow on the supposition either of the being or of the not being of one?


By all means, said Zeno.


And who will answer me? he said. Shall I propose the youngest? He will not make difficulties and will be the most likely to say what he thinks; and his answers will give me time to breathe.


I am the one whom you mean, Parmenides, said Aristoteles; for I am the youngest and at your service. Ask, and I will answer.


Parmenides proceeded: If one is, he said, the one cannot be many?


Impossible.


Then the one cannot have parts, and cannot be a whole?


Why not?


Because every part is part of a whole; is it not?


Yes.


And what is a whole? would not that of which no part is wanting be a whole?


Certainly.


Then, in either case, the one would be made up of parts; both as being a whole, and also as having parts?


To be sure.


And in either case, the one would be many, and not one?


True.


But, surely, it ought to be one and not many?


It ought.


Then, if the one is to remain one, it will not be a whole, and will not have parts?


No.


But if it has no parts, it will have neither beginning, middle, nor end; for these would of course be parts of it.


Right.


But then, again, a beginning and an end are the limits of everything?


Certainly.


Then the one, having neither beginning nor end, is unlimited? Yes, unlimited.


And therefore formless; for it cannot partake either of round or straight.


But why?


Why, because the round is that of which all the extreme points are equidistant from the centre?


Yes.


And the straight is that of which the centre intercepts the view of the extremes?


True.


Then the one would have parts and would be many, if it partook either of a straight or of a circular form?


Assuredly.


But having no parts, it will be neither straight nor round?


Right.


And, being of such a nature, it cannot be in any place, for it cannot be either in another or in itself.


How so?


Because if it were in another, it would be encircled by that in which it was, and would touch it at many places and with many parts; but that which is one and indivisible, and does not partake of a circular nature, cannot be touched all round in many places. Certainly not.


But if, on the other hand, one were in itself, it would also be contained by nothing else but itself; that is to say, if it were really in itself; for nothing can be in anything which does not contain it.


Impossible.


But then, that which contains must be other than that which is contained? for the same whole cannot do and suffer both at once; and if so, one will be no longer one, but two?


True.


Then one cannot be anywhere, either in itself or in another?


No.


Further consider, whether that which is of such a nature can have either rest or motion.


Why not?


Why, because the one, if it were moved, would be either moved in place or changed in nature; for these are the only kinds of motion.


Yes.


And the one, when it changes and ceases to be itself, cannot be any longer one.


It cannot.


It cannot therefore experience the sort of motion which is change of nature?


Clearly not.


Then can the motion of the one be in place?


Perhaps.


But if the one moved in place, must it not either move round and round in the same place, or from one place to another?


It must.


And that which moves in a circle must rest upon a centre; and that which goes round upon a centre must have parts which are different from the centre; but that which has no centre and no parts cannot possibly be carried round upon a centre?


Impossible.


But perhaps the motion of the one consists in change of place?


Perhaps so, if it moves at all.


And have we not already shown that it cannot be in anything?


Yes.


Then its coming into being in anything is still more impossible; is it not?


I do not see why.


Why, because anything which comes into being in anything, can neither as yet be in that other thing while still coming into being, nor be altogether out of it, if already coming into being in it.


Certainly not.


And therefore whatever comes into being in another must have parts, and then one part may be in, and another part out of that other; but that which has no parts can never be at one and the same time neither wholly within nor wholly without anything.


True.


And is there not a still greater impossibility in that which has no parts, and is not a whole, coming into being anywhere, since it cannot come into being either as a part or as a whole?


Clearly.


Then it does not change place by revolving in the same spot, not by going somewhere and coming into being in something; nor again, by change in itself?


Very true.


Then in respect of any kind of motion the one is immoveable?


Immoveable.


But neither can the one be in anything, as we affirm.


Yes, we said so.


Then it is never in the same?


Why not?


Because if it were in the same it would be in something.


Certainly.


And we said that it could not be in itself, and could not be in other?


True.


Then one is never in the same place?


It would seem not.


But that which is never in the same place is never quiet or at rest?


Never.


One then, as would seem, is neither rest nor in motion?


It certainly appears so.


Neither will it be the same with itself or other; nor again, other than itself or other.


How is that?


If other than itself it would be other than one, and would not be one.


True.


And if the same with other, it would be that other, and not itself; so that upon this supposition too, it would not have the nature of one, but would be other than one?


It would.


Then it will not be the same with other, or other than itself?


It will not.


Neither will it be other than other, while it remains one; for not one, but only other, can be other than other, and nothing else.


True.


Then not by virtue of being one will it be other?


Certainly not.


But if not by virtue of being one, not by virtue of itself; and if not by virtue of itself, not itself, and itself not being other at all, will not be other than anything?


Right.


Neither will one be the same with itself.


How not?


Surely the nature of the one is not the nature of the same.


Why not?


It is not when anything becomes the same with anything that it becomes one.


What of that?


Anything which becomes the same with the many, necessarily becomes many and not one.


True.


But, if there were no difference between the one and the same, when a thing became the same, it would always become one; and when it became one, the same?


Certainly.


And, therefore, if one be the same with itself, it is not one with itself, and will therefore be one and also not one.


Surely that is impossible.


And therefore the one can neither be other than other, nor the same with itself.


Impossible.


And thus the one can neither be the same, nor other, either in relation to itself or other?


No.


Neither will the one be like anything or unlike itself or other.


Why not?


Because likeness is sameness of affections.


Yes.


And sameness has been shown to be of a nature distinct from oneness?


That has been shown.


But if the one had any other affection than that of being one, it would be affected in such a way as to be more than one; which is impossible.


True.


Then the one can never be so affected as to be the same either with another or with itself?


Clearly not.


Then it cannot be like another, or like itself?


No.


Nor can it be affected so as to be other, for then it would be affected in such a way as to be more than one.


It would.


That which is affected otherwise than itself or another, will be unlike itself or another, for sameness of affections is likeness.


True.


But the one, as appears, never being affected otherwise, is never unlike itself or other?


Never.


Then the one will never be either like or unlike itself or other?


Plainly not.


Again, being of this nature, it can neither be equal nor unequal either to itself or to other.


How is that?


Why, because the one if equal must be of the same measures as that to which it is equal.


True.


And if greater or less than things which are commensurable with it, the one will have more measures than that which is less, and fewer than that which is greater?


Yes.


And so of things which are not commensurate with it, the one will have greater measures than that which is less and smaller than that which is greater.


Certainly.


But how can that which does not partake of sameness, have either the same measures or have anything else the same?


Impossible.


And not having the same measures, the one cannot be equal either with itself or with another?


It appears so.


But again, whether it have fewer or more measures, it will have as many parts as it has measures; and thus again the one will be no longer one but will have as many parts as measures.


Right.


And if it were of one measure, it would be equal to that measure; yet it has been shown to be incapable of equality.


It has.


Then it will neither partake of one measure, nor of many, nor of few, nor of the same at all, nor be equal to itself or another; nor be greater or less than itself, or other?


Certainly.


Well, and do we suppose that one can be older, or younger than anything, or of the same age with it?


Why not?


Why, because that which is of the same age with itself or other, must partake of equality or likeness of time; and we said that the one did not partake either of equality or of likeness?


We did say so.


And we also said, that it did not partake of inequality or unlikeness.


Very true.


How then can one, being of this nature, be either older or younger than anything, or have the same age with it?


In no way.


Then one cannot be older or younger, or of the same age, either with itself or with another?


Clearly not.


Then the one, being of this nature, cannot be in time at all; for must not that which is in time, be always growing older than itself?


Certainly.


And that which is older, must always be older than something which is younger?


True.


Then, that which becomes older than itself, also becomes at the same time younger than itself, if it is to have something to become older than.


What do you mean?


I mean this:-A thing does not need to become different from another thing which is already different; it is different, and if its different has become, it has become different; if its different will be, it will be different; but of that which is becoming different, there cannot have been, or be about to be, or yet be, a different-the only different possible is one which is becoming.


That is inevitable.


But, surely, the elder is a difference relative to the younger, and to nothing else.


True.


Then that which becomes older than itself must also, at the same time, become younger than itself?


Yes.


But again, it is true that it cannot become for a longer or for a shorter time than itself, but it must become, and be, and have become, and be about to be, for the same time with itself?


That again is inevitable.


Then things which are in time, and partake of time, must in every case, I suppose, be of the same age with themselves; and must also become at once older and younger than themselves?


Yes.


But the one did not partake of those affections?


Not at all.


Then it does not partake of time, and is not in any time?


So the argument shows.


Well, but do not the expressions “was,” and “has become,” and “was becoming,” signify a participation of past time?


Certainly.


And do not “will be,” “will become,” “will have become,” signify a participation of future time?


Yes.


And “is,” or “becomes,” signifies a participation of present time?


Certainly.


And if the one is absolutely without participation in time, it never had become, or was becoming, or was at any time, or is now become or is becoming, or is, or will become, or will have become, or will be, hereafter.


Most true.


But are there any modes of partaking of being other than these?


There are none.


Then the one cannot possibly partake of being?


That is the inference.


Then the one is not at all?


Clearly not.


Then the one does not exist in such way as to be one; for if it were and partook of being, it would already be; but if the argument is to be trusted, the one neither is nor is one?


True.


But that which is not admits of no attribute or relation?


Of course not.


Then there is no name, nor expression, nor perception, nor opinion, nor knowledge of it?


Clearly not.


Then it is neither named, nor expressed, nor opined, nor known, nor does anything that is perceive it.


So we must infer.


But can all this be true about the one?


I think not.


Suppose, now, that we return once more to the original hypothesis; let us see whether, on a further review, any new aspect of the question appears.


I shall be very happy to do so.


We say that we have to work out together all the consequences, whatever they may be, which follow, if the one is?


Yes.


Then we will begin at the beginning:-If one is, can one be, and not partake of being?


Impossible.


Then the one will have being, but its being will not be the same with the one; for if the same, it would not be the being of the one; nor would the one have participated in being, for the proposition that one is would have been identical with the proposition that one is one; but our hypothesis is not if one is one, what will follow, but if one is:-am I not right?


Quite right.


We mean to say, that being has not the same significance as one?


Of course.


And when we put them together shortly, and say “One is,” that is equivalent to saying, “partakes of being”?


Quite true.


Once more then let us ask, if one is what will follow. Does not this hypothesis necessarily imply that one is of such a nature as to have parts?


How so?


In this way:-If being is predicated of the one, if the one is, and one of being, if being is one; and if being and one are not the same; and since the one, which we have assumed, is, must not the whole, if it is one, itself be, and have for its parts, one and being?


Certainly.


And is each of these parts-one and being to be simply called a part, or must the word “part” be relative to the word “whole”?


The latter.


Then that which is one is both a whole and has a part?


Certainly.


Again, of the parts of the one, if it is-I mean being and one-does either fail to imply the other? is the one wanting to being, or being to the one?


Impossible.


Thus, each of the parts also has in turn both one and being, and is at the least made up of two parts; and the same principle goes on for ever, and every part whatever has always these two parts; for being always involves one, and one being; so that one is always disappearing, and becoming two.


Certainly.


And so the one, if it is, must be infinite in multiplicity?


Clearly.


Let us take another direction.


What direction?


We say that the one partakes of being and therefore it is?


Yes.


And in this way, the one, if it has being, has turned out to be many?


True.


But now, let us abstract the one which, as we say, partakes of being, and try to imagine it apart from that of which, as we say, it partakes-will this abstract one be one only or many?


One, I think.


Let us see:-Must not the being of one be other than one? for the one is not being, but, considered as one, only partook of being?


Certainly.


If being and the one be two different things, it is not because the one is one that it is other than being; nor because being is being that it is other than the one; but they differ from one another in virtue of otherness and difference.


Certainly.


So that the other is not the same either with the one or with being?


Certainly not.


And therefore whether we take being and the other, or being and the one, or the one and the other, in every such case we take two things, which may be rightly called both.


How so.


In this way-you may speak of being?


Yes.


And also of one?


Yes.


Then now we have spoken of either of them?


Yes.


Well, and when I speak of being and one, I speak of them both?


Certainly.


And if I speak of being and the other, or of the one and the other-in any such case do I not speak of both?


Yes.


And must not that which is correctly called both, be also two?


Undoubtedly.


And of two things how can either by any possibility not be one?


It cannot.


Then, if the individuals of the pair are together two, they must be severally one?


Clearly.


And if each of them is one, then by the addition of any one to any pair, the whole becomes three?


Yes.


And three are odd, and two are even?


Of course.


And if there are two there must also be twice, and if there are three there must be thrice; that is, if twice one makes two, and thrice one three?


Certainly.


There are two, and twice, and therefore there must be twice two; and there are three, and there is thrice, and therefore there must be thrice three?


Of course.


If there are three and twice, there is twice three; and if there are two and thrice, there is thrice two?


Undoubtedly.


Here, then, we have even taken even times, and odd taken odd times, and even taken odd times, and odd taken even times.


True.


And if this is so, does any number remain which has no necessity to be?


None whatever.


Then if one is, number must also be?


It must.


But if there is number, there must also be many, and infinite multiplicity of being; for number is infinite in multiplicity, and partakes also of being: am I not right?


Certainly.


And if all number participates in being, every part of number will also participate?


Yes.


Then being is distributed over the whole multitude of things, and nothing that is, however small or however great, is devoid of it? And, indeed, the very supposition of this is absurd, for how can that which is, be devoid of being?


In no way.


And it is divided into the greatest and into the smallest, and into being of all sizes, and is broken up more than all things; the divisions of it have no limit.


True.


Then it has the greatest number of parts?


Yes, the greatest number.


Is there any of these which is a part of being, and yet no part?


Impossible.


But if it is at all and so long as it is, it must be one, and cannot be none?


Certainly.


Then the one attaches to every single part of being, and does not fail in any part, whether great or small, or whatever may be the size of it?


True.


But reflect:-an one in its entirety, be in many places at the same time?


No; I see the impossibility of that.


And if not in its entirety, then it is divided; for it cannot be present with all the parts of being, unless divided.


True.


And that which has parts will be as many as the parts are?


Certainly.


Then we were wrong in saying just now, that being was distributed into the greatest number of parts. For it is not distributed into parts more than the one, into parts equal to the one; the one is never wanting to being, or being to the one, but being two they are co-equal and coextensive.


Certainly that is true.


The one itself, then, having been broken up into parts by being, is many and infinite?


True.


Then not only the one which has being is many, but the one itself distributed by being, must also be many?


Certainly.


Further, inasmuch as the parts are parts of a whole, the one, as a whole, will be limited; for are not the parts contained the whole?


Certainly.


And that which contains, is a limit?


Of course.


Then the one if it has being is one and many, whole and parts, having limits and yet unlimited in number?


Clearly.


And because having limits, also having extremes?


Certainly.


And if a whole, having beginning and middle and end. For can anything be a whole without these three? And if any one of them is wanting to anything, will that any longer be a whole?


No.


Then the one, as appears, will have beginning, middle, and end.


It will.


But, again, the middle will be equidistant from the extremes; or it would not be in the middle?


Yes.


Then the one will partake of figure, either rectilinear or round, or a union of the two?


True.


And if this is the case, it will be both in itself and in another too.


How?


Every part is in the whole, and none is outside the whole.


True.


And all the parts are contained by the whole?


Yes.


And the one is all its parts, and neither more nor less than all?


No.


And the one is the whole?


Of course.


But if all the parts are in the whole, and the one is all of them and the whole, and they are all contained by the whole, the one will be contained by the one; and thus the one will be in itself.


That is true.


But then, again, the whole is not in the parts-neither in all the parts, nor in some one of them. For if it is in all, it must be in one; for if there were any one in which it was not, it could not be in all the parts; for the part in which it is wanting is one of all, and if the whole is not in this, how can it be in them all?


It cannot.


Nor can the whole be in some of the parts; for if the whole were in some of the parts, the greater would be in the less, which is impossible.


Yes, impossible.


But if the whole is neither in one, nor in more than one, nor in all of the parts, it must be in something else, or cease to be anywhere at all?


Certainly.


If it were nowhere, it would be nothing; but being a whole, and not being in itself, it must be in another.


Very true.


The one then, regarded as a whole, is in another, but regarded as being all its parts, is in itself; and therefore the one must be itself in itself and also in another.


Certainly.


The one then, being of this nature, is of necessity both at rest and in motion?


How?


The one is at rest since it is in itself, for being in one, and not passing out of this, it is in the same, which is itself.


True.


And that which is ever in the same, must be ever at rest?


Certainly.


Well, and must not that, on the contrary, which is ever in other, never be in the same; and if never in the same, never at rest, and if not at rest, in motion?


True.


Then the one being always itself in itself and other, must always be both at rest and in motion?


Clearly.


And must be the same with itself, and other than itself; and also the same with the others, and other than the others; this follows from its previous affections.


How so?


Every thing in relation to every other thing, is either the same or other; or if neither the same nor other, then in the relation of a part to a whole, or of a whole to a part.


Clearly.


And is the one a part of itself?


Certainly not.


Since it is not a part in relation to itself it cannot be related to itself as whole to part?


It cannot.


But is the one other than one?


No.


And therefore not other than itself?


Certainly not.


If then it be neither other, nor a whole, nor a part in relation to itself, must it not be the same with itself?


Certainly.


But then, again, a thing which is in another place from “itself,” if this “itself” remains in the same place with itself, must be other than “itself,” for it will be in another place?


True.


Then the one has been shown to be at once in itself and in another?


Yes.


Thus, then, as appears, the one will be other than itself?


True.


Well, then, if anything be other than anything, will it not be other than that which is other?


Certainly.


And will not all things that are not one, be other than the one, and the one other than the not-one?


Of course.


Then the one will be other than the others?


True.


But, consider:-Are not the absolute same, and the absolute other, opposites to one another?


Of course.


Then will the same ever be in the other, or the other in the same?


They will not.


If then the other is never in the same, there is nothing in which the other is during any space of time; for during that space of time, however small, the other would be in the game. Is not that true?


Yes.


And since the other-is never in the same, it can never be in anything that is.


True.


Then the other will never be either in the not one, or in the one?


Certainly not.


Then not by reason of otherness is the one other than the not-one, or the not-one other than the one.


No.


Nor by reason of themselves will they be other than one another, if not partaking of the other.


How can they be?


But if they are not other, either by reason of themselves or of the other, will they not altogether escape being other than one another?


They will.


Again, the not-one cannot partake of the one; otherwise it would not have been not-one, but would have been in some way one.


True.


Nor can the not-one be number; for having number, it would not have been not-one at all.


It would not.


Again, is the not-one part of the one; or rather, would it not in that case partake of the one?


It would.


If then, in every point of view, the one and the not-one are distinct, then neither is the one part or whole of the not-one, nor is the not-one part or whole of the one?


No.


But we said that things which are neither parts nor wholes of one another, nor other than one another, will be the same with one another: -so we said?


Yes.


Then shall we say that the one, being in this relation to the not-one, is the same with it?


Let us say so.


Then it is the same with itself and the others, and also other than itself and the others.


That appears to be the inference. And it will also be like and unlike itself and the others?


Perhaps.


Since the one was shown to be other than the others, the others will also be other than the one.


Yes.


And the one is other than the others in the same degree that the others are other than it, and neither more nor less?


True.


And if neither more nor less, then in a like degree?


Yes.


In virtue of the affection by which the one is other than others and others in like manner other than it, the one will be affected like the others and the others like the one.


How do you mean?


I may take as an illustration the case of names: You give a name to a thing?


Yes.


And you may say the name once or oftener?


Yes.


And when you say it once, you mention that of which it is the name? and when more than once, is it something else which you mention? or must it always be the same thing of which you speak, whether you utter the name once or more than once?


Of course it is the same.


And is not “other” a name given to a thing?


Certainly.


Whenever, then, you use the word “other,” whether once or oftener, you name that of which it is the name, and to no other do you give the name?


True.


Then when we say that the others are other than the one, and the one other than the others, in repeating the word “other” we speak of that nature to which the name is applied, and of no other?


Quite true.


Then the one which is other than others, and the other which is other than the one, in that the word “other” is applied to both, will be in the same condition; and that which is in the same condition is like?


Yes.


Then in virtue of the affection by which the one is other than the others, every thing will be like every thing, for every thing is other than every thing.


True.


Again, the like is opposed to the unlike?


Yes.


And the other to the same?


True again.


And the one was also shown to be the same with the others?


Yes.


And to be, the same with the others is the opposite of being other than the others?


Certainly.


And in that it was other it was shown to be like?


Yes.


But in that it was the same it will be unlike by virtue of the opposite affection to that which made it and this was the affection of otherness.


Yes.


The same then will make it unlike; otherwise it will not be the opposite of the other.


True.


Then the one will be both like and unlike the others; like in so far as it is other, and unlike in so far as it is the same.


Yes, that argument may be used.


And there is another argument.


What?


In so far as it is affected in the same way it is not affected otherwise, and not being affected otherwise is not unlike, and not being unlike, is like; but in so far as it is affected by other it is otherwise, and being otherwise affected is unlike.


True.


Then because the one is the same with the others and other than the others, on either of these two grounds, or on both of them, it will be both like and unlike the others?


Certainly.


And in the same way as being other than itself, and the same with itself on either of these two grounds and on both of them, it will be like and unlike itself.


Of course.


Again, how far can the one touch or not touch itself and others?-Consider.


I am considering.


The one was shown to be in itself which was a whole?


True.


And also in other things?


Yes.


In so far as it is in other things it would touch other things, but in so far as it is in itself it would be debarred from touching them, and would touch itself only.


Clearly.


Then the inference is that it would touch both?


It would.


But what do you say to a new point of view? Must not that which is to touch another be next to that which it is to touch, and occupy the place nearest to that in which what it touches is situated?


True.


Then the one, if it is to touch itself, ought to be situated next to itself, and occupy the place next to that in which itself is?


It ought.


And that would require that the one should be two, and be in two places at once, and this, while it is one, will never happen.


No.


Then the one cannot touch itself any more than it can be two?


It cannot.


Neither can it touch others.


Why not?


The reason is, that whatever is to touch another must be in separation from, and next to, that which it is to touch, and no third thing can be between them.


True.


Two things, then, at the least ate necessary to make contact possible?


They are.


And if to the two a third be added in due order, the number of terms will be three, and the contacts two?


Yes.


And every additional term makes one additional contact, whence it follows that the contacts are one less in number than the terms; the first two terms exceeded the number of contacts by one, and the whole number of terms exceeds the whole number of contacts by one in like manner; and for every one which is afterwards added to the number of terms, one contact is added to the contacts.


True.


Whatever is the whole number of things, the contacts will be always one less.


True.


But if there be only one, and not two, there will be no contact?


How can there be?


And do we not say that the others being other than the one are not one and have no part in the one?


True.


Then they have no number, if they have no one in them?


Of course not.


Then the others are neither one nor two, nor are they called by the name of any number?


No.


One, then, alone is one, and two do not exist?


Clearly not.


And if there are not two, there is no contact?


There is not.


Then neither does the one touch the others, nor the others the one, if there is no contact?


Certainly not.


For all which reasons the one touches and does not touch itself and the others?


True.


Further-is the one equal and unequal to itself and others?


How do you mean?


If the one were greater or less than the others, or the others greater or less than the one, they would not be greater or less than each other in virtue of their being the one and the others; but, if in addition to their being what they are they had equality, they would be equal to one another, or if the one had smallness and the others greatness, or the one had greatness and the others smallness-whichever kind had greatness would be greater, and whichever had smallness would be smaller?


Certainly.


Then there are two such ideas as greatness and smallness; for if they were not they could not be opposed to each other and be present in that which is.


How could they?


If, then, smallness is present in the one it will be present either in the whole or in a part of the whole?


Certainly.


Suppose the first; it will be either co-equal and co-extensive with the whole one, or will contain the one?


Clearly.


If it be co-extensive with the one it will be coequal with the one, or if containing the one it will be greater than the one?


Of course.


But can smallness be equal to anything or greater than anything, and have the functions of greatness and equality and not its own functions?


Impossible.


Then smallness cannot be in the whole of one, but, if at all, in a part only?


Yes.


And surely not in all of a part, for then the difficulty of the whole will recur; it will be equal to or greater than any part in which it is.


Certainly.


Then smallness will not be in anything, whether in a whole or in a part; nor will there be anything small but actual smallness.


True.


Neither will greatness be in the one, for if greatness be in anything there will be something greater other and besides greatness itself, namely, that in which greatness is; and this too when the small itself is not there, which the one, if it is great, must exceed; this, however, is impossible, seeing that smallness is wholly absent.


True.


But absolute greatness is only greater than absolute smallness, and smallness is only smaller than absolute greatness.


Very true.


Then other things not greater or less than the one, if they have neither greatness nor smallness; nor have greatness or smallness any power of exceeding or being exceeded in relation to the one, but only in relation to one another; nor will the one be greater or less than them or others, if it has neither greatness nor smallness.


Clearly not.


