Dialogues

This is an AI modernization of Plato's Dialogues (from the Benjamin Jowett translation) into contemporary English. The original is available from Standard Ebooks.

Contents

The Trial and Death of Socrates

• Euthyphro — On Piety
• Apology — Socrates' Defense
• Crito — On Duty
• Phaedo — On the Soul

Virtue and Knowledge

• Meno — On Virtue
• Protagoras — On the Unity of Virtue

Rhetoric, Love, and Beauty

• Gorgias — On Rhetoric
• Symposium — On Love
• Phaedrus — On Love and Rhetoric

The Republic

• Book I — Justice and the Stronger
• Book II — The Ring of Gyges
• Book III — Education and the Noble Lie
• Book IV — The Tripartite Soul
• Book V — The Three Waves
• Book VI — The Sun and the Divided Line
• Book VII — The Allegory of the Cave
• Book VIII — The Decline of States
• Book IX — The Tyrant's Soul
• Book X — Poetry and the Allegory of Er

The Trial and Death of Socrates

Euthyphro

On Piety

Persons of the dialogue: Socrates Euthyphro

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

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

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

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

Socrates Certainly not.

Euthyphro So someone else is prosecuting you?

Socrates Yes.

Euthyphro And who is he?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Euthyphro I'm the one bringing charges.

Socrates Against whom?

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

Socrates Why — can the defendant fly?

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

Socrates Who is he?

Euthyphro My father.

Socrates Your father! Good heavens!

Euthyphro Yes.

Socrates And what's the charge?

Euthyphro Murder, Socrates.

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

Euthyphro It certainly would, Socrates. Extraordinary progress indeed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Euthyphro Absolutely, Socrates.

Socrates Then what is piety, and what is impiety?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Euthyphro And what I said was true, Socrates.

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

Euthyphro There are.

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

Euthyphro I remember.

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

Euthyphro I'll tell you, if you like.

Socrates I'd like that very much.

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

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

Euthyphro Of course.

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

Euthyphro It is.

Socrates And well said?

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

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

Euthyphro Yes, we said that too.

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

Euthyphro True.

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

Euthyphro Very true.

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

Euthyphro Of course.

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

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

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

Euthyphro They must be.

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

Euthyphro You're quite right.

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

Euthyphro Very true.

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

Euthyphro Very true.

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

Euthyphro True.

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

Euthyphro I suppose so.

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

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

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

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

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

Euthyphro No, they don't go that far.

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

Euthyphro Yes.

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

Euthyphro True.

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

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

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

Euthyphro Quite right.

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

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

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

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

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

Euthyphro Why not, Socrates?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Euthyphro I think so.

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

Euthyphro Of course.

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

Euthyphro No, that's the reason.

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

Euthyphro True.

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

Euthyphro Yes.

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

Euthyphro Yes.

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

Euthyphro Certainly.

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

Euthyphro Yes.

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

Euthyphro No, because it's pious.

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

Euthyphro Yes.

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

Euthyphro Certainly.

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

Euthyphro How do you mean, Socrates?

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

Euthyphro Yes.

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

Euthyphro True.

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

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

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

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

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

Euthyphro Yes.

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

Euthyphro I don't follow you, Socrates.

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

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

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

Euthyphro By all means.

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

Euthyphro Very true.

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

Euthyphro No doubt.

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

Euthyphro Perfectly.

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

Euthyphro No, I think you're quite right.

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

Euthyphro Yes, I agree completely.

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

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

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

Euthyphro Certainly.

Socrates Because horsemanship is the skill of attending to horses?

Euthyphro Yes.

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

Euthyphro True.

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

Euthyphro Yes.

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

Euthyphro Exactly.

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

Euthyphro Yes.

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

Euthyphro True.

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

Euthyphro Certainly not for its harm.

Socrates But for its benefit?

Euthyphro Of course.

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

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

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

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

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

Euthyphro The kind that servants show their masters, Socrates.

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

Euthyphro Exactly.

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

Euthyphro Right.

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

Euthyphro Yes, Socrates — aimed at building a ship.

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

Euthyphro Yes.

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

Euthyphro And I'm telling the truth, Socrates.

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

Euthyphro The gods accomplish many great things, Socrates.