Then if the one is neither greater nor less than the others, it cannot either exceed or be exceeded by them?


Certainly not.


And that which neither exceeds nor is exceeded, must be on an equality; and being on an equality, must be equal.


Of course.


And this will be true also of the relation of the one to itself; having neither greatness nor smallness in itself, it will neither exceed nor be exceeded by itself, but will be on an equality with and equal to itself.


Certainly.


Then the one will be equal to both itself and the others?


Clearly so.


And yet the one, being itself in itself, will also surround and be without itself; and, as containing itself, will be greater than itself; and, as contained in itself, will be less; and will thus be greater and less than itself.


It will.


Now there cannot possibly be anything which is not included in the one and the others?


Of course not.


But, surely, that which is must always be somewhere?


Yes.


But that which is in anything will be less, and that in which it is will be greater; in no other way can one thing be in another.


True.


And since there is nothing other or besides the one and the others, and they must be in something, must they not be in one another, the one in the others and the others in the one, if they are to be anywhere?


That is clear.


But inasmuch as the one is in the others, the others will be greater than the one, because they contain the one, which will be less than the others, because it is contained in them; and inasmuch as the others are in the one, the one on the same principle will be greater than the others, and the others less than the one.


True.


The one, then, will be equal to and greater and less than itself and the others?


Clearly.


And if it be greater and less and equal, it will be of equal and more and less measures or divisions than itself and the others, and if of measures, also of parts?


Of course.


And if of equal and more and less measures or divisions, it will be in number more or less than itself and the others, and likewise equal in number to itself and to the others?


How is that?


It will be of more measures than those things which it exceeds, and of as many parts as measures; and so with that to which it is equal, and that than which it is less.


True.


And being greater and less than itself, and equal to itself, it will be of equal measures with itself and of more and fewer measures than itself; and if of measures then also of parts?


It will.


And being of equal parts with itself, it will be numerically equal to itself; and being of more parts, more, and being of less, less than itself?


Certainly.


And the same will hold of its relation to other things; inasmuch as it is greater than them, it will be more in number than them; and inasmuch as it is smaller, it will be less in number; and inasmuch as it is equal in size to other things, it will be equal to them in number.


Certainly.


Once more then, as would appear, the one will be in number both equal to and more and less than both itself and all other things.


It will.


Does the one also partake of time? And is it and does it become older and younger than itself and others, and again, neither younger nor older than itself and others, by virtue of participation in time?


How do you mean?


If one is, being must be predicated of it?


Yes.


But to be (einai) is only participation of being in present time, and to have been is the participation of being at a past time, and to be about to be is the participation of being at a future time?


Very true.


Then the one, since it partakes of being, partakes of time?


Certainly.


And is not time always moving forward?


Yes.


Then the one is always becoming older than itself, since it moves forward in time?


Certainly.


And do you remember that the older becomes older than that which becomes younger?


I remember.


Then since the one becomes older than itself, it becomes younger at the same time?


Certainly.


Thus, then, the one becomes older as well as younger than itself?


Yes.


And it is older (is it not?) when in becoming, it gets to the point of time. between “was” and “will be,” which is “now”: for surely in going from the past to the future, it cannot skip the present?


No.


And when it arrives at the present it stops from becoming older, and no longer becomes, but is older, for if it went on it would never be reached by the present, for it is the nature of that which goes on, to touch both the present and the future, letting go the present and seizing the future, while in process of becoming between them.


True.


But that which is becoming cannot skip the present; when it reaches the present it ceases to become, and is then whatever it may happen to be becoming.


Clearly.


And so the one, when in becoming older it reaches the present, ceases to become, and is then older.


Certainly.


And it is older than that than which it was becoming older, and it was becoming older than itself.


Yes.


And that which is older is older than that which is younger?


True.


Then the one is younger than itself, when in becoming older it reaches the present?


Certainly.


But the present is always present with the one during all its being; for whenever it is it is always now.


Certainly.


Then the one always both is and becomes older and younger than itself?


Truly.


And is it or does it become a longer time than itself or an equal time with itself?


An equal time.


But if it becomes or is for an equal time with itself, it is of the same age with itself?


Of course.


And that which is of the same age, is neither older nor younger?


No.


The one, then, becoming and being the same time with itself, neither is nor becomes older or younger than itself?


I should say not.


And what are its relations to other things? Is it or does it become older or younger than they?


I cannot tell you.


You can at least tell me that others than the one are more than the one-other would have been one, but the others have multitude, and are more than one?


They will have multitude.


And a multitude implies a number larger than one?


Of course.


And shall we say that the lesser or the greater is the first to come or to have come into existence?


The lesser.


Then the least is the first? And that is the one?


Yes.


Then the one of all things that have number is the first to come into being; but all other things have also number, being plural and not singular.


They have.


And since it came into being first it must be supposed to have come into being prior to the others, and the others later; and the things which came into being later, are younger than that which preceded them? And so the other things will be younger than the one, and the one older than other things?


True.


What would you say of another question? Can the one have come into being contrary to its own nature, or is that impossible?


Impossible.


And yet, surely, the one was shown to have parts; and if parts, then a beginning, middle and end?


Yes.


And a beginning, both of the one itself and of all other things, comes into being first of all; and after the beginning, the others follow, until you reach the end?


Certainly.


And all these others we shall affirm to be parts of the whole and of the one, which, as soon as the end is reached, has become whole and one?


Yes; that is what we shall say.


But the end comes last, and the one is of such a nature as to come into being with the last; and, since the one cannot come into being except in accordance with its own nature, its nature will require that it should come into being after the others, simultaneously with the end.


Clearly.


Then the one is younger than the others and the others older than the one.


That also is clear in my judgment.


Well, and must not a beginning or any other part of the one or of anything, if it be a part and not parts, being a part, be also of necessity one?


Certainly.


And will not the one come into being together with each part-together with the first part when that comes into being, and together with the second part and with all the rest, and will not be wanting to any part, which is added to any other part until it has reached the last and become one whole; it will be wanting neither to the middle, nor to the first, nor to the last, nor to any of them, while the process of becoming is going on?


True.


Then the one is of the same age with all the others, so that if the one itself does not contradict its own nature, it will be neither prior nor posterior to the others, but simultaneous; and according to this argument the one will be neither older nor younger than the others, nor the others than the one, but according to the previous argument the one will be older and younger than the others and the others than the one.


Certainly.


After this manner then the one is and has become. But as to its becoming older and younger than the others, and the others than the one, and neither older. nor younger, what shall we say? Shall we say as of being so also of becoming, or otherwise?


I cannot answer.


But I can venture to say, that even if one thing were older or younger than another, it could not become older or younger in a greater degree than it was at first; for equals added to unequals, whether to periods of time or to anything else, leave the difference between them the same as at first.


Of course. Then that which is, cannot become older or younger than that which is, since the difference of age is always the same; the one is and has become older and the other younger; but they are no longer becoming so.


True.


And the one which is does not therefore become either older or younger than the others which are?


No.


But consider whether they may not become older and younger in another way.


In what way?


Just as the one was proven to be older than the others and the others than the one.


And what of that?


If the one is older than the others, has come into being a longer time than the others.


Yes.


But consider again; if we add equal time to a greater and a less time, will the greater differ from the less time by an equal or by a smaller portion than before?


By a smaller portion.


Then the difference between the age of the one and the age of the others will not be afterwards so great as at first, but if an equal time be added to both of them they will differ less and less in age?


Yes.


And that which differs in age from some other less than formerly, from being older will become younger in relation to that other than which it was older?


Yes, younger.


And if the one becomes younger the others aforesaid will become older than they were before, in relation to the one.


Certainly.


Then that which had become younger becomes older relatively to that which previously had become and was older; it never really is older, but is always becoming, for the one is always growing on the side of youth and the other on the side of age. And in like manner the older is always in process of becoming younger than the younger; for as they are always going in opposite directions they become in ways the opposite to one another, the younger older than the older and the older younger than the younger. They cannot, however have become; for if they had already become they would be and not merely become. But that is impossible; for they are always becoming both older and younger than one another: the one becomes younger than the others because it was seen to be older and prior, and the others become older than the one because they came into being later; and in the same way the others are in the same relation to the one, because they were seen to be older, and prior to the one.


That is clear.


Inasmuch then, one thing does not become older or younger than another, in that they always differ from each other by an equal number, the one cannot become older or younger than the others, nor the other than the one; but inasmuch as that which came into being earlier and that which came into being later must continually differ from each other by a different portion-in this point of view the others must become older and younger than the one, and the one than the others.


Certainly.


For all these reasons, then, the one is and becomes older and younger than itself and the others, and neither is nor becomes older or younger than itself or the others.


Certainly.


But since the one partakes of time, and partakes of becoming older and younger, must it not also partake of the past, the present, and the future?


Of course it must.


Then the one was and is and will be, and was becoming and is becoming and will become?


Certainly.


And there is and was and will be something which is in relation to it and belongs to it?


True.


And since we have at this moment opinion and knowledge and perception of the one, there is opinion and knowledge and perception of it?


Quite right.


Then there is name and expression for it, and it is named and expressed, and everything of this kind which appertains to other: things appertains to the one.


Certainly, that is true.


Yet once more and for the third time, let us consider: If the one is both one and many, as we have described, and is, neither one nor many, and participates in time, must it not, in as far as it is one, at times partake of being, and in as far as it is not one, at times not partake of being?


Certainly.


But can it partake of being when not partaking of being, or not partake of being when partaking of being?


Impossible.


Then the one partakes and does not partake of being at different times, for that is the only way in which it can partake and not partake of the same.


True.


And is there not also a time at which it assumes being and relinquishes being-for how can it have and not have the same thing unless it receives and also gives it up at; some time?


Impossible.


And the assuming of being is what you would call becoming?


I should.


And the relinquishing of being you would call destruction?


I should.


The one then, as would appear, becomes and is destroyed by taking and giving up being.


Certainly.


And being one and many and in process of becoming and being destroyed, when it becomes one it ceases to be many, and when many, it ceases to be one?


Certainly.


And as it becomes one and many, must it not inevitably experience separation and aggregation?


Inevitably.


And whenever it becomes like and unlike it must be assimilated and dissimilated?


Yes.


And when it becomes greater or less or equal it must grow or diminish or be equalized?


True.


And when being in motion it rests, and when being at rest it changes to motion, it can surely be in no time at all?


How can it?


But that a thing which is previously at rest should be afterwards in motion, or previously in motion and afterwards at rest, without experiencing change, is impossible.


Impossible.


And surely there cannot be a time in which a thing can be at once neither in motion nor at rest?


There cannot.


But neither can it change without changing.


True.


When then does it change; for it cannot change either when at rest, or when in motion, or when in time?


It cannot.


And does this strange thing in which it is at the time of changing really exist?


What thing?


The moment. For the moment seems to imply a something out of which change takes place into either of two states; for the change is not from the state of rest as such, nor, from the state of motion as such; but there is this curious nature, which we call the moment lying between rest and motion, not being in any time; and into this and out of this what is in motion changes into rest, and what is at rest into motion.


So it appears.


And the one then, since it is at rest and also in motion, will change to either, for only in this way can it be in both. And in changing it changes in a moment, and when it is changing it will be in no time, and will not then be either in motion or at rest.


It will not.


And it will be in the same case in relation to the other changes, when it passes from being into cessation of being, or from not-being into becoming-then it passes between certain states of motion and rest, and, neither is nor is not, nor becomes nor is destroyed.


Very true.


And on the same principle, in the passage from one to many and from many to one, the one is neither one nor many, neither separated nor aggregated; and in the passage from like to unlike, and from unlike to like, it is neither like nor unlike, neither in a state of assimilation nor of dissimilation; and in the passage from small to great and equal and back again, it will be neither small nor great, nor equal, nor in a state of increase, or diminution, or equalization.


True.


All these, then, are the affections of the one, if the one has being.


Of course.


But if one is, what will happen to the others -is not that also to be considered?


Yes.


Let us show then, if one is, what will be the affections of the others than the one.


Let us do so.


Inasmuch as there are things other than the one, the others are not the one; for if they were they could not be other than the one. Very true.


Very true.


Nor are the others altogether without the one, but in a certain way they participate in the one.


In what way?


Because the others are other than the one inasmuch as they have parts; for if they had no parts they would be simply one.


Right.


And parts, as we affirm, have relation to a whole?


So we say.


And a whole must necessarily be one made up of many; and the parts will be parts of the one, for each of the parts is not a part of many, but of a whole.


How do you mean?


If anything were a part of many, being itself one of them, it will surely be a part of itself, which is impossible, and it will be a part of each one of the other parts, if of all; for if not a part of some one, it will be a part of all the others but this one, and thus will not be a part of each one; and if not a part of each, one it will not be a part of anyone of the many; and not being a part of any one, it cannot be a part or anything else of all those things of none of which it is anything.


Clearly not.


Then the part is not a part of the many, nor of all, but is of a certain single form, which we call a whole, being one perfect unity framed out of all-of this the part will be a part.


Certainly.


If, then, the others have parts, they will participate in the whole and in the one.


True.


Then the others than the one must be one perfect whole, having parts.


Certainly.


And the same argument holds of each part, for the part must participate in the one; for if each of the parts is a part, this means, I suppose, that it is one separate from the rest and self-related; otherwise it is not each.


True.


But when we speak of the part participating in the one, it must clearly be other than one; for if not, it would merely have participated, but would have been one; whereas only the itself can be one.


Very true.


Both the whole and the part must participate in the one; for the whole will be one whole, of which the parts will be parts; and each part will be one part of the whole which is the whole of the part.


True.


And will not the things which participate in the one, be other than it?


Of course.


And the things which are other than the one will be many; for if the things which are other than the one were neither one nor more than one, they would be nothing.


True.


But, seeing that the things which participate in the one as a part, and in the one as a whole, are more than one, must not those very things which participate in the one be infinite in number?


How so?


Let us look at the matter thus:-Is it not a fact that in partaking of the one they are not one, and do not partake of the one at the very time. when they are partaking of it?


Clearly.


They do so then as multitudes in which the one is not present?


Very true.


And if we were to abstract from them in idea the very smallest fraction, must not that least fraction, if it does not partake of the one, be a multitude and not one?


It must.


And if we continue to look at the other side of their nature, regarded simply, and in itself, will not they, as far as we see them, be unlimited in number?


Certainly.


And yet, when each several part becomes a part, then the parts have a limit in relation to the whole and to each other, and the whole in relation to the parts.


Just so.


The result to the others than the one is that of themselves and the one appears to create a new element in them which gives to them limitation in relation to one another; whereas in their own nature they have no limit.


That is clear.


Then the others than the one, both as whole and parts, are infinite, and also partake of limit.


Certainly.


Then they are both like and unlike one another and themselves.


How is that?


Inasmuch as they are unlimited in their own nature, they are all affected in the same way.


True.


And inasmuch as they all partake of limit, they are all affected in the same way.


Of course.


But inasmuch as their state is both limited and unlimited, they are affected in opposite ways.


Yes.


And opposites are the most unlike of things.


Certainly.


Considered, then, in regard to either one of their affections, they will be like themselves and one another; considered in reference to both of them together, most opposed and most unlike.


That appears to be true.


Then the others are both like and unlike themselves and one another?


True.


And they are the same and also different from one another, and in motion and at rest, and experience every sort of opposite affection, as may be proved without difficulty of them, since they have been shown to have experienced the affections aforesaid?


True.


Suppose, now, that we leave the further discussion of these matters as evident, and consider again upon the hypothesis that the one is, whether opposite of all this is or is not equally true of the others.


By all means.


Then let us begin again, and ask, If one is, what must be the affections of the others?


Let us ask that question.


Must not the one be distinct from the others, and the others from the one?


Why so?


Why, because there is nothing else beside them which is distinct from both of them; for the expression “one and the others” includes all things.


Yes, all things.


Then we cannot suppose that there is anything different from them in which both the one and the others might exist?


There is nothing.


Then the one and the others are never in the same?


True.


Then they are separated from each other?


Yes.


And we surely cannot say that what is truly one has parts?


Impossible.


Then the one will not be in the others as a whole, nor as part, if it be separated from the others, and has no parts?


Impossible.


Then there is no way in which the others can partake of the one, if they do not partake either in whole or in part?


It would seem not.


Then there is no way in which the others are one, or have in themselves any unity?


There is not.


Nor are the others many; for if they were many, each part of them would be a part of the whole; but now the others, not partaking in any way of the one, are neither one nor many, nor whole, nor part.


True.


Then the others neither are nor contain two or three, if entirely deprived of the one?


True.


Then the others are neither like nor unlike the one, nor is likeness and unlikeness in them; for if they were like and unlike, or had in them likeness and unlikeness, they would have two natures in them opposite to one another.


That is clear.


But for that which partakes of nothing to partake of two things was held by us to be impossible?


Impossible.


Then the others are neither like nor unlike nor both, for if they were like or unlike they would partake of one of those two natures, which would be one thing, and if they were both they would partake of opposites which would be two things, and this has been shown to be impossible.


True.


Therefore they are neither the same, nor other, nor in motion, nor at rest, nor in a state of becoming, nor of being destroyed, nor greater, nor less, nor equal, nor have they experienced anything else of the sort; for, if they are capable of experiencing any such affection, they will participate in one and two and three, and odd and even, and in these, as has been proved, they do not participate, seeing that they are altogether and in every way devoid of the one.


Very true.


Therefore if one is, the one is all things, and also nothing, both in relation to itself and to other things.


Certainly.


Well, and ought we not to consider next what will be the consequence if the one is not?


Yes; we ought.


What is the meaning of the hypothesis-If the one is not; is there any difference between this and the hypothesis-If the not one is not?


There is a difference, certainly.


Is there a difference only, or rather are not the two expressions-if the one is not, and if the not one is not, entirely opposed?


They are entirely opposed.


And suppose a person to say:-If greatness is not, if smallness is not, or anything of that sort, does he not mean, whenever he uses such an expression, that “what is not” is other than other things?


To be sure.


And so when he says “If one is not” he clearly means, that what “is not” is other than all others; we know what he means-do we not?


Yes, we do.


When he says “one,” he says something which is known; and secondly something which is other than all other things; it makes no difference whether he predicate of one being or not being, for that which is said “not to be” is known to be something all the same, and is distinguished from other things.


Certainly.


Then I will begin again, and ask: If one is not, what are the consequences? In the first place, as would appear, there is a knowledge of it, or the very meaning of the words, “if one is not,” would not be known.


True.


Secondly, the others differ from it, or it could not be described as different from the others?


Certainly.


Difference, then, belongs to it as well as knowledge; for in speaking of the one as different from the others, we do not speak of a difference in the others, but in the one.


Clearly so.


Moreover, the one that is not is something and partakes of relation to “that,” and “this,” and “these,” and the like, and is an attribute of “this”; for the one, or the others than the one, could not have been spoken of, nor could any attribute or relative of the one that is not have been or been spoken of, nor could it have been said to be anything, if it did not partake of “some,” or of the other relations just now mentioned.


True.


Being, then, cannot be ascribed to the one, since it is not; but the one that is not may or rather must participate in many things, if it and nothing else is not; if, however, neither the one nor the one that is not is supposed not to be, and we are speaking of something of a different nature, we can predicate nothing of it. But supposing that the one that is not and nothing else is not, then it must participate in the predicate “that,” and in many others.


Certainly.


And it will have unlikeness in relation to the others, for the others being different from the one will be of a different kind.


Certainly.


And are not things of a different kind also other in kind?


Of course.


And are not things other in kind unlike?


They are unlike.


And if they are unlike the one, that which they are unlike will clearly be unlike them?


Clearly so.


Then the one will have unlikeness in respect of which the others are unlike it?


That would seem to be true.


And if unlikeness to other things is attributed to it, it must have likeness to itself.


How so?


If the one have unlikeness to one, something else must be meant; nor will the hypothesis relate to one; but it will relate to something other than one?


Quite so.


But that cannot be.


No.


Then the one must have likeness to itself?


It must.


Again, it is not equal to the others; for if it were equal, then it would at once be and be like them in virtue of the equality; but if one has no being, then it can neither be nor be like?


It cannot.


But since it is not equal to the others, neither can the others be equal to it?


Certainly not.


And things that are not equal are unequal?


True.


And they are unequal to an unequal?


Of course.


Then the one partakes of inequality, and in respect of this the others are unequal to it?


Very true.


And inequality implies greatness and smallness?


Yes.


Then the one, if of such a nature, has greatness and smallness?


That appears to be true.


And greatness and smallness always stand apart?


True.


Then there is always something between them?


There is.


And can you think of anything else which is between them other than equality?


No, it is equality which lies between them.


Then that which has greatness and smallness also has equality, which lies between them?


That is clear.


Then the one, which is not, partakes, as would appear, of greatness and smallness and equality?


Clearly.


Further, it must surely in a sort partake of being?


How so?


It must be so, for if not, then we should not speak the truth in saying that the one is not. But if we speak the truth, clearly we must say what is. Am I not right?


Yes.


And since we affirm that we speak truly, we must also affirm that we say what is?


Certainly.


Then, as would appear, the one, when it is not, is; for if it were not to be when it is not, but were to relinquish something of being, so as to become not-being, it would at once be.


Quite true.


Then the one which is not, if it is to maintain itself, must have the being of not-being as the bond of not-being, just as being must have as a bond the not-being of not-being in order to perfect its own being; for the truest assertion of the being of being and of the not-being of not being is when being partakes of the being of being, and not of the being of not-being-that is, the perfection of being; and when not-being does not partake of the not-being of not-being but of the being of not-being-that is the perfection of not-being.


Most true.


Since then what is partakes of not-being, and what is not of being, must not the one also partake of being in order not to be?


Certainly.


Then the one, if it is not, clearly has being?


Clearly.


And has not-being also, if it is not?


Of course.


But can anything which is in a certain state not be in that state without changing?


Impossible.


Then everything which is and is not in a certain state, implies change?


Certainly.


And change is motion-we may say that?


Yes, motion.


And the one has been proved both to be and not to be?


Yes.


And therefore is and is not in the same state?


Yes.


Thus the one that is not has been shown to have motion also, because it changes from being to not-being?


That appears to be true.


But surely if it is nowhere among what is, as is the fact, since it is not, it cannot change from one place to another?


Impossible.


Then it cannot move by changing place?


No.


Nor can it turn on the same spot, for it nowhere touches the same, for the same is, and that which is not cannot be reckoned among things that are?


It cannot.


Then the one, if it is not, cannot turn in that in which it is not?


No.


Neither can the one, whether it is or is not, be altered into other than itself, for if it altered and became different from itself, then we could not be still speaking of the one, but of something else?


True.


But if the one neither suffers alteration, nor turns round in the same place, nor changes place, can it still be capable of motion?


Impossible.


Now that which is unmoved must surely be at rest, and that which is at rest must stand still?


Certainly.


Then the one that is not, stands still, and is also in motion?


That seems to be true.


But if it be in motion it must necessarily undergo alteration, for anything which is moved, in so far as it is moved, is no longer in the same state, but in another?


Yes.


Then the one, being moved, is altered?


Yes.


And, further, if not moved in any way, it will not be altered in any way?


No.


Then, in so far as the one that is not is moved, it is altered, but in so far as it is not moved, it is not altered?


Right.


Then the one that is not is altered and is not altered?


That is clear.


And must not that which is altered become other than it previously was, and lose its former state and be destroyed; but that which is not altered can neither come into being nor be destroyed?


Very true.


And the one that is not, being altered, becomes and is destroyed; and not being altered, neither becomes nor is destroyed; and so the one that is not becomes and is destroyed, and neither becomes nor is destroyed?


True.


And now, let us go back once more to the beginning, and see whether these or some other consequences will follow.


Let us do as you say.


If one is not, we ask what will happen in respect of one? That is the question.


Yes.


Do not the words “is not” signify absence of being in that to which we apply them?


Just so.


And when we say that a thing is not, do we mean that it is not in one way but is in another? or do we mean, absolutely, that what is not has in no sort or way or kind participation of being?


Quite absolutely.


Then, that which is not cannot be, or in any way participate in being?


It cannot.


And did we not mean by becoming, and being destroyed, the assumption of being and the loss of being?


Nothing else.


And can that which has no participation in being, either assume or lose being?


Impossible.


The one then, since it in no way is, cannot have or lose or assume being in any way?


True.


Then the one that is not, since it in no way partakes of being, neither nor becomes?


No.


Then it is not altered at all; for if it were it would become and be destroyed?


True.


But if it be not altered it cannot be moved?


Certainly not.


Nor can we say that it stands, if it is nowhere; for that which stands must always be in one and the same spot?


Of course.


Then we must say that the one which is not never stands still and never moves?


Neither.


Nor is there any existing thing which can be attributed to it; for if there had been, it would partake of being?


That is clear.


And therefore neither smallness, nor greatness, nor equality, can be attributed to it?


No.


Nor yet likeness nor difference, either in relation to itself or to others?


Clearly not.


Well, and if nothing should be attributed to it, can other things be attributed to it?


Certainly not.


And therefore other things can neither be like or unlike, the same, or different in relation to it?


They cannot.


Nor can what is not, be anything, or be this thing, or be related to or the attribute of this or that or other, or be past, present, or future. Nor can knowledge, or opinion, or perception, or expression, or name, or any other thing that is, have any concern with it?


No.


Then the one that is not has no condition of any kind?


Such appears to be the conclusion.


Yet once more; if one is not, what becomes of the others? Let us determine that.


Yes; let us determine that.


The others must surely be; for if they, like the one, were not, we could not be now speaking of them.


True.


But to speak of the others implies difference-the terms “other” and “different” are synonymous?


True.


Other means other than other, and different, different from the different?


Yes.


Then, if there are to be others, there is something than which they will be other?


Certainly.


And what can that be?-for if the one is not, they will not be other than the one.


They will not.


Then they will be other than each other; for the only remaining alternative is that they are other than nothing.


True.


And they are each other than one another, as being plural and not singular; for if one is not, they cannot be singular but every particle of them is infinite in number; and even if a person takes that which appears to be the smallest fraction, this, which seemed one, in a moment evanesces into many, as in a dream, and from being the smallest becomes very great, in comparison with the fractions into which it is split up?


Very true.


And in such particles the others will be other than one another, if others are, and the one is not?


Exactly.


And will there not be many particles, each appearing to be one, but not being one, if one is not?


True.


And it would seem that number can be predicated of them if each of them appears to be one, though it is really many?


It can.


And there will seem to be odd and even among them, which will also have no reality, if one is not?


Yes.


And there will appear to be a least among them; and even this will seem large and manifold in comparison with the many small fractions which are contained in it?


Certainly.


And each particle will be imagined to be equal to the many and little; for it could not have appeared to pass from the greater to the less without having appeared to arrive at the middle; and thus would arise the appearance of equality.


Yes.


And having neither beginning, middle, nor end, each separate particle yet appears to have a limit in relation to itself and other.


How so?


Because, when a person conceives of any one of these as such, prior to the beginning another beginning appears, and there is another end, remaining after the end, and in the middle truer middles within but smaller, because no unity can be conceived of any of them, since the one is not.


Very true.


And so all being, whatever we think of, must be broken up into fractions, for a particle will have to be conceived of without unity?


Certainly.


And such being when seen indistinctly and at a distance, appears to be one; but when seen near and with keen intellect, every single thing appears to be infinite, since it is deprived of the one, which is not?


Nothing more certain.


Then each of the others must appear to be infinite and finite, and one and many, if others than the one exist and not the one.


They must.


Then will they not appear to be like and unlike?


In what way?


Just as in a picture things appear to be all one to a person standing at a distance, and to be in the same state and alike?


True.


But when you approach them, they appear to be many and different; and because of the appearance of the difference, different in kind from, and unlike, themselves?


True.


And so must the particles appear to be like and unlike themselves and each other.


Certainly.


And must they not be the same and yet different from one another, and in contact with themselves, although they are separated, and having every sort of motion, and every sort of rest, and becoming and being destroyed, and in neither state, and the like, all which things may be easily enumerated, if the one is not and the many are?


Most true.


Once more, let us go back to the beginning, and ask if the one is not, and the others of the one are, what will follow.


Let us ask that question.


In the first place, the others will not be one?


Impossible.


Nor will they be many; for if they were many one would be contained in them. But if no one of them is one, all of them are nought, and therefore they will not be many.


True.


If there be no one in the others, the others are neither many nor one.


They are not.


Nor do they appear either as one or many.


Why not?


Because the others have no sort or manner or way of communion with any sort of not-being, nor can anything which is not, be connected with any of the others; for that which is not has no parts.


True.


Nor is there an opinion or any appearance of not-being in connection with the others, nor is not-being ever in any way attributed to the others.


No.


Then if one is not, the others neither are, nor any of the others either as one or many; for you cannot conceive the many without the one.


You cannot.


Then if one is not, there is no conception of can be conceived to be either one or many?


It would seem not.


Nor as like or unlike?


No.


Nor as the same or different, nor in contact or separation, nor in any of those states which we enumerated as appearing to be;-the others neither are nor appear to be any of these, if one is not?


True.


Then may we not sum up the argument in a word and say truly: If one is not, then nothing is?


Certainly.


Let thus much be said; and further let us affirm what seems to be the truth, that, whether one is or is not, one and the others in relation to themselves and one another, all of them, in every way, are and are not, and appear to be and appear not to be.


Most true.



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Critias – a Dialogue by Plato

01 Monday Jun 2009

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in BC, Greek, Philosophy, Plato

≈ 3 Comments

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Plato  [image by Leonardo da Vinci]


Critias
by Plato
translated by Benjamin Jowett


Persons of the Dialogue:
CRITIAS;
HERMOCRATES;
TIMAEUS;
SOCRATES.


[Timaeus] How thankful I am, Socrates, that I have arrived at last, and, like a weary traveller after a long journey, may be at rest! And I pray the being who always was of old, and has now been by me revealed, to grant that my words may endure in so far as they have been spoken truly and acceptably to him; but if unintentionally I have said anything wrong, I pray that he will impose upon me a just retribution, and the just retribution of him who errs is that he should be set right. Wishing, then, to speak truly in future concerning the generation of the gods, I pray him to give me knowledge, which of all medicines is the most perfect and best. And now having offered my prayer I deliver up the argument to Critias, who is to speak next according to our agreement.


[Critias] And I, Timaeus, accept the trust, and as you at first said that you were going to speak of high matters, and begged that some forbearance might be shown to you, I too ask the same or greater forbearance for what I am about to say. And although I very well know that my request may appear to be somewhat and discourteous, I must make it nevertheless. For will any man of sense deny that you have spoken well? I can only attempt to show that I ought to have more indulgence than you, because my theme is more difficult; and I shall argue that to seem to speak well of the gods to men is far easier than to speak well of men to men: for the inexperience and utter ignorance of his hearers about any subject is a great assistance to him who has to speak of it, and we know how ignorant we are concerning the gods. But I should like to make my meaning clearer, if Timaeus, you will follow me. All that is said by any of us can only be imitation and representation. For if we consider the likenesses which painters make of bodies divine and heavenly, and the different degrees of gratification with which the eye of the spectator receives them, we shall see that we are satisfied with the artist who is able in any degree to imitate the earth and its mountains, and the rivers, and the woods, and the universe, and the things that are and move therein, and further, that knowing nothing precise about such matters, we do not examine or analyze the painting; all that is required is a sort of indistinct and deceptive mode of shadowing them forth. But when a person endeavours to paint the human form we are quick at finding out defects, and our familiar knowledge makes us severe judges of any one who does not render every point of similarity. And we may observe the same thing to happen in discourse; we are satisfied with a picture of divine and heavenly things which has very little likeness to them; but we are more precise in our criticism of mortal and human things. Wherefore if at the moment of speaking I cannot suitably express my meaning, you must excuse me, considering that to form approved likenesses of human things is the reverse of easy. This is what I want to suggest to you, and at the same time to beg, Socrates, that I may have not less, but more indulgence conceded to me in what I am about to say. Which favour, if I am right in asking, I hope that you will be ready to grant.


[Socrates] Certainly, Critias, we will grant your request, and we will grant the same by anticipation to Hermocrates, as well as to you and Timaeus; for I have no doubt that when his turn comes a little while hence, he will make the same request which you have made. In order, then, that he may provide himself with a fresh beginning, and not be compelled to say the same things over again, let him understand that the indulgence is already extended by anticipation to him. And now, friend Critias, I will announce to you the judgment of the theatre. They are of opinion that the last performer was wonderfully successful, and that you will need a great deal of indulgence before you will be able to take his place.


[Hermocrates] The warning, Socrates, which you have addressed to him, I must also take to myself. But remember, Critias, that faint heart never yet raised a trophy; and therefore you must go and attack the argument like a man. First invoke Apollo and the Muses, and then let us hear you sound the praises and show forth the virtues of your ancient citizens.


[Crit.] Friend Hermocrates, you, who are stationed last and have another in front of you, have not lost heart as yet; the gravity of the situation will soon be revealed to you; meanwhile I accept your exhortations and encouragements. But besides the gods and goddesses whom you have mentioned, I would specially invoke Mnemosyne; for all the important part of my discourse is dependent on her favour, and if I can recollect and recite enough of what was said by the priests and brought hither by Solon, I doubt not that I shall satisfy the requirements of this theatre. And now, making no more excuses, I will proceed.


Let me begin by observing first of all, that nine thousand was the sum of years which had elapsed since the war which was said to have taken place between those who dwelt outside the Pillars of Heracles and all who dwelt within them; this war I am going to describe. Of the combatants on the one side, the city of Athens was reported to have been the leader and to have fought out the war; the combatants on the other side were commanded by the kings of Atlantis, which, as was saying, was an island greater in extent than Libya and Asia, and when afterwards sunk by an earthquake, became an impassable barrier of mud to voyagers sailing from hence to any part of the ocean. The progress of the history will unfold the various nations of barbarians and families of Hellenes which then existed, as they successively appear on the scene; but I must describe first of all Athenians of that day, and their enemies who fought with them, and then the respective powers and governments of the two kingdoms. Let us give the precedence to Athens.


In the days of old the gods had the whole earth distributed among them by allotment. There was no quarrelling; for you cannot rightly suppose that the gods did not know what was proper for each of them to have, or, knowing this, that they would seek to procure for themselves by contention that which more properly belonged to others. They all of them by just apportionment obtained what they wanted, and peopled their own districts; and when they had peopled them they tended us, their nurselings and possessions, as shepherds tend their flocks, excepting only that they did not use blows or bodily force, as shepherds do, but governed us like pilots from the stern of the vessel, which is an easy way of guiding animals, holding our souls by the rudder of persuasion according to their own pleasure;-thus did they guide all mortal creatures. Now different gods had their allotments in different places which they set in order. Hephaestus and Athene, who were brother and sister, and sprang from the same father, having a common nature, and being united also in the love of philosophy and art, both obtained as their common portion this land, which was naturally adapted for wisdom and virtue; and there they implanted brave children of the soil, and put into their minds the order of government; their names are preserved, but their actions have disappeared by reason of the destruction of those who received the tradition, and the lapse of ages. For when there were any survivors, as I have already said, they were men who dwelt in the mountains; and they were ignorant of the art of writing, and had heard only the names of the chiefs of the land, but very little about their actions. The names they were willing enough to give to their children; but the virtues and the laws of their predecessors, they knew only by obscure traditions; and as they themselves and their children lacked for many generations the necessaries of life, they directed their attention to the supply of their wants, and of them they conversed, to the neglect of events that had happened in times long past; for mythology and the enquiry into antiquity are first introduced into cities when they begin to have leisure, and when they see that the necessaries of life have already been provided, but not before. And this is reason why the names of the ancients have been preserved to us and not their actions. This I infer because Solon said that the priests in their narrative of that war mentioned most of the names which are recorded prior to the time of Theseus, such as Cecrops, and Erechtheus, and Erichthonius, and Erysichthon, and the names of the women in like manner. Moreover, since military pursuits were then common to men and women, the men of those days in accordance with the custom of the time set up a figure and image of the goddess in full armour, to be a testimony that all animals which associate together, male as well as female, may, if they please, practise in common the virtue which belongs to them without distinction of sex.


Now the country was inhabited in those days by various classes of citizens;-there were artisans, and there were husbandmen, and there was also a warrior class originally set apart by divine men. The latter dwelt by themselves, and had all things suitable for nurture and education; neither had any of them anything of their own, but they regarded all that they had as common property; nor did they claim to receive of the other citizens anything more than their necessary food. And they practised all the pursuits which we yesterday described as those of our imaginary guardians. Concerning the country the Egyptian priests said what is not only probable but manifestly true, that the boundaries were in those days fixed by the Isthmus, and that in the direction of the continent they extended as far as the heights of Cithaeron and Parnes; the boundary line came down in the direction of the sea, having the district of Oropus on the right, and with the river Asopus as the limit on the left. The land was the best in the world, and was therefore able in those days to support a vast army, raised from the surrounding people. Even the remnant of Attica which now exists may compare with any region in the world for the variety and excellence of its fruits and the suitableness of its pastures to every sort of animal, which proves what I am saying; but in those days the country was fair as now and yielded far more abundant produce. How shall I establish my words? and what part of it can be truly called a remnant of the land that then was? The whole country is only a long promontory extending far into the sea away from the rest of the continent, while the surrounding basin of the sea is everywhere deep in the neighbourhood of the shore. Many great deluges have taken place during the nine thousand years, for that is the number of years which have elapsed since the time of which I am speaking; and during all this time and through so many changes, there has never been any considerable accumulation of the soil coming down from the mountains, as in other places, but the earth has fallen away all round and sunk out of sight. The consequence is, that in comparison of what then was, there are remaining only the bones of the wasted body, as they may be called, as in the case of small islands, all the richer and softer parts of the soil having fallen away, and the mere skeleton of the land being left. But in the primitive state of the country, its mountains were high hills covered with soil, and the plains, as they are termed by us, of Phelleus were full of rich earth, and there was abundance of wood in the mountains. Of this last the traces still remain, for although some of the mountains now only afford sustenance to bees, not so very long ago there were still to be seen roofs of timber cut from trees growing there, which were of a size sufficient to cover the largest houses; and there were many other high trees, cultivated by man and bearing abundance of food for cattle. Moreover, the land reaped the benefit of the annual rainfall, not as now losing the water which flows off the bare earth into the sea, but, having an abundant supply in all places, and receiving it into herself and treasuring it up in the close clay soil, it let off into the hollows the streams which it absorbed from the heights, providing everywhere abundant fountains and rivers, of which there may still be observed sacred memorials in places where fountains once existed; and this proves the truth of what I am saying.


Such was the natural state of the country, which was cultivated, as we may well believe, by true husbandmen, who made husbandry their business, and were lovers of honour, and of a noble nature, and had a soil the best in the world, and abundance of water, and in the heaven above an excellently attempered climate. Now the city in those days was arranged on this wise. In the first place the Acropolis was not as now. For the fact is that a single night of excessive rain washed away the earth and laid bare the rock; at the same time there were earthquakes, and then occurred the extraordinary inundation, which was the third before the great destruction of Deucalion. But in primitive times the hill of the Acropolis extended to the Eridanus and Ilissus, and included the Pnyx on one side, and the Lycabettus as a boundary on the opposite side to the Pnyx, and was all well covered with soil, and level at the top, except in one or two places. Outside the Acropolis and under the sides of the hill there dwelt artisans, and such of the husbandmen as were tilling the ground near; the warrior class dwelt by themselves around the temples of Athene and Hephaestus at the summit, which moreover they had enclosed with a single fence like the garden of a single house. On the north side they had dwellings in common and had erected halls for dining in winter, and had all the buildings which they needed for their common life, besides temples, but there was no adorning of them with gold and silver, for they made no use of these for any purpose; they took a middle course between meanness and ostentation, and built modest houses in which they and their children’s children grew old, and they handed them down to others who were like themselves, always the same. But in summer-time they left their gardens and gymnasia and dining halls, and then the southern side of the hill was made use of by them for the same purpose. Where the Acropolis now is there was a fountain, which was choked by the earthquake, and has left only the few small streams which still exist in the vicinity, but in those days the fountain gave an abundant supply of water for all and of suitable temperature in summer and in winter. This is how they dwelt, being the guardians of their own citizens and the leaders of the Hellenes, who were their willing followers. And they took care to preserve the same number of men and women through all time, being so many as were required for warlike purposes, then as now-that is to say, about twenty thousand. Such were the ancient Athenians, and after this manner they righteously administered their own land and the rest of Hellas; they were renowned all over Europe and Asia for the beauty of their persons and for the many virtues of their souls, and of all men who lived in those days they were the most illustrious. And next, if I have not forgotten what I heard when I was a child, I will impart to you the character and origin of their adversaries. For friends should not keep their stories to themselves, but have them in common.


Yet, before proceeding further in the narrative, I ought to warn you, that you must not be surprised if you should perhaps hear Hellenic names given to foreigners. I will tell you the reason of this: Solon, who was intending to use the tale for his poem, enquired into the meaning of the names, and found that the early Egyptians in writing them down had translated them into their own language, and he recovered the meaning of the several names and when copying them out again translated them into our language. My great-grandfather, Dropides, had the original writing, which is still in my possession, and was carefully studied by me when I was a child. Therefore if you hear names such as are used in this country, you must not be surprised, for I have told how they came to be introduced. The tale, which was of great length, began as follows:-


I have before remarked in speaking of the allotments of the gods, that they distributed the whole earth into portions differing in extent, and made for themselves temples and instituted sacrifices. And Poseidon, receiving for his lot the island of Atlantis, begat children by a mortal woman, and settled them in a part of the island, which I will describe. Looking towards the sea, but in the centre of the whole island, there was a plain which is said to have been the fairest of all plains and very fertile. Near the plain again, and also in the centre of the island at a distance of about fifty stadia, there was a mountain not very high on any side.


In this mountain there dwelt one of the earth born primeval men of that country, whose name was Evenor, and he had a wife named Leucippe, and they had an only daughter who was called Cleito. The maiden had already reached womanhood, when her father and mother died; Poseidon fell in love with her and had intercourse with her, and breaking the ground, inclosed the hill in which she dwelt all round, making alternate zones of sea and land larger and smaller, encircling one another; there were two of land and three of water, which he turned as with a lathe, each having its circumference equidistant every way from the centre, so that no man could get to the island, for ships and voyages were not as yet. He himself, being a god, found no difficulty in making special arrangements for the centre island, bringing up two springs of water from beneath the earth, one of warm water and the other of cold, and making every variety of food to spring up abundantly from the soil. He also begat and brought up five pairs of twin male children; and dividing the island of Atlantis into ten portions, he gave to the first-born of the eldest pair his mother’s dwelling and the surrounding allotment, which was the largest and best, and made him king over the rest; the others he made princes, and gave them rule over many men, and a large territory. And he named them all; the eldest, who was the first king, he named Atlas, and after him the whole island and the ocean were called Atlantic. To his twin brother, who was born after him, and obtained as his lot the extremity of the island towards the Pillars of Heracles, facing the country which is now called the region of Gades in that part of the world, he gave the name which in the Hellenic language is Eumelus, in the language of the country which is named after him, Gadeirus. Of the second pair of twins he called one Ampheres, and the other Evaemon. To the elder of the third pair of twins he gave the name Mneseus, and Autochthon to the one who followed him. Of the fourth pair of twins he called the elder Elasippus, and the younger Mestor. And of the fifth pair he gave to the elder the name of Azaes, and to the younger that of Diaprepes. All these and their descendants for many generations were the inhabitants and rulers of divers islands in the open sea; and also, as has been already said, they held sway in our direction over the country within the Pillars as far as Egypt and Tyrrhenia.


Now Atlas had a numerous and honourable family, and they retained the kingdom, the eldest son handing it on to his eldest for many generations; and they had such an amount of wealth as was never before possessed by kings and potentates, and is not likely ever to be again, and they were furnished with everything which they needed, both in the city and country. For because of the greatness of their empire many things were brought to them from foreign countries, and the island itself provided most of what was required by them for the uses of life. In the first place, they dug out of the earth whatever was to be found there, solid as well as fusile, and that which is now only a name and was then something more than a name, orichalcum, was dug out of the earth in many parts of the island, being more precious in those days than anything except gold. There was an abundance of wood for carpenter’s work, and sufficient maintenance for tame and wild animals. Moreover, there were a great number of elephants in the island; for as there was provision for all other sorts of animals, both for those which live in lakes and marshes and rivers, and also for those which live in mountains and on plains, so there was for the animal which is the largest and most voracious of all. Also whatever fragrant things there now are in the earth, whether roots, or herbage, or woods, or essences which distil from fruit and flower, grew and thrived in that land; also the fruit which admits of cultivation, both the dry sort, which is given us for nourishment and any other which we use for food-we call them all by the common name pulse, and the fruits having a hard rind, affording drinks and meats and ointments, and good store of chestnuts and the like, which furnish pleasure and amusement, and are fruits which spoil with keeping, and the pleasant kinds of dessert, with which we console ourselves after dinner, when we are tired of eating-all these that sacred island which then beheld the light of the sun, brought forth fair and wondrous and in infinite abundance. With such blessings the earth freely furnished them; meanwhile they went on constructing their temples and palaces and harbours and docks. And they arranged the whole country in the following manner:


First of all they bridged over the zones of sea which surrounded the ancient metropolis, making a road to and from the royal palace. And at the very beginning they built the palace in the habitation of the god and of their ancestors, which they continued to ornament in successive generations, every king surpassing the one who went before him to the utmost of his power, until they made the building a marvel to behold for size and for beauty. And beginning from the sea they bored a canal of three hundred feet in width and one hundred feet in depth and fifty stadia in length, which they carried through to the outermost zone, making a passage from the sea up to this, which became a harbour, and leaving an opening sufficient to enable the largest vessels to find ingress. Moreover, they divided at the bridges the zones of land which parted the zones of sea, leaving room for a single trireme to pass out of one zone into another, and they covered over the channels so as to leave a way underneath for the ships; for the banks were raised considerably above the water. Now the largest of the zones into which a passage was cut from the sea was three stadia in breadth, and the zone of land which came next of equal breadth; but the next two zones, the one of water, the other of land, were two stadia, and the one which surrounded the central island was a stadium only in width. The island in which the palace was situated had a diameter of five stadia. All this including the zones and the bridge, which was the sixth part of a stadium in width, they surrounded by a stone wall on every side, placing towers and gates on the bridges where the sea passed in. The stone which was used in the work they quarried from underneath the centre island, and from underneath the zones, on the outer as well as the inner side. One kind was white, another black, and a third red, and as they quarried, they at the same time hollowed out double docks, having roofs formed out of the native rock. Some of their buildings were simple, but in others they put together different stones, varying the colour to please the eye, and to be a natural source of delight. The entire circuit of the wall, which went round the outermost zone, they covered with a coating of brass, and the circuit of the next wall they coated with tin, and the third, which encompassed the citadel, flashed with the red light of orichalcum.


The palaces in the interior of the citadel were constructed on this wise:-in the centre was a holy temple dedicated to Cleito and Poseidon, which remained inaccessible, and was surrounded by an enclosure of gold; this was the spot where the family of the ten princes first saw the light, and thither the people annually brought the fruits of the earth in their season from all the ten portions, to be an offering to each of the ten. Here was Poseidon’s own temple which was a stadium in length, and half a stadium in width, and of a proportionate height, having a strange barbaric appearance. All the outside of the temple, with the exception of the pinnacles, they covered with silver, and the pinnacles with gold. In the interior of the temple the roof was of ivory, curiously wrought everywhere with gold and silver and orichalcum; and all the other parts, the walls and pillars and floor, they coated with orichalcum. In the temple they placed statues of gold: there was the god himself standing in a chariot-the charioteer of six winged horses-and of such a size that he touched the roof of the building with his head; around him there were a hundred Nereids riding on dolphins, for such was thought to be the number of them by the men of those days. There were also in the interior of the temple other images which had been dedicated by private persons. And around the temple on the outside were placed statues of gold of all the descendants of the ten kings and of their wives, and there were many other great offerings of kings and of private persons, coming both from the city itself and from the foreign cities over which they held sway. There was an altar too, which in size and workmanship corresponded to this magnificence, and the palaces, in like manner, answered to the greatness of the kingdom and the glory of the temple.


In the next place, they had fountains, one of cold and another of hot water, in gracious plenty flowing; and they were wonderfully adapted for use by reason of the pleasantness and excellence of their waters. They constructed buildings about them and planted suitable trees, also they made cisterns, some open to the heavens, others roofed over, to be used in winter as warm baths; there were the kings’ baths, and the baths of private persons, which were kept apart; and there were separate baths for women, and for horses and cattle, and to each of them they gave as much adornment as was suitable. Of the water which ran off they carried some to the grove of Poseidon, where were growing all manner of trees of wonderful height and beauty, owing to the excellence of the soil, while the remainder was conveyed by aqueducts along the bridges to the outer circles; and there were many temples built and dedicated to many gods; also gardens and places of exercise, some for men, and others for horses in both of the two islands formed by the zones; and in the centre of the larger of the two there was set apart a race-course of a stadium in width, and in length allowed to extend all round the island, for horses to race in. Also there were guardhouses at intervals for the guards, the more trusted of whom were appointed-to keep watch in the lesser zone, which was nearer the Acropolis while the most trusted of all had houses given them within the citadel, near the persons of the kings. The docks were full of triremes and naval stores, and all things were quite ready for use. Enough of the plan of the royal palace.


Leaving the palace and passing out across the three you came to a wall which began at the sea and went all round: this was everywhere distant fifty stadia from the largest zone or harbour, and enclosed the whole, the ends meeting at the mouth of the channel which led to the sea. The entire area was densely crowded with habitations; and the canal and the largest of the harbours were full of vessels and merchants coming from all parts, who, from their numbers, kept up a multitudinous sound of human voices, and din and clatter of all sorts night and day.


I have described the city and the environs of the ancient palace nearly in the words of Solon, and now I must endeavour to represent the nature and arrangement of the rest of the land. The whole country was said by him to be very lofty and precipitous on the side of the sea, but the country immediately about and surrounding the city was a level plain, itself surrounded by mountains which descended towards the sea; it was smooth and even, and of an oblong shape, extending in one direction three thousand stadia, but across the centre inland it was two thousand stadia. This part of the island looked towards the south, and was sheltered from the north. The surrounding mountains were celebrated for their number and size and beauty, far beyond any which still exist, having in them also many wealthy villages of country folk, and rivers, and lakes, and meadows supplying food enough for every animal, wild or tame, and much wood of various sorts, abundant for each and every kind of work.


I will now describe the plain, as it was fashioned by nature and by the labours of many generations of kings through long ages. It was for the most part rectangular and oblong, and where falling out of the straight line followed the circular ditch. The depth, and width, and length of this ditch were incredible, and gave the impression that a work of such extent, in addition to so many others, could never have been artificial. Nevertheless I must say what I was told. It was excavated to the depth of a hundred, feet, and its breadth was a stadium everywhere; it was carried round the whole of the plain, and was ten thousand stadia in length. It received the streams which came down from the mountains, and winding round the plain and meeting at the city, was there let off into the sea. Further inland, likewise, straight canals of a hundred feet in width were cut from it through the plain, and again let off into the ditch leading to the sea: these canals were at intervals of a hundred stadia, and by them they brought down the wood from the mountains to the city, and conveyed the fruits of the earth in ships, cutting transverse passages from one canal into another, and to the city. Twice in the year they gathered the fruits of the earth-in winter having the benefit of the rains of heaven, and in summer the water which the land supplied by introducing streams from the canals.


As to the population, each of the lots in the plain had to find a leader for the men who were fit for military service, and the size of a lot was a square of ten stadia each way, and the total number of all the lots was sixty thousand. And of the inhabitants of the mountains and of the rest of the country there was also a vast multitude, which was distributed among the lots and had leaders assigned to them according to their districts and villages. The leader was required to furnish for the war the sixth portion of a war-chariot, so as to make up a total of ten thousand chariots; also two horses and riders for them, and a pair of chariot-horses without a seat, accompanied by a horseman who could fight on foot carrying a small shield, and having a charioteer who stood behind the man-at-arms to guide the two horses; also, he was bound to furnish two heavy armed soldiers, two slingers, three stone-shooters and three javelin-men, who were light-armed, and four sailors to make up the complement of twelve hundred ships. Such was the military order of the royal city-the order of the other nine governments varied, and it would be wearisome to recount their several differences.


As to offices and honours, the following was the arrangement from the first. Each of the ten kings in his own division and in his own city had the absolute control of the citizens, and, in most cases, of the laws, punishing and slaying whomsoever he would. Now the order of precedence among them and their mutual relations were regulated by the commands of Poseidon which the law had handed down. These were inscribed by the first kings on a pillar of orichalcum, which was situated in the middle of the island, at the temple of Poseidon, whither the kings were gathered together every fifth and every sixth year alternately, thus giving equal honour to the odd and to the even number. And when they were gathered together they consulted about their common interests, and enquired if any one had transgressed in anything and passed judgment and before they passed judgment they gave their pledges to one another on this wise:-There were bulls who had the range of the temple of Poseidon; and the ten kings, being left alone in the temple, after they had offered prayers to the god that they might capture the victim which was acceptable to him, hunted the bulls, without weapons but with staves and nooses; and the bull which they caught they led up to the pillar and cut its throat over the top of it so that the blood fell upon the sacred inscription. Now on the pillar, besides the laws, there was inscribed an oath invoking mighty curses on the disobedient. When therefore, after slaying the bull in the accustomed manner, they had burnt its limbs, they filled a bowl of wine and cast in a clot of blood for each of them; the rest of the victim they put in the fire, after having purified the column all round. Then they drew from the bowl in golden cups and pouring a libation on the fire, they swore that they would judge according to the laws on the pillar, and would punish him who in any point had already transgressed them, and that for the future they would not, if they could help, offend against the writing on the pillar, and would neither command others, nor obey any ruler who commanded them, to act otherwise than according to the laws of their father Poseidon. This was the prayer which each of them-offered up for himself and for his descendants, at the same time drinking and dedicating the cup out of which he drank in the temple of the god; and after they had supped and satisfied their needs, when darkness came on, and the fire about the sacrifice was cool, all of them put on most beautiful azure robes, and, sitting on the ground, at night, over the embers of the sacrifices by which they had sworn, and extinguishing all the fire about the temple, they received and gave judgment, if any of them had an accusation to bring against any one; and when they given judgment, at daybreak they wrote down their sentences on a golden tablet, and dedicated it together with their robes to be a memorial.


There were many special laws affecting the several kings inscribed about the temples, but the most important was the following: They were not to take up arms against one another, and they were all to come to the rescue if any one in any of their cities attempted to overthrow the royal house; like their ancestors, they were to deliberate in common about war and other matters, giving the supremacy to the descendants of Atlas. And the king was not to have the power of life and death over any of his kinsmen unless he had the assent of the majority of the ten.


Such was the vast power which the god settled in the lost island of Atlantis; and this he afterwards directed against our land for the following reasons, as tradition tells: For many generations, as long as the divine nature lasted in them, they were obedient to the laws, and well-affectioned towards the god, whose seed they were; for they possessed true and in every way great spirits, uniting gentleness with wisdom in the various chances of life, and in their intercourse with one another. They despised everything but virtue, caring little for their present state of life, and thinking lightly of the possession of gold and other property, which seemed only a burden to them; neither were they intoxicated by luxury; nor did wealth deprive them of their self-control; but they were sober, and saw clearly that all these goods are increased by virtue and friendship with one another, whereas by too great regard and respect for them, they are lost and friendship with them. By such reflections and by the continuance in them of a divine nature, the qualities which we have described grew and increased among them; but when the divine portion began to fade away, and became diluted too often and too much with the mortal admixture, and the human nature got the upper hand, they then, being unable to bear their fortune, behaved unseemly, and to him who had an eye to see grew visibly debased, for they were losing the fairest of their precious gifts; but to those who had no eye to see the true happiness, they appeared glorious and blessed at the very time when they were full of avarice and unrighteous power. Zeus, the god of gods, who rules according to law, and is able to see into such things, perceiving that an honourable race was in a woeful plight, and wanting to inflict punishment on them, that they might be chastened and improve, collected all the gods into their most holy habitation, which, being placed in the centre of the world, beholds all created things. And when he had called them together, he spake as follows: *


* The rest of the Dialogue of Critias has been lost.



* * *


   

Timaeus – a Dialogue by Plato

01 Monday Jun 2009

Posted by Crisis Chronicles Press in BC, Greek, Philosophy, Plato

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Plato  [image by Leonardo da Vinci]


Timaeus
by Plato
translated by Benjamin Jowett


Persons of the Dialogue:
SOCRATES;
CRITIAS;
TIMAEUS;
HERMOCRATES.


[Socrates] One, two, three; but where, my dear Timaeus, is the fourth of those who were yesterday my guests and are to be my entertainers to-day?


[Timaeus] He has been taken ill, Socrates; for he would not willingly have been absent from this gathering.


[Soc.] Then, if he is not coming, you and the two others must supply his place.


[Tim.] Certainly, and we will do all that we can; having been handsomely entertained by you yesterday, those of us who remain should be only too glad to return your hospitality.


[Soc.] Do you remember what were the points of which I required you to speak?


[Tim.] We remember some of them, and you will be here to remind us of anything which we have forgotten: or rather, if we are not troubling you, will you briefly recapitulate the whole, and then the particulars will be more firmly fixed in our memories?


[Soc.] To be sure I will: the chief theme of my yesterday’s discourse was the State-how constituted and of what citizens composed it would seem likely to be most perfect.


[Tim.] Yes, Socrates; and what you said of it was very much to our mind.


[Soc.] Did we not begin by separating the husbandmen and the artisans from the class of defenders of the State?


[Tim.] Yes.


[Soc.] And when we had given to each one that single employment and particular art which was suited to his nature, we spoke of those who were intended to be our warriors, and said that they were to be guardians of the city against attacks from within as well as from without, and to have no other employment; they were to be merciful in judging their subjects, of whom they were by nature friends, but fierce to their enemies, when they came across them in battle.


[Tim.] Exactly.


[Soc.] We said, if I am not mistaken, that the guardians should be gifted with a temperament in a high degree both passionate and philosophical; and that then they would be as they ought to be, gentle to their friends and fierce with their enemies.


[Tim.] Certainly.


[Soc.] And what did we say of their education? Were they not to be trained in gymnastic, and music, and all other sorts of knowledge which were proper for them?


[Tim.] Very true.


[Soc.] And being thus trained they were not to consider gold or silver or anything else to be their own private property; they were to be like hired troops, receiving pay for keeping guard from those who were protected by them-the pay was to be no more than would suffice for men of simple life; and they were to spend in common, and to live together in the continual practice of virtue, which was to be their sole pursuit.


[Tim.] That was also said.


[Soc.] Neither did we forget the women; of whom we declared, that their natures should be assimilated and brought into harmony with those of the men, and that common pursuits should be assigned to them both in time of war and in their ordinary life.


[Tim.] That, again, was as you say.


[Soc.] And what about the procreation of children? Or rather not the proposal too singular to be forgotten? for all wives and children were to be in common, to the intent that no one should ever know his own child, but they were to imagine that they were all one family; those who were within a suitable limit of age were to be brothers and sisters, those who were of an elder generation parents and grandparents, and those of a younger children and grandchildren.


[Tim.] Yes, and the proposal is easy to remember, as you say.


[Soc.] And do you also remember how, with a view of securing as far as we could the best breed, we said that the chief magistrates, male and female, should contrive secretly, by the use of certain lots, so to arrange the nuptial meeting, that the bad of either sex and the good of either sex might pair with their like; and there was to be no quarrelling on this account, for they would imagine that the union was a mere accident, and was to be attributed to the lot?


[Tim.] I remember.


[Soc.] And you remember how we said that the children of the good parents were to be educated, and the children of the bad secretly dispersed among the inferior citizens; and while they were all growing up the rulers were to be on the look-out, and to bring up from below in their turn those who were worthy, and those among themselves who were unworthy were to take the places of those who came up?


[Tim.] True.


[Soc.] Then have I now given you all the heads of our yesterday’s discussion? Or is there anything more, my dear Timaeus, which has been omitted?


[Tim.] Nothing, Socrates; it was just as you have said.


[Soc.] I should like, before proceeding further, to tell you how I feel about the State which we have described. I might compare myself to a person who, on beholding beautiful animals either created by the painter’s art, or, better still, alive but at rest, is seized with a desire of seeing them in motion or engaged in some struggle or conflict to which their forms appear suited; this is my feeling about the State which we have been describing. There are conflicts which all cities undergo, and I should like to hear some one tell of our own city carrying on a struggle against her neighbours, and how she went out to war in a becoming manner, and when at war showed by the greatness of her actions and the magnanimity of her words in dealing with other cities a result worthy of her training and education. Now I, Critias and Hermocrates, am conscious that I myself should never be able to celebrate the city and her citizens in a befitting manner, and I am not surprised at my own incapacity; to me the wonder is rather that the poets present as well as past are no better-not that I mean to depreciate them; but every one can see that they are a tribe of imitators, and will imitate best and most easily the life in which they have been brought up; while that which is beyond the range of a man’s education he finds hard to carry out in action, and still harder adequately to represent in language. I am aware that the Sophists have plenty of brave words and fair conceits, but I am afraid that being only wanderers from one city to another, and having never had habitations of their own, they may fail in their conception of philosophers and statesmen, and may not know what they do and say in time of war, when they are fighting or holding parley with their enemies. And thus people of your class are the only ones remaining who are fitted by nature and education to take part at once both in politics and philosophy. Here is Timaeus, of Locris in Italy, a city which has admirable laws, and who is himself in wealth and rank the equal of any of his fellow-citizens; he has held the most important and honourable offices in his own state, and, as I believe, has scaled the heights of all philosophy; and here is Critias, whom every Athenian knows to be no novice in the matters of which we are speaking; and as to, Hermocrates, I am assured by many witnesses that his genius and education qualify him to take part in any speculation of the kind. And therefore yesterday when I saw that you wanted me to describe the formation of the State, I readily assented, being very well aware, that, if you only would, none were better qualified to carry the discussion further, and that when you had engaged our city in a suitable war, you of all men living could best exhibit her playing a fitting part. When I had completed my task, I in return imposed this other task upon you. You conferred together and agreed to entertain me to-day, as I had entertained you, with a feast of discourse. Here am I in festive array, and no man can be more ready for the promised banquet.


[Hermocrates] And we too, Socrates, as Timaeus says, will not be wanting in enthusiasm; and there is no excuse for not complying with your request. As soon as we arrived yesterday at the guest-chamber of Critias, with whom we are staying, or rather on our way thither, we talked the matter over, and he told us an ancient tradition, which I wish, Critias, that you would repeat to Socrates, so that he may help us to judge whether it will satisfy his requirements or not.


[Crit.] I will, if Timaeus, who is our other partner, approves.


[Tim.] I quite approve.


[Crit.] Then listen, Socrates, to a tale which, though strange, is certainly true, having been attested by Solon, who was the wisest of the seven sages. He was a relative and a dear friend of my great-grandfather, Dropides, as he himself says in many passages of his poems; and he told the story to Critias, my grandfather, who remembered and repeated it to us. There were of old, he said, great and marvellous actions of the Athenian city, which have passed into oblivion through lapse of time and the destruction of mankind, and one in particular, greater than all the rest. This we will now rehearse. It will be a fitting monument of our gratitude to you, and a hymn of praise true and worthy of the goddess, on this her day of festival.


[Soc.] Very good. And what is this ancient famous action of the Athenians, which Critias declared, on the authority of Solon, to be not a mere legend, but an actual fact?


[Crit.] I will tell an old-world story which I heard from an aged man; for Critias, at the time of telling it, was as he said, nearly ninety years of age, and I was about ten. Now the day was that day of the Apaturia which is called the Registration of Youth, at which, according to custom, our parents gave prizes for recitations, and the poems of several poets were recited by us boys, and many of us sang the poems of Solon, which at that time had not gone out of fashion. One of our tribe, either because he thought so or to please Critias, said that in his judgment Solon was not only the wisest of men, but also the noblest of poets. The old man, as I very well remember, brightened up at hearing this and said, smiling: Yes, Amynander, if Solon had only, like other poets, made poetry the business of his life, and had completed the tale which he brought with him from Egypt, and had not been compelled, by reason of the factions and troubles which he found stirring in his own country when he came home, to attend to other matters, in my opinion he would have been as famous as Homer or Hesiod, or any poet.


And what was the tale about, Critias? said Amynander.


About the greatest action which the Athenians ever did, and which ought to have been the most famous, but, through the lapse of time and the destruction of the actors, it has not come down to us.


Tell us, said the other, the whole story, and how and from whom Solon heard this veritable tradition.


He replied:-In the Egyptian Delta, at the head of which the river Nile divides, there is a certain district which is called the district of Sais, and the great city of the district is also called Sais, and is the city from which King Amasis came. The citizens have a deity for their foundress; she is called in the Egyptian tongue Neith, and is asserted by them to be the same whom the Hellenes call Athene; they are great lovers of the Athenians, and say that they are in some way related to them. To this city came Solon, and was received there with great honour; he asked the priests who were most skilful in such matters, about antiquity, and made the discovery that neither he nor any other Hellene knew anything worth mentioning about the times of old. On one occasion, wishing to draw them on to speak of antiquity, he began to tell about the most ancient things in our part of the world-about Phoroneus, who is called “the first man,” and about Niobe; and after the Deluge, of the survival of Deucalion and Pyrrha; and he traced the genealogy of their descendants, and reckoning up the dates, tried to compute how many years ago the events of which he was speaking happened. Thereupon one of the priests, who was of a very great age, said: O Solon, Solon, you Hellenes are never anything but children, and there is not an old man among you. Solon in return asked him what he meant. I mean to say, he replied, that in mind you are all young; there is no old opinion handed down among you by ancient tradition, nor any science which is hoary with age. And I will tell you why. There have been, and will be again, many destructions of mankind arising out of many causes; the greatest have been brought about by the agencies of fire and water, and other lesser ones by innumerable other causes. There is a story, which even you have preserved, that once upon a time Paethon, the son of Helios, having yoked the steeds in his father’s chariot, because he was not able to drive them in the path of his father, burnt up all that was upon the earth, and was himself destroyed by a thunderbolt. Now this has the form of a myth, but really signifies a declination of the bodies moving in the heavens around the earth, and a great conflagration of things upon the earth, which recurs after long intervals; at such times those who live upon the mountains and in dry and lofty places are more liable to destruction than those who dwell by rivers or on the seashore. And from this calamity the Nile, who is our never-failing saviour, delivers and preserves us. When, on the other hand, the gods purge the earth with a deluge of water, the survivors in your country are herdsmen and shepherds who dwell on the mountains, but those who, like you, live in cities are carried by the rivers into the sea. Whereas in this land, neither then nor at any other time, does the water come down from above on the fields, having always a tendency to come up from below; for which reason the traditions preserved here are the most ancient.


The fact is, that wherever the extremity of winter frost or of summer does not prevent, mankind exist, sometimes in greater, sometimes in lesser numbers. And whatever happened either in your country or in ours, or in any other region of which we are informed-if there were any actions noble or great or in any other way remarkable, they have all been written down by us of old, and are preserved in our temples. Whereas just when you and other nations are beginning to be provided with letters and the other requisites of civilized life, after the usual interval, the stream from heaven, like a pestilence, comes pouring down, and leaves only those of you who are destitute of letters and education; and so you have to begin all over again like children, and know nothing of what happened in ancient times, either among us or among yourselves. As for those genealogies of yours which you just now recounted to us, Solon, they are no better than the tales of children. In the first place you remember a single deluge only, but there were many previous ones; in the next place, you do not know that there formerly dwelt in your land the fairest and noblest race of men which ever lived, and that you and your whole city are descended from a small seed or remnant of them which survived. And this was unknown to you, because, for many generations, the survivors of that destruction died, leaving no written word. For there was a time, Solon, before the great deluge of all, when the city which now is Athens was first in war and in every way the best governed of all cities, is said to have performed the noblest deeds and to have had the fairest constitution of any of which tradition tells, under the face of heaven.


Solon marvelled at his words, and earnestly requested the priests to inform him exactly and in order about these former citizens. You are welcome to hear about them, Solon, said the priest, both for your own sake and for that of your city, 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 the Earth and Hephaestus the seed of your race, and afterwards she founded ours, of which the constitution is recorded in our sacred registers to be eight thousand years old. As touching your citizens of nine thousand years ago, I will briefly inform you of their laws and of their most famous action; the exact particulars of the whole we will hereafter go through at our leisure in the sacred registers themselves. If you compare these very laws with ours you will find that many of ours are the counterpart of yours as they were in the olden time. In the first place, there is the caste of priests, which is separated from all the others; next, there are the artificers, who ply their several crafts by themselves and do not intermix; and also there is the class of shepherds and of hunters, as well as that of husbandmen; and you will observe, too, that the warriors in Egypt are distinct from all the other classes, and are commanded by the law to devote themselves solely to military pursuits; moreover, the weapons which they carry are shields and spears, a style of equipment which the goddess taught of Asiatics first to us, as in your part of the world first to you. Then as to wisdom, do you observe how our law from the very first made a study of the whole order of things, extending even to prophecy and medicine which gives health, out of these divine elements deriving what was needful for human life, and adding every sort of knowledge which was akin to them. All this order and arrangement the goddess first imparted to you when establishing your city; and she chose the spot of earth in which you were born, because she saw that the happy temperament of the seasons in that land would produce the wisest of men. Wherefore the goddess, who was a lover both of war and of wisdom, selected and first of all settled that spot which was the most likely to produce men likest herself. And there you dwelt, having such laws as these and still better ones, and excelled all mankind in all virtue, as became the children and disciples of the gods.


Many great and wonderful deeds are recorded of your state in our histories. But one of them exceeds all the rest in greatness and valour. For these histories tell of a mighty power which unprovoked made an expedition against the whole of Europe and Asia, and to which your city put an end. This power came forth out of the Atlantic Ocean, for in those days the Atlantic was navigable; and there was an island situated in front of the straits which are by you called the Pillars of Heracles; the island was larger than Libya and Asia put together, and was the way to other islands, and from these you might pass to the whole of the opposite continent which surrounded the true ocean; for this sea which is within the Straits of Heracles is only a harbour, having a narrow entrance, but that other is a real sea, and the surrounding land may be most truly called a boundless continent. Now in this island of Atlantis there was a great and wonderful empire which had rule over the whole island and several others, and over parts of the continent, and, furthermore, the men of Atlantis had subjected the parts of Libya within the columns of Heracles as far as Egypt, and of Europe as far as Tyrrhenia. This vast power, gathered into one, endeavoured to subdue at a blow our country and yours and the whole of the region within the straits; and then, Solon, your country shone forth, in the excellence of her virtue and strength, among all mankind. She was pre-eminent in courage and military skill, and was the leader of the Hellenes. And when the rest fell off from her, being compelled to stand alone, after having undergone the very extremity of danger, she defeated and triumphed over the invaders, and preserved from slavery those who were not yet subjugated, and generously liberated all the rest of us who dwell within the pillars. But afterwards there occurred violent earthquakes and floods; and in a single day and night of misfortune all your warlike men in a body sank into the earth, and the island of Atlantis in like manner disappeared in the depths of the sea. For which reason the sea in those parts is impassable and impenetrable, because there is a shoal of mud in the way; and this was caused by the subsidence of the island.


I have told you briefly, Socrates, what the aged Critias heard from Solon and related to us. And when you were speaking yesterday about your city and citizens, the tale which I have just been repeating to you came into my mind, and I remarked with astonishment how, by some mysterious coincidence, you agreed in almost every particular with the narrative of Solon; but I did not like to speak at the moment. For a long time had elapsed, and I had forgotten too much; I thought that I must first of all run over the narrative in my own mind, and then I would speak. And so I readily assented to your request yesterday, considering that in all such cases the chief difficulty is to find a tale suitable to our purpose, and that with such a tale we should be fairly well provided.


And therefore, as Hermocrates has told you, on my way home yesterday I at once communicated the tale to my companions as I remembered it; and after I left them, during the night by thinking I recovered nearly the whole it. Truly, as is often said, the lessons of our childhood make wonderful impression on our memories; for I am not sure that I could remember all the discourse of yesterday, but I should be much surprised if I forgot any of these things which I have heard very long ago. I listened at the time with childlike interest to the old man’s narrative; he was very ready to teach me, and I asked him again and again to repeat his words, so that like an indelible picture they were branded into my mind. As soon as the day broke, I rehearsed them as he spoke them to my companions, that they, as well as myself, might have something to say. And now, Socrates, to make an end my preface, I am ready to tell you the whole tale. I will give you not only the general heads, but the particulars, as they were told to me. The city and citizens, which you yesterday described to us in fiction, we will now transfer to the world of reality. It shall be the ancient city of Athens, and we will suppose that the citizens whom you imagined, were our veritable ancestors, of whom the priest spoke; they will perfectly harmonise, and there will be no inconsistency in saying that the citizens of your republic are these ancient Athenians. Let us divide the subject among us, and all endeavour according to our ability gracefully to execute the task which you have imposed upon us. Consider then, Socrates, if this narrative is suited to the purpose, or whether we should seek for some other instead.


[Soc.] And what other, Critias, can we find that will be better than this, which is natural and suitable to the festival of the goddess, and has the very great advantage of being a fact and not a fiction? How or where shall we find another if we abandon this? We cannot, and therefore you must tell the tale, and good luck to you; and I in return for my yesterday’s discourse will now rest and be a listener.


[Crit.] Let me proceed to explain to you, Socrates, the order in which we have arranged our entertainment. Our intention is, that Timaeus, who is the most of an astronomer amongst us, and has made the nature of the universe his special study, should speak first, beginning with the generation of the world and going down to the creation of man; next, I am to receive the men whom he has created of whom some will have profited by the excellent education which you have given them; and then, in accordance with the tale of Solon, and equally with his law, we will bring them into court and make them citizens, as if they were those very Athenians whom the sacred Egyptian record has recovered from oblivion, and thenceforward we will speak of them as Athenians and fellow-citizens.


[Soc.] I see that I shall receive in my turn a perfect and splendid feast of reason. And now, Timaeus, you, I suppose, should speak next, after duly calling upon the Gods.


[Tim.] All men, Socrates, who have any degree of right feeling, at the beginning of every enterprise, whether small or great, always call upon God. And we, too, who are going to discourse of the nature of the universe, how created or how existing without creation, if we be not altogether out of our wits, must invoke the aid of Gods and Goddesses and pray that our words may be acceptable to them and consistent with themselves. Let this, then, be our invocation of the Gods, to which I add an exhortation of myself to speak in such manner as will be most intelligible to you, and will most accord with my own intent.


First then, in my judgment, we must make a distinction and ask, What is that which always is and has no becoming; and what is that which is always becoming and never is? That which is apprehended by intelligence and reason is always in the same state; but that which is conceived by opinion with the help of sensation and without reason, is always in a process of becoming and perishing and never really is. Now everything that becomes or is created must of necessity be created by some cause, for without a cause nothing can be created. The work of the creator, whenever he looks to the unchangeable and fashions the form and nature of his work after an unchangeable pattern, must necessarily be made fair and perfect; but when he looks to the created only, and uses a created pattern, it is not fair or perfect. Was the heaven then or the world, whether called by this or by any other more appropriate name-assuming the name, I am asking a question which has to be asked at the beginning of an enquiry about anything-was the world, I say, always in existence and without beginning? or created, and had it a beginning? Created, I reply, being visible and tangible and having a body, and therefore sensible; and all sensible things are apprehended by opinion and sense and are in a process of creation and created. Now that which is created must, as we affirm, of necessity be created by a cause. But the father and maker of all this universe is past finding out; and even if we found him, to tell of him to all men would be impossible. And there is still a question to be asked about him: Which of the patterns had the artificer in view when he made the world-the pattern of the unchangeable, or of that which is created? If the world be indeed fair and the artificer good, it is manifest that he must have looked to that which is eternal; but if what cannot be said without blasphemy is true, then to the created pattern. Every one will see that he must have looked to, the eternal; for the world is the fairest of creations and he is the best of causes. And having been created in this way, the world has been framed in the likeness of that which is apprehended by reason and mind and is unchangeable, and must therefore of necessity, if this is admitted, be a copy of something. Now it is all-important that the beginning of everything should be according to nature. And in speaking of the copy and the original we may assume that words are akin to the matter which they describe; when they relate to the lasting and permanent and intelligible, they ought to be lasting and unalterable, and, as far as their nature allows, irrefutable and immovable-nothing less. But when they express only the copy or likeness and not the eternal things themselves, they need only be likely and analogous to the real words. As being is to becoming, so is truth to belief. If then, Socrates, amid the many opinions about the gods and the generation of the universe, we are not able to give notions which are altogether and in every respect exact and consistent with one another, do not be surprised. Enough, if we adduce probabilities as likely as any others; for we must remember that I who am the speaker, and you who are the judges, are only mortal men, and we ought to accept the tale which is probable and enquire no further.


[Soc.] Excellent, Timaeus; and we will do precisely as you bid us. The prelude is charming, and is already accepted by us-may we beg of you to proceed to the strain?


[Tim.] Let me tell you then why the creator made this world of generation. He was good, and the good can never have any jealousy of anything. And being free from jealousy, he desired that all things should be as like himself as they could be. This is in the truest sense the origin of creation and of the world, as we shall do well in believing on the testimony of wise men: God desired that all things should be good and nothing bad, so far as this was attainable. Wherefore also finding the whole visible sphere not at rest, but moving in an irregular and disorderly fashion, out of disorder he brought order, considering that this was in every way better than the other. Now the deeds of the best could never be or have been other than the fairest; and the creator, reflecting on the things which are by nature visible, found that no unintelligent creature taken as a whole was fairer than the intelligent taken as a whole; and that intelligence could not be present in anything which was devoid of soul. For which reason, when he was framing the universe, he put intelligence in soul, and soul in body, that he might be the creator of a work which was by nature fairest and best. Wherefore, using the language of probability, we may say that the world became a living creature truly endowed with soul and intelligence by the providence of God.


This being supposed, let us proceed to the next stage: In the likeness of what animal did the Creator make the world? It would be an unworthy thing to liken it to any nature which exists as a part only; for nothing can be beautiful which is like any imperfect thing; but let us suppose the world to be the very image of that whole of which all other animals both individually and in their tribes are portions. For the original of the universe contains in itself all intelligible beings, just as this world comprehends us and all other visible creatures. For the Deity, intending to make this world like the fairest and most perfect of intelligible beings, framed one visible animal comprehending within itself all other animals of a kindred nature. Are we right in saying that there is one world, or that they are many and infinite? There must be one only, if the created copy is to accord with the original. For that which includes all other intelligible creatures cannot have a second or companion; in that case there would be need of another living being which would include both, and of which they would be parts, and the likeness would be more truly said to resemble not them, but that other which included them. In order then that the world might be solitary, like the perfect animal, the creator made not two worlds or an infinite number of them; but there is and ever will be one only-begotten and created heaven.


Now that which is created is of necessity corporeal, and also visible and tangible. And nothing is visible where there is no fire, or tangible which has no solidity, and nothing is solid without earth. Wherefore also God in the beginning of creation made the body of the universe to consist of fire and earth. But two things cannot be rightly put together without a third; there must be some bond of union between them. And the fairest bond is that which makes the most complete fusion of itself and the things which it combines; and proportion is best adapted to effect such a union. For whenever in any three numbers, whether cube or square, there is a mean, which is to the last term what the first term is to it; and again, when the mean is to the first term as the last term is to the mean-then the mean becoming first and last, and the first and last both becoming means, they will all of them of necessity come to be the same, and having become the same with one another will be all one. If the universal frame had been created a surface only and having no depth, a single mean would have sufficed to bind together itself and the other terms; but now, as the world must be solid, and solid bodies are always compacted not by one mean but by two, God placed water and air in the mean between fire and earth, and made them to have the same proportion so far as was possible (as fire is to air so is air to water, and as air is to water so is water to earth); and thus he bound and put together a visible and tangible heaven. And for these reasons, and out of such elements which are in number four, the body of the world was created, and it was harmonised by proportion, and therefore has the spirit of friendship; and having been reconciled to itself, it was indissoluble by the hand of any other than the framer.


Now the creation took up the whole of each of the four elements; for the Creator compounded the world out of all the fire and all the water and all the air and all the earth, leaving no part of any of them nor any power of them outside. His intention was, in the first place, that the animal should be as far as possible a perfect whole and of perfect parts: secondly, that it should be one, leaving no remnants out of which another such world might be created: and also that it should be free from old age and unaffected by disease. Considering that if heat and cold and other powerful forces which unite bodies surround and attack them from without when they are unprepared, they decompose them, and by bringing diseases and old age upon them, make them waste away-for this cause and on these grounds he made the world one whole, having every part entire, and being therefore perfect and not liable to old age and disease. And he gave to the world the figure which was suitable and also natural. Now to the animal which was to comprehend all animals, that figure was suitable which comprehends within itself all other figures. Wherefore he made the world in the form of a globe, round as from a lathe, having its extremes in every direction equidistant from the centre, the most perfect and the most like itself of all figures; for he considered that the like is infinitely fairer than the unlike. This he finished off, making the surface smooth all around for many reasons; in the first place, because the living being had no need of eyes when there was nothing remaining outside him to be seen; nor of ears when there was nothing to be heard; and there was no surrounding atmosphere to be breathed; nor would there have been any use of organs by the help of which he might receive his food or get rid of what he had already digested, since there was nothing which went from him or came into him: for there was nothing beside him. Of design he was created thus, his own waste providing his own food, and all that he did or suffered taking place in and by himself. For the Creator conceived that a being which was self-sufficient would be far more excellent than one which lacked anything; and, as he had no need to take anything or defend himself against any one, the Creator did not think it necessary to bestow upon him hands: nor had he any need of feet, nor of the whole apparatus of walking; but the movement suited to his spherical form was assigned to him, being of all the seven that which is most appropriate to mind and intelligence; and he was made to move in the same manner and on the same spot, within his own limits revolving in a circle. All the other six motions were taken away from him, and he was made not to partake of their deviations. And as this circular movement required no feet, the universe was created without legs and without feet.


Such was the whole plan of the eternal God about the god that was to be, to whom for this reason he gave a body, smooth and even, having a surface in every direction equidistant from the centre, a body entire and perfect, and formed out of perfect bodies. And in the centre he put the soul, which he diffused throughout the body, making it also to be the exterior environment of it; and he made the universe a circle moving in a circle, one and solitary, yet by reason of its excellence able to converse with itself, and needing no other friendship or acquaintance. Having these purposes in view he created the world a blessed god.


Now God did not make the soul after the body, although we are speaking of them in this order; for having brought them together he would never have allowed that the elder should be ruled by the younger; but this is a random manner of speaking which we have, because somehow we ourselves too are very much under the dominion of chance. Whereas he made the soul in origin and excellence prior to and older than the body, to be the ruler and mistress, of whom the body was to be the subject. And he made her out of the following elements and on this wise: Out of the indivisible and unchangeable, and also out of that which is divisible and has to do with material bodies, he compounded a third and intermediate kind of essence, partaking of the nature of the same and of the other, and this compound he placed accordingly in a mean between the indivisible, and the divisible and material. He took the three elements of the same, the other, and the essence, and mingled them into one form, compressing by force the reluctant and unsociable nature of the other into the same. When he had mingled them with the essence and out of three made one, he again divided this whole into as many portions as was fitting, each portion being a compound of the same, the other, and the essence. And he proceeded to divide after this manner:-First of all, he took away one part of the whole [1], and then he separated a second part which was double the first [2], and then he took away a third part which was half as much again as the second and three times as much as the first [3], and then he took a fourth part which was twice as much as the second [4], and a fifth part which was three times the third [9], and a sixth part which was eight times the first [8], and a seventh part which was twenty-seven times the first [27]. After this he filled up the double intervals [i.e. between 1, 2, 4, 8] and the triple [i.e. between 1, 3, 9, 27] cutting off yet other portions from the mixture and placing them in the intervals, so that in each interval there were two kinds of means, the one exceeding and exceeded by equal parts of its extremes [as for example 1, 4/3, 2, in which the mean 4/3 is one-third of 1 more than 1, and one-third of 2 less than 2], the other being that kind of mean which exceeds and is exceeded by an equal number. Where there were intervals of 3/2 and of 4/3 and of 9/8, made by the connecting terms in the former intervals, he filled up all the intervals of 4/3 with the interval of 9/8, leaving a fraction over; and the interval which this fraction expressed was in the ratio of 256 to 243. And thus the whole mixture out of which he cut these portions was all exhausted by him. This entire compound he divided lengthways into two parts, which he joined to one another at the centre like the letter X, and bent them into a circular form, connecting them with themselves and each other at the point opposite to their original meeting-point; and, comprehending them in a uniform revolution upon the same axis, he made the one the outer and the other the inner circle. Now the motion of the outer circle he called the motion of the same, and the motion of the inner circle the motion of the other or diverse. The motion of the same he carried round by the side to the right, and the motion of the diverse diagonally to the left. And he gave dominion to the motion of the same and like, for that he left single and undivided; but the inner motion he divided in six places and made seven unequal circles having their intervals in ratios of two-and three, three of each, and bade the orbits proceed in a direction opposite to one another; and three [Sun, Mercury, Venus] he made to move with equal swiftness, and the remaining four [Moon, Saturn, Mars, Jupiter] to move with unequal swiftness to the three and to one another, but in due proportion.


Now when the Creator had framed the soul according to his will, he formed within her the corporeal universe, and brought the two together, and united them centre to centre. The soul, interfused everywhere from the centre to the circumference of heaven, of which also she is the external envelopment, herself turning in herself, began a divine beginning of never ceasing and rational life enduring throughout all time. The body of heaven is visible, but the soul is invisible, and partakes of reason and harmony, and being made by the best of intellectual and everlasting natures, is the best of things created. And because she is composed of the same and of the other and of the essence, these three, and is divided and united in due proportion, and in her revolutions returns upon herself, the soul, when touching anything which has essence, whether dispersed in parts or undivided, is stirred through all her powers, to declare the sameness or difference of that thing and some other; and to what individuals are related, and by what affected, and in what way and how and when, both in the world of generation and in the world of immutable being. And when reason, which works with equal truth, whether she be in the circle of the diverse or of the same-in voiceless silence holding her onward course in the sphere of the self-moved-when reason, I say, is hovering around the sensible world and when the circle of the diverse also moving truly imparts the intimations of sense to the whole soul, then arise opinions and beliefs sure and certain. But when reason is concerned with the rational, and the circle of the same moving smoothly declares it, then intelligence and knowledge are necessarily perfected. And if any one affirms that in which these two are found to be other than the soul, he will say the very opposite of the truth.


When the father creator saw the creature which he had made moving and living, the created image of the eternal gods, he rejoiced, and in his joy determined to make the copy still more like the original; and as this was eternal, he sought to make the universe eternal, so far as might be. Now the nature of the ideal being was everlasting, but to bestow this attribute in its fulness upon a creature was impossible. Wherefore he resolved to have a moving image of eternity, and when he set in order the heaven, he made this image eternal but moving according to number, while eternity itself rests in unity; and this image we call time. For there were no days and nights and months and years before the heaven was created, but when he constructed the heaven he created them also. They are all parts of time, and the past and future are created species of time, which we unconsciously but wrongly transfer to the eternal essence; for we say that he “was,” he “is,” he “will be,” but the truth is that “is” alone is properly attributed to him, and that “was” and “will be” only to be spoken of becoming in time, for they are motions, but that which is immovably the same cannot become older or younger by time, nor ever did or has become, or hereafter will be, older or younger, nor is subject at all to any of those states which affect moving and sensible things and of which generation is the cause. These are the forms of time, which imitates eternity and revolves according to a law of number. Moreover, when we say that what has become is become and what becomes is becoming, and that what will become is about to become and that the non-existent is non-existent-all these are inaccurate modes of expression. But perhaps this whole subject will be more suitably discussed on some other occasion.


Time, then, and the heaven came into being at the same instant in order that, having been created together, if ever there was to be a dissolution of them, they might be dissolved together. It was framed after the pattern of the eternal nature, that it might resemble this as far as was possible; for the pattern exists from eternity, and the created heaven has been, and is, and will be, in all time. Such was the mind and thought of God in the creation of time. The sun and moon and five other stars, which are called the planets, were created by him in order to distinguish and preserve the numbers of time; and when he had made-their several bodies, he placed them in the orbits in which the circle of the other was revolving-in seven orbits seven stars. First, there was the moon in the orbit nearest the earth, and next the sun, in the second orbit above the earth; then came the morning star and the star sacred to Hermes, moving in orbits which have an equal swiftness with the sun, but in an opposite direction; and this is the reason why the sun and Hermes and Lucifer overtake and are overtaken by each other. To enumerate the places which he assigned to the other stars, and to give all the reasons why he assigned them, although a secondary matter, would give more trouble than the primary. These things at some future time, when we are at leisure, may have the consideration which they deserve, but not at present.


Now, when all the stars which were necessary to the creation of time had attained a motion suitable to them,-and had become living creatures having bodies fastened by vital chains, and learnt their appointed task, moving in the motion of the diverse, which is diagonal, and passes through and is governed by the motion of the same, they revolved, some in a larger and some in a lesser orbit-those which had the lesser orbit revolving faster, and those which had the larger more slowly. Now by reason of the motion of the same, those which revolved fastest appeared to be overtaken by those which moved slower although they really overtook them; for the motion of the same made them all turn in a spiral, and, because some went one way and some another, that which receded most slowly from the sphere of the same, which was the swiftest, appeared to follow it most nearly. That there might be some visible measure of their relative swiftness and slowness as they proceeded in their eight courses, God lighted a fire, which we now call the sun, in the second from the earth of these orbits, that it might give light to the whole of heaven, and that the animals, as many as nature intended, might participate in number, learning arithmetic from the revolution of the same and the like. Thus then, and for this reason the night and the day were created, being the period of the one most intelligent revolution. And the month is accomplished when the moon has completed her orbit and overtaken the sun, and the year when the sun has completed his own orbit. Mankind, with hardly an exception, have not remarked the periods of the other stars, and they have no name for them, and do not measure them against one another by the help of number, and hence they can scarcely be said to know that their wanderings, being infinite in number and admirable for their variety, make up time. And yet there is no difficulty in seeing that the perfect number of time fulfils the perfect year when all the eight revolutions, having their relative degrees of swiftness, are accomplished together and attain their completion at the same time, measured by the rotation of the same and equally moving. After this manner, and for these reasons, came into being such of the stars as in their heavenly progress received reversals of motion, to the end that the created heaven might imitate the eternal nature, and be as like as possible to the perfect and intelligible animal.


Thus far and until the birth of time the created universe was made in the likeness of the original, but inasmuch as all animals were not yet comprehended therein, it was still unlike. What remained, the creator then proceeded to fashion after the nature of the pattern. Now as in the ideal animal the mind perceives ideas or species of a certain nature and number, he thought that this created animal ought to have species of a like nature and number. There are four such; one of them is the heavenly race of the gods; another, the race of birds whose way is in the air; the third, the watery species; and the fourth, the pedestrian and land creatures. Of the heavenly and divine, he created the greater part out of fire, that they might be the brightest of all things and fairest to behold, and he fashioned them after the likeness of the universe in the figure of a circle, and made them follow the intelligent motion of the supreme, distributing them over the whole circumference of heaven, which was to be a true cosmos or glorious world spangled with them all over. And he gave to each of them two movements: the first, a movement on the same spot after the same manner, whereby they ever continue to think consistently the same thoughts about the same things; the second, a forward movement, in which they are controlled by the revolution of the same and the like; but by the other five motions they were unaffected, in order that each of them might attain the highest perfection. And for this reason the fixed stars were created, to be divine and eternal animals, ever-abiding and revolving after the same manner and on the same spot; and the other stars which reverse their motion and are subject to deviations of this kind, were created in the manner already described. The earth, which is our nurse, clinging around the pole which is extended through the universe, he framed to be the guardian and artificer of night and day, first and eldest of gods that are in the interior of heaven. Vain would be the attempt to tell all the figures of them circling as in dance, and their juxtapositions, and the return of them in their revolutions upon themselves, and their approximations, and to say which of these deities in their conjunctions meet, and which of them are in opposition, and in what order they get behind and before one another, and when they are severally eclipsed to our sight and again reappear, sending terrors and intimations of the future to those who cannot calculate their movements-to attempt to tell of all this without a visible representation of the heavenly system would be labour in vain. Enough on this head; and now let what we have said about the nature of the created and visible gods have an end.


To know or tell the origin of the other divinities is beyond us, and we must accept the traditions of the men of old time who affirm themselves to be the offspring of the gods-that is what they say-and they must surely have known their own ancestors. How can we doubt the word of the children of the gods? Although they give no probable or certain proofs, still, as they declare that they are speaking of what took place in their own family, we must conform to custom and believe them. In this manner, then, according to them, the genealogy of these gods is to be received and set forth.


Oceanus and Tethys were the children of Earth and Heaven, and from these sprang Phorcys and Cronos and Rhea, and all that generation; and from Cronos and Rhea sprang Zeus and Here, and all those who are said to be their brethren, and others who were the children of these.


Now, when all of them, both those who visibly appear in their revolutions as well as those other gods who are of a more retiring nature, had come into being, the creator of the universe addressed them in these words: “Gods, children of gods, who are my works, and of whom I am the artificer and father, my creations are indissoluble, if so I will. All that is bound may be undone, but only an evil being would wish to undo that which is harmonious and happy. Wherefore, since ye are but creatures, ye are not altogether immortal and indissoluble, but ye shall certainly not be dissolved, nor be liable to the fate of death, having in my will a greater and mightier bond than those with which ye were bound at the time of your birth. And now listen to my instructions:-Three tribes of mortal beings remain to be created-without them the universe will be incomplete, for it will not contain every kind of animal which it ought to contain, if it is to be perfect. On the other hand, if they were created by me and received life at my hands, they would be on an equality with the gods. In order then that they may be mortal, and that this universe may be truly universal, do ye, according to your natures, betake yourselves to the formation of animals, imitating the power which was shown by me in creating you. The part of them worthy of the name immortal, which is called divine and is the guiding principle of those who are willing to follow justice and you-of that divine part I will myself sow the seed, and having made a beginning, I will hand the work over to you. And do ye then interweave the mortal with the immortal, and make and beget living creatures, and give them food, and make them to grow, and receive them again in death.”


Thus he spake, and once more into the cup in which he had previously mingled the soul of the universe he poured the remains of the elements, and mingled them in much the same manner; they were not, however, pure as before, but diluted to the second and third degree. And having made it he divided the whole mixture into souls equal in number to the stars, and assigned each soul to a star; and having there placed them as in a chariot, he showed them the nature of the universe, and declared to them the laws of destiny, according to which their first birth would be one and the same for all,-no one should suffer a disadvantage at his hands; they were to be sown in the instruments of time severally adapted to them, and to come forth the most religious of animals; and as human nature was of two kinds, the superior race would here after be called man. Now, when they should be implanted in bodies by necessity, and be always gaining or losing some part of their bodily substance, then in the first place it would be necessary that they should all have in them one and the same faculty of sensation, arising out of irresistible impressions; in the second place, they must have love, in which pleasure and pain mingle; also fear and anger, and the feelings which are akin or opposite to them; if they conquered these they would live righteously, and if they were conquered by them, unrighteously. He who lived well during his appointed time was to return and dwell in his native star, and there he would have a blessed and congenial existence. But if he failed in attaining this, at the second birth he would pass into a woman, and if, when in that state of being, he did not desist from evil, he would continually be changed into some brute who resembled him in the evil nature which he had acquired, and would not cease from his toils and transformations until he followed the revolution of the same and the like within him, and overcame by the help of reason the turbulent and irrational mob of later accretions, made up of fire and air and water and earth, and returned to the form of his first and better state. Having given all these laws to his creatures, that he might be guiltless of future evil in any of them, the creator sowed some of them in the earth, and some in the moon, and some in the other instruments of time; and when he had sown them he committed to the younger gods the fashioning of their mortal bodies, and desired them to furnish what was still lacking to the human soul, and having made all the suitable additions, to rule over them, and to pilot the mortal animal in the best and wisest manner which they could, and avert from him all but self-inflicted evils.


When the creator had made all these ordinances he remained in his own accustomed nature, and his children heard and were obedient to their father’s word, and receiving from him the immortal principle of a mortal creature, in imitation of their own creator they borrowed portions of fire, and earth, and water, and air from the world, which were hereafter to be restored-these they took and welded them together, not with the indissoluble chains by which they were themselves bound, but with little pegs too small to be visible, making up out of all the four elements each separate body, and fastening the courses of the immortal soul in a body which was in a state of perpetual influx and efflux. Now these courses, detained as in a vast river, neither overcame nor were overcome; but were hurrying and hurried to and fro, so that the whole animal was moved and progressed, irregularly however and irrationally and anyhow, in all the six directions of motion, wandering backwards and forwards, and right and left, and up and down, and in all the six directions. For great as was the advancing and retiring flood which provided nourishment, the affections produced by external contact caused still greater tumult-when the body of any one met and came into collision with some external fire, or with the solid earth or the gliding waters, or was caught in the tempest borne on the air, and the motions produced by any of these impulses were carried through the body to the soul. All such motions have consequently received the general name of “sensations,” which they still retain. And they did in fact at that time create a very great and mighty movement; uniting with the ever flowing stream in stirring up and violently shaking the courses of the soul, they completely stopped the revolution of the same by their opposing current, and hindered it from predominating and advancing; and they so disturbed the nature of the other or diverse, that the three double intervals [i.e. between 1, 2, 4, 8], and the three triple intervals [i.e. between 1, 3, 9, 27], together with the mean terms and connecting links which are expressed by the ratios of 3 : 2, and 4 : 3, and of 9 : 8-these, although they cannot be wholly undone except by him who united them, were twisted by them in all sorts of ways, and the circles were broken and disordered in every possible manner, so that when they moved they were tumbling to pieces, and moved irrationally, at one time in a reverse direction, and then again obliquely, and then upside down, as you might imagine a person who is upside down and has his head leaning upon the ground and his feet up against something in the air; and when he is in such a position, both he and the spectator fancy that the right of either is his left, and left right. If, when powerfully experiencing these and similar effects, the revolutions of the soul come in contact with some external thing, either of the class of the same or of the other, they speak of the same or of the other in a manner the very opposite of the truth; and they become false and foolish, and there is no course or revolution in them which has a guiding or directing power; and if again any sensations enter in violently from without and drag after them the whole vessel of the soul, then the courses of the soul, though they seem to conquer, are really conquered.


And by reason of all these affections, the soul, when encased in a mortal body, now, as in the beginning, is at first without intelligence; but when the flood of growth and nutriment abates, and the courses of the soul, calming down, go their own way and become steadier as time goes on, then the several circles return to their natural form, and their revolutions are corrected, and they call the same and the other by their right names, and make the possessor of them to become a rational being. And if these combine in him with any true nurture or education, he attains the fulness and health of the perfect man, and escapes the worst disease of all; but if he neglects education he walks lame to the end of his life, and returns imperfect and good for nothing to the world below. This, however, is a later stage; at present we must treat more exactly the subject before us, which involves a preliminary enquiry into the generation of the body and its members, and as to how the soul was created-for what reason and by what providence of the gods; and holding fast to probability, we must pursue our way.


First, then, the gods, imitating the spherical shape of the universe, enclosed the two divine courses in a spherical body, that, namely, which we now term the head, being the most divine part of us and the lord of all that is in us: to this the gods, when they put together the body, gave all the other members to be servants, considering that it partook of every sort of motion. In order then that it might not tumble about among the high and deep places of the earth, but might be able to get over the one and out of the other, they provided the body to be its vehicle and means of locomotion; which consequently had length and was furnished with four limbs extended and flexible; these God contrived to be instruments of locomotion with which it might take hold and find support, and so be able to pass through all places, carrying on high the dwelling-place of the most sacred and divine part of us. Such was the origin of legs and hands, which for this reason were attached to every man; and the gods, deeming the front part of man to be more honourable and more fit to command than the hinder part, made us to move mostly in a forward direction. Wherefore man must needs have his front part unlike and distinguished from the rest of his body.


And so in the vessel of the head, they first of all put a face in which they inserted organs to minister in all things to the providence of the soul, and they appointed this part, which has authority, to be by nature the part which is in front. And of the organs they first contrived the eyes to give light, and the principle according to which they were inserted was as follows: So much of fire as would not burn, but gave a gentle light, they formed into a substance akin to the light of every-day life; and the pure fire which is within us and related thereto they made to flow through the eyes in a stream smooth and dense, compressing the whole eye, and especially the centre part, so that it kept out everything of a coarser nature, and allowed to pass only this pure element. When the light of day surrounds the stream of vision, then like falls upon like, and they coalesce, and one body is formed by natural affinity in the line of vision, wherever the light that falls from within meets with an external object. And the whole stream of vision, being similarly affected in virtue of similarity, diffuses the motions of what it touches or what touches it over the whole body, until they reach the soul, causing that perception which we call sight. But when night comes on and the external and kindred fire departs, then the stream of vision is cut off; for going forth to an unlike element it is changed and extinguished, being no longer of one nature with the surrounding atmosphere which is now deprived of fire: and so the eye no longer sees, and we feel disposed to sleep. For when the eyelids, which the gods invented for the preservation of sight, are closed, they keep in the internal fire; and the power of the fire diffuses and equalises the inward motions; when they are equalised, there is rest, and when the rest is profound, sleep comes over us scarce disturbed by dreams; but where the greater motions still remain, of whatever nature and in whatever locality, they engender corresponding visions in dreams, which are remembered by us when we are awake and in the external world. And now there is no longer any difficulty in understanding the creation of images in mirrors and all smooth and bright surfaces. For from the communion of the internal and external fires, and again from the union of them and their numerous transformations when they meet in the mirror, all these appearances of necessity arise, when the fire from the face coalesces with the fire from the eye on the bright and smooth surface. And right appears left and left right, because the visual rays come into contact with the rays emitted by the object in a manner contrary to the usual mode of meeting; but the right appears right, and the left left, when the position of one of the two concurring lights is reversed; and this happens when the mirror is concave and its smooth surface repels the right stream of vision to the left side, and the left to the right. Or if the mirror be turned vertically, then the concavity makes the countenance appear to be all upside down, and the lower rays are driven upwards and the upper downwards.


All these are to be reckoned among the second and co-operative causes which God, carrying into execution the idea of the best as far as possible, uses as his ministers. They are thought by most men not to be the second, but the prime causes of all things, because they freeze and heat, and contract and dilate, and the like. But they are not so, for they are incapable of reason or intellect; the only being which can properly have mind is the invisible soul, whereas fire and water, and earth and air, are all of them visible bodies. The lover of intellect and knowledge ought to explore causes of intelligent nature first of all, and, secondly, of those things which, being moved by others, are compelled to move others. And this is what we too must do. Both kinds of causes should be acknowledged by us, but a distinction should be made between those which are endowed with mind and are the workers of things fair and good, and those which are deprived of intelligence and always produce chance effects without order or design. Of the second or co-operative causes of sight, which help to give to the eyes the power which they now possess, enough has been said. I will therefore now proceed to speak of the higher use and purpose for which God has given them to us. The sight in my opinion is the source of the greatest benefit to us, for had we never seen the stars, and the sun, and the heaven, none of the words which we have spoken about the universe would ever have been uttered. But now the sight of day and night, and the months and the revolutions of the years, have created number, and have given us a conception of time, and the power of enquiring about the nature of the universe; and from this source we have derived philosophy, than which no greater good ever was or will be given by the gods to mortal man. This is the greatest boon of sight: and of the lesser benefits why should I speak? even the ordinary man if he were deprived of them would bewail his loss, but in vain. Thus much let me say however: God invented and gave us sight to the end that we might behold the courses of intelligence in the heaven, and apply them to the courses of our own intelligence which are akin to them, the unperturbed to the perturbed; and that we, learning them and partaking of the natural truth of reason, might imitate the absolutely unerring courses of God and regulate our own vagaries. The same may be affirmed of speech and hearing: they have been given by the gods to the same end and for a like reason. For this is the principal end of speech, whereto it most contributes. Moreover, so much of music as is adapted to the sound of the voice and to the sense of hearing is granted to us for the sake of harmony; and harmony, which has motions akin to the revolutions of our souls, is not regarded by the intelligent votary of the Muses as given by them with a view to irrational pleasure, which is deemed to be the purpose of it in our day, but as meant to correct any discord which may have arisen in the courses of the soul, and to be our ally in bringing her into harmony and agreement with herself; and rhythm too was given by them for the same reason, on account of the irregular and graceless ways which prevail among mankind generally, and to help us against them.


Thus far in what we have been saying, with small exception, the works of intelligence have been set forth; and now we must place by the side of them in our discourse the things which come into being through necessity-for the creation is mixed, being made up of necessity and mind. Mind, the ruling power, persuaded necessity to bring the greater part of created things to perfection, and thus and after this manner in the beginning, when the influence of reason got the better of necessity, the universe was created. But if a person will truly tell of the way in which the work was accomplished, he must include the other influence of the variable cause as well. Wherefore, we must return again and find another suitable beginning, as about the former matters, so also about these. To which end we must consider the nature of fire, and water, and air, and earth, such as they were prior to the creation of the heaven, and what was happening to them in this previous state; for no one has as yet explained the manner of their generation, but we speak of fire and the rest of them, whatever they mean, as though men knew their natures, and we maintain them to be the first principles and letters or elements of the whole, when they cannot reasonably be compared by a man of any sense even to syllables or first compounds. And let me say thus much: I will not now speak of the first principle or principles of all things, or by whatever name they are to be called, for this reason-because it is difficult to set forth my opinion according to the method of discussion which we are at present employing. Do not imagine, any more than I can bring myself to imagine, that I should be right in undertaking so great and difficult a task. Remembering what I said at first about probability, I will do my best to give as probable an explanation as any other-or rather, more probable; and I will first go back to the beginning and try to speak of each thing and of all. Once more, then, at the commencement of my discourse, I call upon God, and beg him to be our saviour out of a strange and unwonted enquiry, and to bring us to the haven of probability. So now let us begin again.


This new beginning of our discussion of the universe requires a fuller division than the former; for then we made two classes, now a third must be revealed. The two sufficed for the former discussion: one, which we assumed, was a pattern intelligible and always the same; and the second was only the imitation of the pattern, generated and visible. There is also a third kind which we did not distinguish at the time, conceiving that the two would be enough. But now the argument seems to require that we should set forth in words another kind, which is difficult of explanation and dimly seen. What nature are we to attribute to this new kind of being? We reply, that it is the receptacle, and in a manner the nurse, of all generation. I have spoken the truth; but I must express myself in clearer language, and this will be an arduous task for many reasons, and in particular because I must first raise questions concerning fire and the other elements, and determine what each of them is; for to say, with any probability or certitude, which of them should be called water rather than fire, and which should be called any of them rather than all or some one of them, is a difficult matter. How, then, shall we settle this point, and what questions about the elements may be fairly raised?


In the first place, we see that what we just now called water, by condensation, I suppose, becomes stone and earth; and this same element, when melted and dispersed, passes into vapour and air. Air, again, when inflamed, becomes fire; and again fire, when condensed and extinguished, passes once more into the form of air; and once more, air, when collected and condensed, produces cloud and mist; and from these, when still more compressed, comes flowing water, and from water comes earth and stones once more; and thus generation appears to be transmitted from one to the other in a circle. Thus, then, as the several elements never present themselves in the same form, how can any one have the assurance to assert positively that any of them, whatever it may be, is one thing rather than another? No one can. But much the safest plan is to speak of them as follows:-Anything which we see to be continually changing, as, for example, fire, we must not call “this” or “that,” but rather say that it is “of such a nature”; nor let us speak of water as “this”; but always as “such”; nor must we imply that there is any stability in any of those things which we indicate by the use of the words “this” and “that,” supposing ourselves to signify something thereby; for they are too volatile to be detained in any such expressions as “this,” or “that,” or “relative to this,” or any other mode of speaking which represents them as permanent. We ought not to apply “this” to any of them, but rather the word “such”; which expresses the similar principle circulating in each and all of them; for example, that should be called “fire” which is of such a nature always, and so of everything that has generation. That in which the elements severally grow up, and appear, and decay, is alone to be called by the name “this” or “that”; but that which is of a certain nature, hot or white, or anything which admits of opposite equalities, and all things that are compounded of them, ought not to be so denominated. Let me make another attempt to explain my meaning more clearly. Suppose a person to make all kinds of figures of gold and to be always transmuting one form into all the rest-somebody points to one of them and asks what it is. By far the safest and truest answer is, That is gold; and not to call the triangle or any other figures which are formed in the gold “these,” as though they had existence, since they are in process of change while he is making the assertion; but if the questioner be willing to take the safe and indefinite expression, “such,” we should be satisfied. And the same argument applies to the universal nature which receives all bodies-that must be always called the same; for, while receiving all things, she never departs at all from her own nature, and never in any way, or at any time, assumes a form like that of any of the things which enter into her; she is the natural recipient of all impressions, and is stirred and informed by them, and appears different from time to time by reason of them. But the forms which enter into and go out of her are the likenesses of real existences modelled after their patterns in wonderful and inexplicable manner, which we will hereafter investigate. For the present we have only to conceive of three natures: first, that which is in process of generation; secondly, that in which the generation takes place; and thirdly, that of which the thing generated is a resemblance. And we may liken the receiving principle to a mother, and the source or spring to a father, and the intermediate nature to a child; and may remark further, that if the model is to take every variety of form, then the matter in which the model is fashioned will not be duly prepared, unless it is formless, and free from the impress of any of these shapes which it is hereafter to receive from without. For if the matter were like any of the supervening forms, then whenever any opposite or entirely different nature was stamped upon its surface, it would take the impression badly, because it would intrude its own shape. Wherefore, that which is to receive all forms should have no form; as in making perfumes they first contrive that the liquid substance which is to receive the scent shall be as inodorous as possible; or as those who wish to impress figures on soft substances do not allow any previous impression to remain, but begin by making the surface as even and smooth as possible. In the same way that which is to receive perpetually and through its whole extent the resemblances of all eternal beings ought to be devoid of any particular form. Wherefore, the mother and receptacle of all created and visible and in any way sensible things, is not to be termed earth, or air, or fire, or water, or any of their compounds or any of the elements from which these are derived, but is an invisible and formless being which receives all things and in some mysterious way partakes of the intelligible, and is most incomprehensible. In saying this we shall not be far wrong; as far, however, as we can attain to a knowledge of her from the previous considerations, we may truly say that fire is that part of her nature which from time to time is inflamed, and water that which is moistened, and that the mother substance becomes earth and air, in so far as she receives the impressions of them.


Let us consider this question more precisely. Is there any self-existent fire? and do all those things which we call self-existent exist? or are only those things which we see, or in some way perceive through the bodily organs, truly existent, and nothing whatever besides them? And is all that which, we call an intelligible essence nothing at all, and only a name? Here is a question which we must not leave unexamined or undetermined, nor must we affirm too confidently that there can be no decision; neither must we interpolate in our present long discourse a digression equally long, but if it is possible to set forth a great principle in a few words, that is just what we want.


Thus I state my view:-If mind and true opinion are two distinct classes, then I say that there certainly are these self-existent ideas unperceived by sense, and apprehended only by the mind; if, however, as some say, true opinion differs in no respect from mind, then everything that we perceive through the body is to be regarded as most real and certain. But we must affirm that to be distinct, for they have a distinct origin and are of a different nature; the one is implanted in us by instruction, the other by persuasion; the one is always accompanied by true reason, the other is without reason; the one cannot be overcome by persuasion, but the other can: and lastly, every man may be said to share in true opinion, but mind is the attribute of the gods and of very few men. Wherefore also we must acknowledge that there is one kind of being which is always the same, uncreated and indestructible, never receiving anything into itself from without, nor itself going out to any other, but invisible and imperceptible by any sense, and of which the contemplation is granted to intelligence only. And there is another nature of the same name with it, and like to it, perceived by sense, created, always in motion, becoming in place and again vanishing out of place, which is apprehended by opinion and sense. And there is a third nature, which is space, and is eternal, and admits not of destruction and provides a home for all created things, and is apprehended without the help of sense, by a kind of spurious reason, and is hardly real; which we beholding as in a dream, say of all existence that it must of necessity be in some place and occupy a space, but that what is neither in heaven nor in earth has no existence. Of these and other things of the same kind, relating to the true and waking reality of nature, we have only this dreamlike sense, and we are unable to cast off sleep and determine the truth about them. For an image, since the reality, after which it is modelled, does not belong to it, and it exists ever as the fleeting shadow of some other, must be inferred to be in another [i.e. in space ], grasping existence in some way or other, or it could not be at all. But true and exact reason, vindicating the nature of true being, maintains that while two things [i.e. the image and space] are different they cannot exist one of them in the other and so be one and also two at the same time.


Thus have I concisely given the result of my thoughts; and my verdict is that being and space and generation, these three, existed in their three ways before the heaven; and that the nurse of generation, moistened by water and inflamed by fire, and receiving the forms of earth and air, and experiencing all the affections which accompany these, presented a strange variety of appearances; and being full of powers which were neither similar nor equally balanced, was never in any part in a state of equipoise, but swaying unevenly hither and thither, was shaken by them, and by its motion again shook them; and the elements when moved were separated and carried continually, some one way, some another; as, when rain is shaken and winnowed by fans and other instruments used in the threshing of corn, the close and heavy particles are borne away and settle in one direction, and the loose and light particles in another. In this manner, the four kinds or elements were then shaken by the receiving vessel, which, moving like a winnowing machine, scattered far away from one another the elements most unlike, and forced the most similar elements into dose contact. Wherefore also the various elements had different places before they were arranged so as to form the universe. At first, they were all without reason and measure. But when the world began to get into order, fire and water and earth and air had only certain faint traces of themselves, and were altogether such as everything might be expected to be in the absence of God; this, I say, was their nature at that time, and God fashioned them by form and number. Let it be consistently maintained by us in all that we say that God made them as far as possible the fairest and best, out of things which were not fair and good. And now I will endeavour to show you the disposition and generation of them by an unaccustomed argument, which am compelled to use; but I believe that you will be able to follow me, for your education has made you familiar with the methods of science.


In the first place, then, as is evident to all, fire and earth and water and air are bodies. And every sort of body possesses solidity, and every solid must necessarily be contained in planes; and every plane rectilinear figure is composed of triangles; and all triangles are originally of two kinds, both of which are made up of one right and two acute angles; one of them has at either end of the base the half of a divided right angle, having equal sides, while in the other the right angle is divided into unequal parts, having unequal sides. These, then, proceeding by a combination of probability with demonstration, we assume to be the original elements of fire and the other bodies; but the principles which are prior to these God only knows, and he of men who is the friend God. And next we have to determine what are the four most beautiful bodies which are unlike one another, and of which some are capable of resolution into one another; for having discovered thus much, we shall know the true origin of earth and fire and of the proportionate and intermediate elements. And then we shall not be willing to allow that there are any distinct kinds of visible bodies fairer than these. Wherefore we must endeavour to construct the four forms of bodies which excel in beauty, and then we shall be able to say that we have sufficiently apprehended their nature. Now of the two triangles, the isosceles has one form only; the scalene or unequal-sided has an infinite number. Of the infinite forms we must select the most beautiful, if we are to proceed in due order, and any one who can point out a more beautiful form than ours for the construction of these bodies, shall carry off the palm, not as an enemy, but as a friend. Now, the one which we maintain to be the most beautiful of all the many triangles (and we need not speak of the others) is that of which the double forms a third triangle which is equilateral; the reason of this would be long to tell; he who disproves what we are saying, and shows that we are mistaken, may claim a friendly victory. Then let us choose two triangles, out of which fire and the other elements have been constructed, one isosceles, the other having the square of the longer side equal to three times the square of the lesser side.


Now is the time to explain what was before obscurely said: there was an error in imagining that all the four elements might be generated by and into one another; this, I say, was an erroneous supposition, for there are generated from the triangles which we have selected four kinds-three from the one which has the sides unequal; the fourth alone is framed out of the isosceles triangle. Hence they cannot all be resolved into one another, a great number of small bodies being combined into a few large ones, or the converse. But three of them can be thus resolved and compounded, for they all spring from one, and when the greater bodies are broken up, many small bodies will spring up out of them and take their own proper figures; or, again, when many small bodies are dissolved into their triangles, if they become one, they will form one large mass of another kind. So much for their passage into one another. I have now to speak of their several kinds, and show out of what combinations of numbers each of them was formed. The first will be the simplest and smallest construction, and its element is that triangle which has its hypotenuse twice the lesser side. When two such triangles are joined at the diagonal, and this is repeated three times, and the triangles rest their diagonals and shorter sides on the same point as a centre, a single equilateral triangle is formed out of six triangles; and four equilateral triangles, if put together, make out of every three plane angles one solid angle, being that which is nearest to the most obtuse of plane angles; and out of the combination of these four angles arises the first solid form which distributes into equal and similar parts the whole circle in which it is inscribed. The second species of solid is formed out of the same triangles, which unite as eight equilateral triangles and form one solid angle out of four plane angles, and out of six such angles the second body is completed. And the third body is made up of 120 triangular elements, forming twelve solid angles, each of them included in five plane equilateral triangles, having altogether twenty bases, each of which is an equilateral triangle. The one element [that is, the triangle which has its hypotenuse twice the lesser side] having generated these figures, generated no more; but the isosceles triangle produced the fourth elementary figure, which is compounded of four such triangles, joining their right angles in a centre, and forming one equilateral quadrangle. Six of these united form eight solid angles, each of which is made by the combination of three plane right angles; the figure of the body thus composed is a cube, having six plane quadrangular equilateral bases. There was yet a fifth combination which God used in the delineation of the universe.


Now, he who, duly reflecting on all this, enquires whether the worlds are to be regarded as indefinite or definite in number, will be of opinion that the notion of their indefiniteness is characteristic of a sadly indefinite and ignorant mind. He, however, who raises the question whether they are to be truly regarded as one or five, takes up a more reasonable position. Arguing from probabilities, I am of opinion that they are one; another, regarding the question from another point of view, will be of another mind. But, leaving this enquiry, let us proceed to distribute the elementary forms, which have now been created in idea, among the four elements.


To earth, then, let us assign the cubical form; for earth is the most immoveable of the four and the most plastic of all bodies, and that which has the most stable bases must of necessity be of such a nature. Now, of the triangles which we assumed at first, that which has two equal sides is by nature more firmly based than that which has unequal sides; and of the compound figures which are formed out of either, the plane equilateral quadrangle has necessarily, a more stable basis than the equilateral triangle, both in the whole and in the parts. Wherefore, in assigning this figure to earth, we adhere to probability; and to water we assign that one of the remaining forms which is the least moveable; and the most moveable of them to fire; and to air that which is intermediate. Also we assign the smallest body to fire, and the greatest to water, and the intermediate in size to air; and, again, the acutest body to fire, and the next in acuteness to, air, and the third to water. Of all these elements, that which has the fewest bases must necessarily be the most moveable, for it must be the acutest and most penetrating in every way, and also the lightest as being composed of the smallest number of similar particles: and the second body has similar properties in a second degree, and the third body in the third degree. Let it be agreed, then, both according to strict reason and according to probability, that the pyramid is the solid which is the original element and seed of fire; and let us assign the element which was next in the order of generation to air, and the third to water. We must imagine all these to be so small that no single particle of any of the four kinds is seen by us on account of their smallness: but when many of them are collected together their aggregates are seen. And the ratios of their numbers, motions, and other properties, everywhere God, as far as necessity allowed or gave consent, has exactly perfected, and harmonised in due proportion.


From all that we have just been saying about the elements or kinds, the most probable conclusion is as follows:-earth, when meeting with fire and dissolved by its sharpness, whether the dissolution take place in the fire itself or perhaps in some mass of air or water, is borne hither and thither, until its parts, meeting together and mutually harmonising, again become earth; for they can never take any other form. But water, when divided by fire or by air, on reforming, may become one part fire and two parts air; and a single volume of air divided becomes two of fire. Again, when a small body of fire is contained in a larger body of air or water or earth, and both are moving, and the fire struggling is overcome and broken up, then two volumes of fire form one volume of air; and when air is overcome and cut up into small pieces, two and a half parts of air are condensed into one part of water. Let us consider the matter in another way. When one of the other elements is fastened upon by fire, and is cut by the sharpness of its angles and sides, it coalesces with the fire, and then ceases to be cut by them any longer. For no element which is one and the same with itself can be changed by or change another of the same kind and in the same state. But so long as in the process of transition the weaker is fighting against the stronger, the dissolution continues. Again, when a few small particles, enclosed in many larger ones, are in process of decomposition and extinction, they only cease from their tendency to extinction when they consent to pass into the conquering nature, and fire becomes air and air water. But if bodies of another kind go and attack them [i.e. the small particles], the latter continue to be dissolved until, being completely forced back and dispersed, they make their escape to their own kindred, or else, being overcome and assimilated to the conquering power, they remain where they are and dwell with their victors, and from being many become one. And owing to these affections, all things are changing their place, for by the motion of the receiving vessel the bulk of each class is distributed into its proper place; but those things which become unlike themselves and like other things, are hurried by the shaking into the place of the things to which they grow like.


Now all unmixed and primary bodies are produced by such causes as these. As to the subordinate species which are included in the greater kinds, they are to be attributed to the varieties in the structure of the two original triangles. For either structure did not originally produce the triangle of one size only, but some larger and some smaller, and there are as many sizes as there are species of the four elements. Hence when they are mingled with themselves and with one another there is an endless variety of them, which those who would arrive at the probable truth of nature ought duly to consider.


Unless a person comes to an understanding about the nature and conditions of rest and motion, he will meet with many difficulties in the discussion which follows. Something has been said of this matter already, and something more remains to be said, which is, that motion never exists in what is uniform. For to conceive that anything can be moved without a mover is hard or indeed impossible, and equally impossible to conceive that there can be a mover unless there be something which can be moved-motion cannot exist where either of these are wanting, and for these to be uniform is impossible; wherefore we must assign rest to uniformity and motion to the want of uniformity. Now inequality is the cause of the nature which is wanting in uniformity; and of this we have already described the origin. But there still remains the further point-why things when divided after their kinds do not cease to pass through one another and to change their place-which we will now proceed to explain. In the revolution of the universe are comprehended all the four elements, and this being circular and having a tendency to come together, compresses everything and will not allow any place to be left void. Wherefore, also, fire above all things penetrates everywhere, and air next, as being next in rarity of the elements; and the two other elements in like manner penetrate according to their degrees of rarity. For those things which are composed of the largest particles have the largest void left in their compositions, and those which are composed of the smallest particles have the least. And the contraction caused by the compression thrusts the smaller particles into the interstices of the larger. And thus, when the small parts are placed side by side with the larger, and the lesser divide the greater and the greater unite the lesser, all the elements are borne up and down and hither and thither towards their own places; for the change in the size of each changes its position in space. And these causes generate an inequality which is always maintained, and is continually creating a perpetual motion of the elements in all time.


In the next place we have to consider that there are divers kinds of fire. There are, for example, first, flame; and secondly, those emanations of flame which do not burn but only give light to the eyes; thirdly, the remains of fire, which are seen in red-hot embers after the flame has been extinguished. There are similar differences in the air; of which the brightest part is called the aether, and the most turbid sort mist and darkness; and there are various other nameless kinds which arise from the inequality of the triangles. Water, again, admits in the first place of a division into two kinds; the one liquid and the other fusile. The liquid kind is composed of the small and unequal particles of water; and moves itself and is moved by other bodies owing to the want of uniformity and the shape of its particles; whereas the fusile kind, being formed of large and uniform particles, is more stable than the other, and is heavy and compact by reason of its uniformity. But when fire gets in and dissolves the particles and destroys the uniformity, it has greater mobility, and becoming fluid is thrust forth by the neighbouring air and spreads upon the earth; and this dissolution of the solid masses is called melting, and their spreading out upon the earth flowing. Again, when the fire goes out of the fusile substance, it does not pass into vacuum, but into the neighbouring air; and the air which is displaced forces together the liquid and still moveable mass into the place which was occupied by the fire, and unites it with itself. Thus compressed the mass resumes its equability, and is again at unity with itself, because the fire which was the author of the inequality has retreated; and this departure of the fire is called cooling, and the coming together which follows upon it is termed congealment. Of all the kinds termed fusile, that which is the densest and is formed out of the finest and most uniform parts is that most precious possession called gold, which is hardened by filtration through rock; this is unique in kind, and has both a glittering and a yellow colour. A shoot of gold, which is so dense as to be very hard, and takes a black colour, is termed adamant. There is also another kind which has parts nearly like gold, and of which there are several species; it is denser than gold, and it contains a small and fine portion of earth, and is therefore harder, yet also lighter because of the great interstices which it has within itself; and this substance, which is one of the bright and denser kinds of water, when solidified is called copper. There is an alloy of earth mingled with it, which, when the two parts grow old and are disunited, shows itself separately and is called rust. The remaining phenomena of the same kind there will be no difficulty in reasoning out by the method of probabilities. A man may sometimes set aside meditations about eternal things, and for recreation turn to consider the truths of generation which are probable only; he will thus gain a pleasure not to be repented of, and secure for himself while he lives a wise and moderate pastime. Let us grant ourselves this indulgence, and go through the probabilities relating to the same subjects which follow next in order.


Water which is mingled with fire, so much as is fine and liquid (being so called by reason of its motion and the way in which it rolls along the ground), and soft, because its bases give way are less stable than those of earth, when separated from fire and air and isolated, becomes more uniform, and by their retirement is compressed into itself; and if the condensation be very great, the water above the earth becomes hail, but on the earth, ice; and that which is congealed in a less degree and is only half solid, when above the earth is called snow, and when upon the earth, and condensed from dew, hoarfrost. Then, again, there are the numerous kinds of water which have been mingled with one another, and are distilled through plants which grow in the earth; and this whole class is called by the name of juices or saps. The unequal admixture of these fluids creates a variety of species; most of them are nameless, but four which are of a fiery nature are clearly distinguished and have names. First there is wine, which warms the soul as well as the body: secondly, there is the oily nature, which is smooth and divides the visual ray, and for this reason is bright and shining and of a glistening appearance, including pitch, the juice of the castor berry, oil itself, and other things of a like kind: thirdly, there is the class of substances which expand the contracted parts of the mouth, until they return to their natural state, and by reason of this property create sweetness;-these are included under the general name of honey: and, lastly, there is a frothy nature, which differs from all juices, having a burning quality which dissolves the flesh; it is called opos (a vegetable acid).


As to the kinds of earth, that which is filtered through water passes into stone in the following manner:-The water which mixes with the earth and is broken up in the process changes into air, and taking this form mounts into its own place. But as there is no surrounding vacuum it thrusts away the neighbouring air, and this being rendered heavy, and, when it is displaced, having been poured around the mass of earth, forcibly compresses it and drives it into the vacant space whence the new air had come up; and the earth when compressed by the air into an indissoluble union with water becomes rock. The fairer sort is that which is made up of equal and similar parts and is transparent; that which has the opposite qualities is inferior. But when all the watery part is suddenly drawn out by fire, a more brittle substance is formed, to which we give the name of pottery. Sometimes also moisture may remain, and the earth which has been fused by fire becomes, when cool, a certain stone of a black colour. A like separation of the water which had been copiously mingled with them may occur in two substances composed of finer particles of earth and of a briny nature; out of either of them a half solid body is then formed, soluble in water-the one, soda, which is used for purging away oil and earth, and other, salt, which harmonizes so well in combinations pleasing to the palate, and is, as the law testifies, a substance dear to the gods. The compounds of earth and water are not soluble by water, but by fire only, and for this reason:-Neither fire nor air melt masses of earth; for their particles, being smaller than the interstices in its structure, have plenty of room to move without forcing their way, and so they leave the earth unmelted and undissolved; but particles of water, which are larger, force a passage, and dissolve and melt the earth. Wherefore earth when not consolidated by force is dissolved by water only; when consolidated, by nothing but fire; for this is the only body which can find an entrance. The cohesion of water again, when very strong, is dissolved by fire only-when weaker, then either by air or fire-the former entering the interstices, and the latter penetrating even the triangles. But nothing can dissolve air, when strongly condensed, which does not reach the elements or triangles; or if not strongly condensed, then only fire can dissolve it. As to bodies composed of earth and water, while the water occupies the vacant interstices of the earth in them which are compressed by force, the particles of water which approach them from without, finding no entrance, flow around the entire mass and leave it undissolved; but the particles of fire, entering into the interstices of the water, do to the water what water does to earth and fire to air, and are the sole causes of the compound body of earth and water liquefying and becoming fluid. Now these bodies are of two kinds; some of them, such as glass and the fusible sort of stones, have less water than they have earth; on the other hand, substances of the nature of wax and incense have more of water entering into their composition.


I have thus shown the various classes of bodies as they are diversified by their forms and combinations and changes into one another, and now I must endeavour to set forth their affections and the causes of them. In the first place, the bodies which I have been describing are necessarily objects of sense. But we have not yet considered the origin of flesh, or what belongs to flesh, or of that part of the soul which is mortal. And these things cannot be adequately explained without also explaining the affections which are concerned with sensation, nor the latter without the former: and yet to explain them together is hardly possible; for which reason we must assume first one or the other and afterwards examine the nature of our hypothesis. In order, then, that the affections may follow regularly after the elements, let us presuppose the existence of body and soul.


First, let us enquire what we mean by saying that fire is hot; and about this we may reason from the dividing or cutting power which it exercises on our bodies. We all of us feel that fire is sharp; and we may further consider the fineness of the sides, and the sharpness of the angles, and the smallness of the particles, and the swiftness of the motion-all this makes the action of fire violent and sharp, so that it cuts whatever it meets. And we must not forget that the original figure of fire [i.e. the pyramid], more than any other form, has a dividing power which cuts our bodies into small pieces (Kepmatizei), and thus naturally produces that affection which we call heat; and hence the origin of the name (thepmos, Kepma). Now, the opposite of this is sufficiently manifest; nevertheless we will not fail to describe it. For the larger particles of moisture which surround the body, entering in and driving out the lesser, but not being able to take their places, compress the moist principle in us; and this from being unequal and disturbed, is forced by them into a state of rest, which is due to equability and compression. But things which are contracted contrary to nature are by nature at war, and force themselves apart; and to this war and convulsion the name of shivering and trembling is given; and the whole affection and the cause of the affection are both termed cold. That is called hard to which our flesh yields, and soft which yields to our flesh; and things are also termed hard and soft relatively to one another. That which yields has a small base; but that which rests on quadrangular bases is firmly posed and belongs to the class which offers the greatest resistance; so too does that which is the most compact and therefore most repellent. The nature of the light and the heavy will be best understood when examined in connexion with our notions of above and below; for it is quite a mistake to suppose that the universe is parted into two regions, separate from and opposite to each other, the one a lower to which all things tend which have any bulk, and an upper to which things only ascend against their will. For as the universe is in the form of a sphere, all the extremities, being equidistant from the centre, are equally extremities, and the centre, which is equidistant from them, is equally to be regarded as the opposite of them all. Such being the nature of the world, when a person says that any of these points is above or below, may he not be justly charged with using an improper expression? For the centre of the world cannot be rightly called either above or below, but is the centre and nothing else; and the circumference is not the centre, and has in no one part of itself a different relation to the centre from what it has in any of the opposite parts. Indeed, when it is in every direction similar, how can one rightly give to it names which imply opposition? For if there were any solid body in equipoise at the centre of the universe, there would be nothing to draw it to this extreme rather than to that, for they are all perfectly similar; and if a person were to go round the world in a circle, he would often, when standing at the antipodes of his former position, speak of the same point as above and below; for, as I was saying just now, to speak of the whole which is in the form of a globe as having one part above and another below is not like a sensible man.


The reason why these names are used, and the circumstances under which they are ordinarily applied by us to the division of the heavens, may be elucidated by the following supposition:-if a person were to stand in that part of the universe which is the appointed place of fire, and where there is the great mass of fire to which fiery bodies gather-if, I say, he were to ascend thither, and, having the power to do this, were to abstract particles of fire and put them in scales and weigh them, and then, raising the balance, were to draw the fire by force towards the uncongenial element of the air, it would be very evident that he could compel the smaller mass more readily than the larger; for when two things are simultaneously raised by one and the same power, the smaller body must necessarily yield to the superior power with less reluctance than the larger; and the larger body is called heavy and said to tend downwards, and the smaller body is called light and said to tend upwards. And we may detect ourselves who are upon the earth doing precisely the same thing. For we of separate earthy natures, and sometimes earth itself, and draw them into the uncongenial element of air by force and contrary to nature, both clinging to their kindred elements. But that which is smaller yields to the impulse given by us towards the dissimilar element more easily than the larger; and so we call the former light, and the place towards which it is impelled we call above, and the contrary state and place we call heavy and below respectively. Now the relations of these must necessarily vary, because the principal masses of the different elements hold opposite positions; for that which is light, heavy, below or above in one place will be found to be and become contrary and transverse and every way diverse in relation to that which is light, heavy, below or above in an opposite place. And about all of them this has to be considered:-that the tendency of each towards its kindred element makes the body which is moved heavy, and the place towards which the motion tends below, but things which have an opposite tendency we call by an opposite name. Such are the causes which we assign to these phenomena. As to the smooth and the rough, any one who sees them can explain the reason of them to another. For roughness is hardness mingled with irregularity, and smoothness is produced by the joint effect of uniformity and density.


The most important of the affections which concern the whole body remains to be considered-that is, the cause of pleasure and pain in the perceptions of which I have been speaking, and in all other things which are perceived by sense through the parts of the body, and have both pains and pleasures attendant on them. Let us imagine the causes of every affection, whether of sense or not, to be of the following nature, remembering that we have already distinguished between the nature which is easy and which is hard to move; for this is the direction in which we must hunt the prey which we mean to take. A body which is of a nature to be easily moved, on receiving an impression however slight, spreads abroad the motion in a circle, the parts communicating with each other, until at last, reaching the principle of mind, they announce the quality of the agent. But a body of the opposite kind, being immobile, and not extending to the surrounding region, merely receives the impression, and does not stir any of the neighbouring parts; and since the parts do not distribute the original impression to other parts, it has no effect of motion on the whole animal, and therefore produces no effect on the patient. This is true of the bones and hair and other more earthy parts of the human body; whereas what was said above relates mainly to sight and hearing, because they have in them the greatest amount of fire and air. Now we must conceive of pleasure and pain in this way. An impression produced in us contrary to nature and violent, if sudden, is painful; and, again, the sudden return to nature is pleasant; but a gentle and gradual return is imperceptible and vice versa. On the other hand the impression of sense which is most easily produced is most readily felt, but is not accompanied by Pleasure or pain; such, for example, are the affections of the sight, which, as we said above, is a body naturally uniting with our body in the day-time; for cuttings and burnings and other affections which happen to the sight do not give pain, nor is there pleasure when the sight returns to its natural state; but the sensations are dearest and strongest according to the manner in which the eye is affected by the object, and itself strikes and touches it; there is no violence either in the contraction or dilation of the eye. But bodies formed of larger particles yield to the agent only with a struggle; and then they impart their motions to the whole and cause pleasure and pain-pain when alienated from their natural conditions, and pleasure when restored to them. Things which experience gradual withdrawings and emptyings of their nature, and great and sudden replenishments, fail to perceive the emptying, but are sensible of the replenishment; and so they occasion no pain, but the greatest pleasure, to the mortal part of the soul, as is manifest in the case of perfumes. But things which are changed all of a sudden, and only gradually and with difficulty return to their own nature, have effects in every way opposite to the former, as is evident in the case of burnings and cuttings of the body.


Thus have we discussed the general affections of the whole body, and the names of the agents which produce them. And now I will endeavour to speak of the affections of particular parts, and the causes and agents of them, as far as I am able. In the first place let us set forth what was omitted when we were speaking of juices, concerning the affections peculiar to the tongue. These too, like most of the other affections, appear to be caused by certain contractions and dilations, but they have besides more of roughness and smoothness than is found in other affections; for whenever earthy particles enter into the small veins which are the testing of the tongue, reaching to the heart, and fall upon the moist, delicate portions of flesh-when, as they are dissolved, they contract and dry up the little veins, they are astringent if they are rougher, but if not so rough, then only harsh. Those of them which are of an abstergent nature, and purge the whole surface of the tongue, if they do it in excess, and so encroach as to consume some part of the flesh itself, like potash and soda, are all termed bitter. But the particles which are deficient in the alkaline quality, and which cleanse only moderately, are called salt, and having no bitterness or roughness, are regarded as rather agreeable than otherwise. Bodies which share in and are made smooth by the heat of the mouth, and which are inflamed, and again in turn inflame that which heats them, and which are so light that they are carried upwards to the sensations of the head, and cut all that comes in their way, by reason of these qualities in them, are all termed pungent. But when these same particles, refined by putrefaction, enter into the narrow veins, and are duly proportioned to the particles of earth and air which are there, they set them whirling about one another, and while they are in a whirl cause them to dash against and enter into one another, and so form hollows surrounding the particles that enter-which watery vessels of air (for a film of moisture, sometimes earthy, sometimes pure, is spread around the air) are hollow spheres of water; and those of them which are pure, are transparent, and are called bubbles, while those composed of the earthy liquid, which is in a state of general agitation and effervescence, are said to boil or ferment-of all these affections the cause is termed acid. And there is the opposite affection arising from an opposite cause, when the mass of entering particles, immersed in the moisture of the mouth, is congenial to the tongue, and smooths and oils over the roughness, and relaxes the parts which are unnaturally contracted, and contracts the parts which are relaxed, and disposes them all according to their nature-that sort of remedy of violent affections is pleasant and agreeable to every man, and has the name sweet. But enough of this.


The faculty of smell does not admit of differences of kind; for all smells are of a half formed nature, and no element is so proportioned as to have any smell. The veins about the nose are too narrow to admit earth and water, and too wide to detain fire and air; and for this reason no one ever perceives the smell of any of them; but smells always proceed from bodies that are damp, or putrefying, or liquefying, or evaporating, and are perceptible only in the intermediate state, when water is changing into air and air into water; and all of them are either vapor or mist. That which is passing out of air into water is mist, and that which is passing from water into air is vapour; and hence all smells are thinner than water and thicker than air. The proof of this is, that when there is any obstruction to the respiration, and a man draws in his breath by force, then no smell filters through, but the air without the smell alone penetrates. Wherefore the varieties of smell have no name, and they have not many, or definite and simple kinds; but they are distinguished only painful and pleasant, the one sort irritating and disturbing the whole cavity which is situated between the head and the navel, the other having a soothing influence, and restoring this same region to an agreeable and natural condition.


In considering the third kind of sense, hearing, we must speak of the causes in which it originates. We may in general assume sound to be a blow which passes through the ears, and is transmitted by means of the air, the brain, and the blood, to the soul, and that hearing is the vibration of this blow, which begins in the head and ends in the region of the liver. The sound which moves swiftly is acute, and the sound which moves slowly is grave, and that which is regular is equable and smooth, and the reverse is harsh. A great body of sound is loud, and a small body of sound the reverse. Respecting the harmonies of sound I must hereafter speak.


There is a fourth class of sensible things, having many intricate varieties, which must now be distinguished. They are called by the general name of colours, and are a flame which emanates from every sort of body, and has particles corresponding to the sense of sight. I have spoken already, in what has preceded, of the causes which generate sight, and in this place it will be natural and suitable to give a rational theory of colours.


Of the particles coming from other bodies which fall upon the sight, some are smaller and some are larger, and some are equal to the parts of the sight itself. Those which are equal are imperceptible, and we call them transparent. The larger produce contraction, the smaller dilation, in the sight, exercising a power akin to that of hot and cold bodies on the flesh, or of astringent bodies on the tongue, or of those heating bodies which we termed pungent. White and black are similar effects of contraction and dilation in another sphere, and for this reason have a different appearance. Wherefore, we ought to term white that which dilates the visual ray, and the opposite of this is black. There is also a swifter motion of a different sort of fire which strikes and dilates the ray of sight until it reaches the eyes, forcing a way through their passages and melting them, and eliciting from them a union of fire and water which we call tears, being itself an opposite fire which comes to them from an opposite direction-the inner fire flashes forth like lightning, and the outer finds a way in and is extinguished in the moisture, and all sorts of colours are generated by the mixture. This affection is termed dazzling, and the object which produces it is called bright and flashing. There is another sort of fire which is intermediate, and which reaches and mingles with the moisture of the eye without flashing; and in this, the fire mingling with the ray of the moisture, produces a colour like blood, to which we give the name of red. A bright hue mingled with red and white gives the colour called auburn. The law of proportion, however, according to which the several colours are formed, even if a man knew he would be foolish in telling, for he could not give any necessary reason, nor indeed any tolerable or probable explanation of them. Again, red, when mingled with black and white, becomes purple, but it becomes umber when the colours are burnt as well as mingled and the black is more thoroughly mixed with them. Flame colour is produced by a union of auburn and dun, and dun by an admixture of black and white; pale yellow, by an admixture of white and auburn. White and bright meeting, and falling upon a full black, become dark blue, and when dark blue mingles with white, a light blue colour is formed, as flame-colour with black makes leek green. There will be no difficulty in seeing how and by what mixtures the colours derived from these are made according to the rules of probability. He, however, who should attempt to verify all this by experiment, would forget the difference of the human and divine nature. For God only has the knowledge and also the power which are able to combine many things into one and again resolve the one into many. But no man either is or ever will be able to accomplish either the one or the other operation.


These are the elements, thus of necessity then subsisting, which the creator of the fairest and best of created things associated with himself, when he made the self-sufficing and most perfect God, using the necessary causes as his ministers in the accomplishment of his work, but himself contriving the good in all his creations. Wherefore we may distinguish two sorts of causes, the one divine and the other necessary, and may seek for the divine in all things, as far as our nature admits, with a view to the blessed life; but the necessary kind only for the sake of the divine, considering that without them and when isolated from them, these higher things for which we look cannot be apprehended or received or in any way shared by us.


Seeing, then, that we have now prepared for our use the various classes of causes which are the material out of which the remainder of our discourse must be woven, just as wood is the material of the carpenter, let us revert in a few words to the point at which we began, and then endeavour to add on a suitable ending to the beginning of our tale.


As I said at first, when all things were in disorder God created in each thing in relation to itself, and in all things in relation to each other, all the measures and harmonies which they could possibly receive. For in those days nothing had any proportion except by accident; nor did any of the things which now have names deserve to be named at all-as, for example, fire, water, and the rest of the elements. All these the creator first set in order, and out of them he constructed the universe, which was a single animal comprehending in itself all other animals, mortal and immortal. Now of the divine, he himself was the creator, but the creation of the mortal he committed to his offspring. And they, imitating him, received from him the immortal principle of the soul; and around this they proceeded to fashion a mortal body, and. made it to be the vehicle of the so and constructed within the body a soul of another nature which was mortal, subject to terrible and irresistible affections-first of all, pleasure, the greatest incitement to evil; then, pain, which deters from good; also rashness and fear, two foolish counsellors, anger hard to be appeased, and hope easily led astray-these they mingled with irrational sense and with all-daring love according to necessary laws, and so framed man. Wherefore, fearing to pollute the divine any more than was absolutely unavoidable, they gave to the mortal nature a separate habitation in another part of the body, placing the neck between them to be the isthmus and boundary, which they constructed between the head and breast, to keep them apart. And in the breast, and in what is termed the thorax, they encased the mortal soul; and as the one part of this was superior and the other inferior they divided the cavity of the thorax into two parts, as the women’s and men’s apartments are divided in houses, and placed the midriff to be a wall of partition between them. That part of the inferior soul which is endowed with courage and passion and loves contention they settled nearer the head, midway between the midriff and the neck, in order that it might be under the rule of reason and might join with it in controlling and restraining the desires when they are no longer willing of their own accord to obey the word of command issuing from the citadel.


The heart, the knot of the veins and the fountain of the blood which races through all the limbs was set in the place of guard, that when the might of passion was roused by reason making proclamation of any wrong assailing them from without or being perpetrated by the desires within, quickly the whole power of feeling in the body, perceiving these commands and threats, might obey and follow through every turn and alley, and thus allow the principle of the best to have the command in all of them. But the gods, foreknowing that the palpitation of the heart in the expectation of danger and the swelling and excitement of passion was caused by fire, formed and implanted as a supporter to the heart the lung, which was, in the first place, soft and bloodless, and also had within hollows like the pores of a sponge, in order that by receiving the breath and the drink, it might give coolness and the power of respiration and alleviate the heat. Wherefore they cut the air-channels leading to the lung, and placed the lung about the heart as a soft spring, that, when passion was rife within, the heart, beating against a yielding body, might be cooled and suffer less, and might thus become more ready to join with passion in the service of reason.


The part of the soul which desires meats and drinks and the other things of which it has need by reason of the bodily nature, they placed between the midriff and the boundary of the navel, contriving in all this region a sort of manger for the food of the body; and there they bound it down like a wild animal which was chained up with man, and must be nourished if man was to exist. They appointed this lower creation his place here in order that he might be always feeding at the manger, and have his dwelling as far as might be from the council-chamber, making as little noise and disturbance as possible, and permitting the best part to advise quietly for the good of the whole. And knowing that this lower principle in man would not comprehend reason, and even if attaining to some degree of perception would never naturally care for rational notions, but that it would be led away by phantoms and visions night and day-to be a remedy for this, God combined with it the liver, and placed it in the house of the lower nature, contriving that it should be solid and smooth, and bright and sweet, and should also have a bitter quality, in order that the power of thought, which proceeds from the mind, might be reflected as in a mirror which receives likenesses of objects and gives back images of them to the sight; and so might strike terror into the desires, when, making use of the bitter part of the liver, to which it is akin, it comes threatening and invading, and diffusing this bitter element swiftly through the whole liver produces colours like bile, and contracting every part makes it wrinkled and rough; and twisting out of its right place and contorting the lobe and closing and shutting up the vessels and gates, causes pain and loathing. And the converse happens when some gentle inspiration of the understanding pictures images of an opposite character, and allays the bile and bitterness by refusing to stir or touch the nature opposed to itself, but by making use of the natural sweetness of the liver, corrects all things and makes them to be right and smooth and free, and renders the portion of the soul which resides about the liver happy and joyful, enabling it to pass the night in peace, and to practise divination in sleep, inasmuch as it has no share in mind and reason. For the authors of our being, remembering the command of their father when he bade them create the human race as good as they could, that they might correct our inferior parts and make them to attain a measure of truth, placed in the liver the seat of divination. And herein is a proof that God has given the art of divination not to the wisdom, but to the foolishness of man. No man, when in his wits, attains prophetic truth and inspiration; but when he receives the inspired word, either his intelligence is enthralled in sleep, or he is demented by some distemper or possession. And he who would understand what he remembers to have been said, whether in a dream or when he was awake, by the prophetic and inspired nature, or would determine by reason the meaning of the apparitions which he has seen, and what indications they afford to this man or that, of past, present or future good and evil, must first recover his wits. But, while he continues demented, he cannot judge of the visions which he sees or the words which he utters; the ancient saying is very true, that “only a man who has his wits can act or judge about himself and his own affairs.” And for this reason it is customary to appoint interpreters to be judges of the true inspiration. Some persons call them prophets; they are quite unaware that they are only the expositors of dark sayings and visions, and are not to be called prophets at all, but only interpreters of prophecy.


Such is the nature of the liver, which is placed as we have described in order that it may give prophetic intimations. During the life of each individual these intimations are plainer, but after his death the liver becomes blind, and delivers oracles too obscure to be intelligible. The neighbouring organ [the spleen] is situated on the left-hand side, and is constructed with a view of keeping the liver bright and pure-like a napkin, always ready prepared and at hand to clean the mirror. And hence, when any impurities arise in the region of the liver by reason of disorders of the body, the loose nature of the spleen, which is composed of a hollow and bloodless tissue, receives them all and dears them away, and when filled with the unclean matter, swells and festers, but, again, when the body is purged, settles down into the same place as before, and is humbled.


Concerning the soul, as to which part is mortal and which divine, and how and why they are separated, and where located, if God acknowledges that we have spoken the truth, then, and then only, can we be confident; still, we may venture to assert that what has been said by us is probable, and will be rendered more probable by investigation. Let us assume thus much.


The creation of the rest of follows next in order, and this we may investigate in a similar manner. And it appears to be very meet that the body should be framed on the following principles:-


The authors of our race were aware that we should be intemperate in eating and drinking, and take a good deal more than was necessary or proper, by reason of gluttony. In order then that disease might not quickly destroy us, and lest our mortal race should perish without fulfilling its end-intending to provide against this, the gods made what is called the lower belly, to be a receptacle for the superfluous meat and drink, and formed the convolution of the bowels, so that the food might be prevented from passing quickly through and compelling the body to require more food, thus producing insatiable gluttony, and making the whole race an enemy to philosophy and music, and rebellious against the divinest element within us.


The bones and flesh, and other similar parts of us, were made as follows. The first principle of all of them was the generation of the marrow. For the bonds of life which unite the soul with the body are made fast there, and they are the root and foundation of the human race. The marrow itself is created out of other materials: God took such of the primary triangles as were straight and smooth, and were adapted by their perfection to produce fire and water, and air and earth-these, I say, he separated from their kinds, and mingling them in due proportions with one another, made the marrow out of them to be a universal seed of the whole race of mankind; and in this seed he then planted and enclosed the souls, and in the original distribution gave to the marrow as many and various forms as the different kinds of souls were hereafter to receive. That which, like a field, was to receive the divine seed, he made round every way, and called that portion of the marrow, brain, intending that, when an animal was perfected, the vessel containing this substance should be the head; but that which was intended to contain the remaining and mortal part of the soul he distributed into figures at once around and elongated, and he called them all by the name “marrow”; and to these, as to anchors, fastening the bonds of the whole soul, he proceeded to fashion around them the entire framework of our body, constructing for the marrow, first of all a complete covering of bone.


Bone was composed by him in the following manner. Having sifted pure and smooth earth he kneaded it and wetted it with marrow, and after that he put it into fire and then into water, and once more into fire and again into water-in this way by frequent transfers from one to the other he made it insoluble by either. Out of this he fashioned, as in a lathe, a globe made of bone, which he placed around the brain, and in this he left a narrow opening; and around the marrow of the neck and back he formed vertebrae which he placed under one another like pivots, beginning at the head and extending through the whole of the trunk. Thus wishing to preserve the entire seed, he enclosed it in a stone-like casing, inserting joints, and using in the formation of them the power of the other or diverse as an intermediate nature, that they might have motion and flexure. Then again, considering that the bone would be too brittle and inflexible, and when heated and again cooled would soon mortify and destroy the seed within-having this in view, he contrived the sinews and the flesh, that so binding all the members together by the sinews, which admitted of being stretched and relaxed about the vertebrae, he might thus make the body capable of flexion and extension, while the flesh would serve as a protection against the summer heat and against the winter cold, and also against falls, softly and easily yielding to external bodies, like articles made of felt; and containing in itself a warm moisture which in summer exudes and makes the surface damp, would impart a nature coolness to the whole body; and again in winter by the help of this internal warmth would form a very tolerable defence against the frost which surrounds it and attacks it from without. He who modelled us, considering these things, mixed earth with fire and water and blended them; and making a ferment of acid and salt, he mingled it with them and formed soft and succulent flesh. As for the sinews, he made them of a mixture of bone and unfermented flesh, attempered so as to be in a mean, and gave them a yellow colour; wherefore the sinews have a firmer and more glutinous nature than flesh, but a softer and moister nature than the bones. With these God covered the bones and marrow, binding them together by sinews, and then enshrouded them all in an upper covering of flesh. The more living and sensitive of the bones he enclosed in the thinnest film of flesh, and those which had the least life within them in the thickest and most solid flesh. So again on the joints of the bones, where reason indicated that no more was required, he placed only a thin covering of flesh, that it might not interfere with the flexion of our bodies and make them unwieldy because difficult to move; and also that it might not, by being crowded and pressed and matted together, destroy sensation by reason of its hardness, and impair the memory and dull the edge of intelligence. Wherefore also the thighs and the shanks and the hips, and the bones of the arms and the forearms, and other parts which have no joints, and the inner bones, which on account of the rarity of the soul in the marrow are destitute of reason-all these are abundantly provided with flesh; but such as have mind in them are in general less fleshy, except where the creator has made some part solely of flesh in order to give sensation-as, for example, the tongue. But commonly this is not the case. For the nature which comes into being and grows up in us by a law of necessity, does not admit of the combination of solid bone and much flesh with acute perceptions. More than any other part the framework of the head would have had them, if they could have co-existed, and the human race, having a strong and fleshy and sinewy head, would have had a life twice or many times as long as it now has, and also more healthy and free from pain.


But our creators, considering whether they should make a longer-lived race which was worse, or a shorter-lived race which was better, came to the conclusion that every one ought to prefer a shorter span of life, which was better, to a longer one, which was worse; and therefore they covered the head with thin bone, but not with flesh and sinews, since it had no joints; and thus the head was added, having more wisdom and sensation than the rest of the body, but also being in every man far weaker. For these reasons and after this manner God placed the sinews at the extremity of the head, in a circle round the neck, and glued them together by the principle of likeness and fastened the extremities of the jawbones to them below the face, and the other sinews he dispersed throughout the body, fastening limb to limb. The framers of us framed the mouth, as now arranged, having teeth and tongue and lips, with a view to the necessary and the good, contriving the way in for necessary purposes, the way out for the best purposes; for that is necessary which enters in and gives food to the body; but the river of speech, which flows out of a man and ministers to the intelligence, is the fairest and noblest of all streams. Still the head could neither be left a bare frame of bones, on account of the extremes of heat and cold in the different seasons, nor yet be allowed to be wholly covered, and so become dull and senseless by reason of an overgrowth of flesh. The fleshy nature was not therefore wholly dried up, but a large sort of peel was parted off and remained over, which is now called the skin. This met and grew by the help of the cerebral moisture, and became the circular envelopment of the head. And the moisture, rising up under the sutures, watered and closed in the skin upon the crown, forming a sort of knot. The diversity of the sutures was caused by the power of the courses of the soul and of the food, and the more these struggled against one another the more numerous they became, and fewer if the struggle were less violent. This skin the divine power pierced all round with fire, and out of the punctures which were thus made the moisture issued forth, and the liquid and heat which was pure came away, and a mixed part which was composed of the same material as the skin, and had a fineness equal to the punctures, was borne up by its own impulse and extended far outside the head, but being too slow to escape, was thrust back by the external air, and rolled up underneath the skin, where it took root. Thus the hair sprang up in the skin, being akin to it because it is like threads of leather, but rendered harder and closer through the pressure of the cold, by which each hair, while in process of separation from the skin, is compressed and cooled. Wherefore the creator formed the head hairy, making use of the causes which I have mentioned, and reflecting also that instead of flesh the brain needed the hair to be a light covering or guard, which would give shade in summer and shelter in winter, and at the same time would not impede our quickness of perception. From the combination of sinew, skin, and bone, in the structure of the finger, there arises a triple compound, which, when dried up, takes the form of one hard skin partaking of all three natures, and was fabricated by these second causes, but designed by mind which is the principal cause with an eye to the future. For our creators well knew that women and other animals would some day be framed out of men, and they further knew that many animals would require the use of nails for many purposes; wherefore they fashioned in men at their first creation the rudiments of nails. For this purpose and for these reasons they caused skin, hair, and nails to grow at the extremities of the limbs. And now that all the parts and members of the mortal animal had come together, since its life of necessity consisted of fire and breath, and it therefore wasted away by dissolution and depletion, the gods contrived the following remedy: They mingled a nature akin to that of man with other forms and perceptions, and thus created another kind of animal. These are the trees and plants and seeds which have been improved by cultivation and are now domesticated among us; anciently there were only the will kinds, which are older than the cultivated. For everything that partakes of life may be truly called a living being, and the animal of which we are now speaking partakes of the third kind of soul, which is said to be seated between the midriff and the navel, having no part in opinion or reason or mind, but only in feelings of pleasure and pain and the desires which accompany them. For this nature is always in a passive state, revolving in and about itself, repelling the motion from without and using its own, and accordingly is not endowed by nature with the power of observing or reflecting on its own concerns. Wherefore it lives and does not differ from a living being, but is fixed and rooted in the same spot, having no power of self-motion.


Now after the superior powers had created all these natures to be food for us who are of the inferior nature, they cut various channels through the body as through a garden, that it might be watered as from a running stream. In the first place, they cut two hidden channels or veins down the back where the skin and the flesh join, which answered severally to the right and left side of the body. These they let down along the backbone, so as to have the marrow of generation between them, where it was most likely to flourish, and in order that the stream coming down from above might flow freely to the other parts, and equalise the irrigation. In the next place, they divided the veins about the head, and interlacing them, they sent them in opposite directions; those coming from the right side they sent to the left of the body, and those from the left they diverted towards the right, so that they and the skin might together form a bond which should fasten the head to the body, since the crown of the head was not encircled by sinews; and also in order that the sensations from both sides might be distributed over the whole body. And next, they ordered the water-courses of the body in a manner which I will describe, and which will be more easily understood if we begin by admitting that all things which have lesser parts retain the greater, but the greater cannot retain the lesser. Now of all natures fire has the smallest parts, and therefore penetrates through earth and water and air and their compounds, nor can anything hold it. And a similar principle applies to the human belly; for when meats and drinks enter it, it holds them, but it cannot hold air and fire, because the particles of which they consist are smaller than its own structure.


These elements, therefore, God employed for the sake of distributing moisture from the belly into the veins, weaving together network of fire and air like a weel, having at the entrance two lesser weels; further he constructed one of these with two openings, and from the lesser weels he extended cords reaching all round to the extremities of the network. All the interior of the net he made of fire, but the lesser weels and their cavity, of air. The network he took and spread over the newly-formed animal in the following manner:-He let the lesser weels pass into the mouth; there were two of them, and one he let down by the air-pipes into the lungs, the other by the side of the air-pipes into the belly. The former he divided into two branches, both of which he made to meet at the channels of the nose, so that when the way through the mouth did not act, the streams of the mouth as well were replenished through the nose. With the other cavity (i.e. of the greater weel) he enveloped the hollow parts of the body, and at one time he made all this to flow into the lesser weels, quite gently, for they are composed of air, and at another time he caused the lesser weels to flow back again; and the net he made to find a way in and out through the pores of the body, and the rays of fire which are bound fast within followed the passage of the air either way, never at any time ceasing so long as the mortal being holds together. This process, as we affirm, the name-giver named inspiration and expiration. And all this movement, active as well as passive, takes place in order that the body, being watered and cooled, may receive nourishment and life; for when the respiration is going in and out, and the fire, which is fast bound within, follows it, and ever and anon moving to and fro, enters through the belly and reaches the meat and drink, it dissolves them, and dividing them into small portions and guiding them through the passages where it goes, pumps them as from a fountain into the channels of the veins, and makes the stream of the veins flow through the body as through a conduit.


Let us once more consider the phenomena of respiration, and enquire into the causes which have made it what it is. They are as follows:-Seeing that there is no such thing as a vacuum into which any of those things which are moved can enter, and the breath is carried from us into the external air, the next point is, as will be dear to every one, that it does not go into a vacant space, but pushes its neighbour out of its place, and that which is thrust out in turn drives out its neighbour; and in this everything of necessity at last comes round to that place from whence the breath came forth, and enters in there, and following the breath, fills up the vacant space; and this goes on like the rotation of a wheel, because there can be no such thing as a vacuum. Wherefore also the breast and the lungs, when they emit the breath, are replenished by the air which surrounds the body and which enters in through the pores of the flesh and is driven round in a circle; and again, the air which is sent away and passes out through the body forces the breath inwards through the passage of the mouth and the nostrils. Now the origin of this movement may be supposed to be as follows. In the interior of every animal the hottest part is that which is around the blood and veins; it is in a manner on internal fountain of fire, which we compare to the network of a creel, being woven all of fire and extended through the centre of the body, while the-outer parts are composed of air. Now we must admit that heat naturally proceeds outward to its own place and to its kindred element; and as there are two exits for the heat, the out through the body, and the other through the mouth and nostrils, when it moves towards the one, it drives round the air at the other, and that which is driven round falls into the fire and becomes warm, and that which goes forth is cooled. But when the heat changes its place, and the particles at the other exit grow warmer, the hotter air inclining in that direction and carried towards its native element, fire, pushes round the air at the other; and this being affected in the same way and communicating the same impulse, a circular motion swaying to and from is produced by the double process, which we call inspiration and expiration.


The phenomena of medical cupping-glasses and of the swallowing of drink and of the projection of bodies, whether discharged in the air or bowled along the ground, are to be investigated on a similar principle; and swift and slow sounds, which appear to be high and low, and are sometimes discordant on account of their inequality, and then again harmonical on account of the equality of the motion which they excite in us. For when the motions of the antecedent swifter sounds begin to pause and the two are equalised, the slower sounds overtake the swifter and then propel them. When they overtake them they do not intrude a new and discordant motion, but introduce the beginnings of a slower, which answers to the swifter as it dies away, thus producing a single mixed expression out of high and low, whence arises a pleasure which even the unwise feel, and which to the wise becomes a higher sort of delight, being an imitation of divine harmony in mortal motions. Moreover, as to the flowing of water, the fall of the thunderbolt, and the marvels that are observed about the attraction of amber and the Heraclean stones,-in none of these cases is there any attraction; but he who investigates rightly, will find that such wonderful phenomena are attributable to the combination of certain conditions-the non-existence of a vacuum, the fact that objects push one another round, and that they change places, passing severally into their proper positions as they are divided or combined


Such as we have seen, is the nature and such are the causes of respiration-the subject in which this discussion originated. For the fire cuts the food and following the breath surges up within, fire and breath rising together and filling the veins by drawing up out of the belly and pouring into them the cut portions of the food; and so the streams of food are kept flowing through the whole body in all animals. And fresh cuttings from kindred substances, whether the fruits of the earth or herb of the field, which God planted to be our daily food, acquire all sorts of colours by their inter-mixture; but red is the most pervading of them, being created by the cutting action of fire and by the impression which it makes on a moist substance; and hence the liquid which circulates in the body has a colour such as we have described. The liquid itself we call blood, which nourishes the flesh and the whole body, whence all parts are watered and empty places filled.


Now the process of repletion and evacuation is effected after the manner of the universal motion by which all kindred substances are drawn towards one another. For the external elements which surround us are always causing us to consume away, and distributing and sending off like to like; the particles of blood, too, which are divided and contained within the frame of the animal as in a sort of heaven, are compelled to imitate the motion of the universe. Each, therefore, of the divided parts within us, being carried to its kindred nature, replenishes the void. When more is taken away than flows in, then we decay, and when less, we grow and increase.


The frame of the entire creature when young has the triangles of each kind new, and may be compared to the keel of a vessel which is just off the stocks; they are locked firmly together and yet the whole mass is soft and delicate, being freshly formed of marrow and nurtured on milk. Now when the triangles out of which meats and drinks are composed come in from without, and are comprehended in the body, being older and weaker than the triangles already there, the frame of the body gets the better of them and its newer triangles cut them up, and so the animal grows great, being nourished by a multitude of similar particles. But when the roots of the triangles are loosened by having undergone many conflicts with many things in the course of time, they are no longer able to cut or assimilate the food which enters, but are themselves easily divided by the bodies which come in from without. In this way every animal is overcome and decays, and this affection is called old age. And at last, when the bonds by which the triangles of the marrow are united no longer hold, and are parted by the strain of existence, they in turn loosen the bonds of the soul, and she, obtaining a natural release, flies away with joy. For that which takes place according to nature is pleasant, but that which is contrary to nature is painful. And thus death, if caused by disease or produced by wounds, is painful and violent; but that sort of death which comes with old age and fulfils the debt of nature is the easiest of deaths, and is accompanied with pleasure rather than with pain.


Now every one can see whence diseases arise. There are four natures out of which the body is compacted, earth and fire and water and air, and the unnatural excess or defect of these, or the change of any of them from its own natural place into another, or-since there are more kinds than one of fire and of the other elements-the assumption by any of these of a wrong kind, or any similar irregularity, produces disorders and diseases; for when any of them is produced or changed in a manner contrary to nature, the parts which were previously cool grow warm, and those which were dry become moist, and the light become heavy, and the heavy light; all sorts of changes occur. For, as we affirm, a thing can only remain the same with itself, whole and sound, when the same is added to it, or subtracted from it, in the same respect and in the same manner and in due proportion; and whatever comes or goes away in violation of these laws causes all manner of changes and infinite diseases and corruptions. Now there is a second class of structures which are also natural, and this affords a second opportunity of observing diseases to him who would understand them. For whereas marrow and bone and flesh and sinews are composed of the four elements, and the blood, though after another manner, is likewise formed out of them, most diseases originate in the way which I have described; but the worst of all owe their severity to the fact that the generation of these substances stances in a wrong order; they are then destroyed. For the natural order is that the flesh and sinews should be made of blood, the sinews out of the fibres to which they are akin, and the flesh out of the dots which are formed when the fibres are separated. And the glutinous and rich matter which comes away from the sinews and the flesh, not only glues the flesh to the bones, but nourishes and imparts growth to the bone which surrounds the marrow; and by reason of the solidity of the bones, that which filters through consists of the purest and smoothest and oiliest sort of triangles, dropping like dew from the bones and watering the marrow.


Now when each process takes place in this order, health commonly results; when in the opposite order, disease. For when the flesh becomes decomposed and sends back the wasting substance into the veins, then an over-supply of blood of diverse kinds, mingling with air in the veins, having variegated colours and bitter properties, as well as acid and saline qualities, contains all sorts of bile and serum and phlegm. For all things go the wrong way, and having become corrupted, first they taint the blood itself, and then ceasing to give nourishment the body they are carried along the veins in all directions, no longer preserving the order of their natural courses, but at war with themselves, because they receive no good from one another, and are hostile to the abiding constitution of the body, which they corrupt and dissolve. The oldest part of the flesh which is corrupted, being hard to decompose, from long burning grows black, and from being everywhere corroded becomes bitter, and is injurious to every part of the body which is still uncorrupted. Sometimes, when the bitter element is refined away, the black part assumes an acidity which takes the place of the bitterness; at other times the bitterness being tinged with blood has a redder colour; and this, when mixed with black, takes the hue of grass; and again, an auburn colour mingles with the bitter matter when new flesh is decomposed by the fire which surrounds the internal flame-to all which symptoms some physician perhaps, or rather some philosopher, who had the power of seeing in many dissimilar things one nature deserving of a name, has assigned the common name of bile. But the other kinds of bile are variously distinguished by their colours. As for serum, that sort which is the watery part of blood is innocent, but that which is a secretion of black and acid bile is malignant when mingled by the power of heat with any salt substance, and is then called acid phlegm.


Again, the substance which is formed by the liquefaction of new and tender flesh when air is present, if inflated and encased in liquid so as to form bubbles, which separately are invisible owing to their small size, but when collected are of a bulk which is visible, and have a white colour arising out of the generation of foam-all this decomposition of tender flesh when inter-mingled with air is termed by us white phlegm. And the whey or sediment of newly-formed phlegm is sweat and tears, and includes the various daily discharges by which the body is purified. Now all these become causes of disease when the blood is not replenished in a natural manner by food and drink but gains bulk from opposite sources in violation of the laws of nature. When the several parts of the flesh are separated by disease, if the foundation remains, the power of the disorder is only half as great, and there is still a prospect of an easy recovery; but when that which binds the flesh to the bones is diseased, and no longer being separated from the muscles and sinews, ceases to give nourishment to the bone and to unite flesh and bone, and from being oily and smooth and glutinous becomes rough and salt and dry, owing to bad regimen, then all the substance thus corrupted crumbles away under the flesh and the sinews, and separates from the bone, and the fleshy parts fall away from their foundation and leave the sinews bare and full of brine, and the flesh again gets into the circulation of the blood and makes the previously-mentioned disorders still greater. And if these bodily affections be severe, still worse are the prior disorders; as when the bone itself, by reason of the density of the flesh, does not obtain sufficient air, but becomes mouldy and hot and gangrened and receives no nutriment, and the natural process is inverted, and the bone crumbling passes into the food, and the food into the flesh, and the flesh again falling into the blood makes all maladies that may occur more virulent than those already mentioned. But the worst case of all is when the marrow is diseased, either from excess or defect; and this is the cause of the very greatest and most fatal disorders, in which the whole course of the body is reversed.


There is a third class of diseases which may be conceived of as arising in three ways; for they are produced sometimes by wind, and sometimes by phlegm, and sometimes by bile. When the lung, which is the dispenser of the air to the body, is obstructed by rheums and its passages are not free, some of them not acting, while through others too much air enters, then the parts which are unrefreshed by air corrode, while in other parts the excess of air forcing its way through the veins distorts them and decomposing the body is enclosed in the midst of it and occupies the midriff thus numberless painful diseases are produced, accompanied by copious sweats. And oftentimes when the flesh is dissolved in the body, wind, generated within and unable to escape, is the source of quite as much pain as the air coming in from without; but the greatest pain is felt when the wind gets about the sinews and the veins of the shoulders, and swells them up, so twists back the great tendons and the sinews which are connected with them. These disorders are called tetanus and opisthotonus, by reason of the tension which accompanies them. The cure of them is difficult; relief is in most cases given by fever supervening. The white phlegm, though dangerous when detained within by reason of the air-bubbles, yet if it can communicate with the outside air, is less severe, and only discolours the body, generating leprous eruptions and similar diseases. When it is mingled with black bile and dispersed about the courses of the head, which are the divinest part of us, the attack if coming on in sleep, is not so severe; but when assailing those who are awake it is hard to be got rid of, and being an affection of a sacred part, is most justly called sacred. An acid and salt phlegm, again, is the source of all those diseases which take the form of catarrh, but they have many names because the places into which they flow are manifold.


Inflammations of the body come from burnings and inflamings, and all of them originate in bile. When bile finds a means of discharge, it boils up and sends forth all sorts of tumours; but when imprisoned within, it generates many inflammatory diseases, above all when mingled with pure blood; since it then displaces the fibres which are scattered about in the blood and are designed to maintain the balance of rare and dense, in order that the blood may not be so liquefied by heat as to exude from the pores of the body, nor again become too dense and thus find a difficulty in circulating through the veins. The fibres are so constituted as to maintain this balance; and if any one brings them all together when the blood is dead and in process of cooling, then the blood which remains becomes fluid, but if they are left alone, they soon congeal by reason of the surrounding cold. The fibres having this power over the blood, bile, which is only stale blood, and which from being flesh is dissolved again into blood, at the first influx coming in little by little, hot and liquid, is congealed by the power of the fibres; and so congealing and made to cool, it produces internal cold and shuddering. When it enters with more of a flood and overcomes the fibres by its heat, and boiling up throws them into disorder, if it have power enough to maintain its supremacy, it penetrates the marrow and burns up what may be termed the cables of the soul, and sets her free; but when there is not so much of it, and the body though wasted still holds out, the bile is itself mastered, and is either utterly banished, or is thrust through the veins into the lower or upper-belly, and is driven out of the body like an exile from a state in which there has been civil war; whence arise diarrhoeas and dysenteries, and all such disorders. When the constitution is disordered by excess of fire, continuous heat and fever are the result; when excess of air is the cause, then the fever is quotidian; when of water, which is a more sluggish element than either fire or air, then the fever is a tertian; when of earth, which is the most sluggish of the four, and is only purged away in a four-fold period, the result is a quartan fever, which can with difficulty be shaken off.


Such is the manner in which diseases of the body arise; the disorders of the soul, which depend upon the body, originate as follows. We must acknowledge disease of the mind to be a want of intelligence; and of this there are two kinds; to wit, madness and ignorance. In whatever state a man experiences either of them, that state may be called disease; and excessive pains and pleasures are justly to be regarded as the greatest diseases to which the soul is liable. For a man who is in great joy or in great pain, in his unseasonable eagerness to attain the one and to avoid the other, is not able to see or to hear anything rightly; but he is mad, and is at the time utterly incapable of any participation in reason. He who has the seed about the spinal marrow too plentiful and overflowing, like a tree overladen with fruit, has many throes, and also obtains many pleasures in his desires and their offspring, and is for the most part of his life deranged, because his pleasures and pains are so very great; his soul is rendered foolish and disordered by his body; yet he is regarded not as one diseased, but as one who is voluntarily bad, which is a mistake. The truth is that the intemperance of love is a disease of the soul due chiefly to the moisture and fluidity which is produced in one of the elements by the loose consistency of the bones. And in general, all that which is termed the incontinence of pleasure and is deemed a reproach under the idea that the wicked voluntarily do wrong is not justly a matter for reproach. For no man is voluntarily bad; but the bad become bad by reason of an ill disposition of the body and bad education, things which are hateful to every man and happen to him