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

Euthyphro Certainly.

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

Euthyphro Exactly.

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

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

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

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

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

Euthyphro Yes, Socrates.

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

Euthyphro You understand me perfectly, Socrates.

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

Euthyphro Yes.

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

Euthyphro Certainly.

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

Euthyphro Very true, Socrates.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Euthyphro Absolutely.

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

Euthyphro I remember perfectly.

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

Euthyphro Yes.

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

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

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

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

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

Apology

Socrates' Defense

THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"There is," he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, I do.

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

The laws.

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

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

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

Absolutely.

All of them? Or only some?

All of them.

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

Yes, they do.

And the members of the Council?

Yes, the Council improves them too.

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

They improve them.

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

That is exactly my claim.

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

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

Of course.

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

Of course not.

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

On purpose, I say.

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

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

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

Yes, that's exactly what I say.

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

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

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

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

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

I swear by Zeus — you believe in none whatsoever.

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

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

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

He cannot.

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

Certainly they are.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crito

On Duty

Persons of the dialogue: Socrates Crito

Scene: The Prison of Socrates, before dawn.

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

Crito Yes, very early.

Socrates What time is it, exactly?

Crito Just before dawn.

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

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

Socrates Did you just get here?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crito What makes you think that?

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

Crito That's what the authorities say, yes.

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

Crito What was the dream?

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

Crito What a strange dream, Socrates.

Socrates But its meaning seems clear enough, I think.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crito Yes, you were right.

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

Crito Yes.

Socrates And the opinions of the foolish are harmful?

Crito Of course.

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

Crito One person only.

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

Crito Obviously.

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

Crito True.

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

Crito He definitely will.

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

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

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

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

Crito There certainly is, Socrates.

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

Crito Right.

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

Crito No, definitely not.

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

Crito Certainly not less important.

Socrates More important?

Crito Far more.

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

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

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

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

Crito It does.

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

Crito Yes.

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

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

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

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

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

Crito I'll try.

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

Crito We hold to it.

Socrates Then we must never do wrong.

Crito Never.

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

Crito Agreed.

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

Crito Surely not, Socrates.

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

Crito It's wrong.

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

Crito Exactly.

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

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

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

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

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

Crito He should honor it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Socrates And then imagine the Laws reply:

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

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

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

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

No, I'd have to say.

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

No, they were right.

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

No.

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

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

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

Crito I think they are.

Socrates Then imagine the Laws continue:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crito We can't, Socrates.

Socrates Then the Laws would say:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crito I have nothing to say, Socrates.

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

Phaedo

On the Soul

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

Setting: The prison of Socrates

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

Phaedo: I was, Echecrates. I was there.

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

Phaedo: You didn't hear about the trial?

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

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

Echecrates: What ship is that?

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

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

Phaedo: No, several of them were with him.

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

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

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

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

Echecrates: Yes.

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

Echecrates: Who was there?

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

Echecrates: Were there any foreigners?

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

Echecrates: What about Aristippus and Cleombrotus?

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

Echecrates: Anyone else?

Phaedo: I think that's nearly everyone.

Echecrates: Well then, what did you talk about?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Socrates: Why -- isn't Evenus a philosopher?

Simmias: I think he is.

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

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

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

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

Cebes: Yes, but what he said was obscure.

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

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

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

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

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

Cebes: Yes, I do.

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

Cebes: Certainly.

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

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

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

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

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

Simmias: We'd like that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Socrates: Never mind him.

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

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

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

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

Simmias: Of course.

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

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

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

Simmias: Certainly not.

Socrates: What about the pleasures of sex?

Simmias: Not at all.

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

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

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

Simmias: That's true.

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

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

Simmias: That's very true.

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

Simmias: Yes, you're right.

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

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

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

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

Simmias: That's true.

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

Simmias: Absolutely, yes.

Socrates: And absolute beauty? And absolute good?

Simmias: Of course.

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

Simmias: Certainly not.

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

Simmias: Yes, that's right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simmias: Without a doubt, Socrates.

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

Simmias: Certainly.

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

Simmias: Yes, exactly.

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

Simmias: It is.

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

Simmias: It is.

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

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

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

Simmias: It really would.

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

Simmias: Exactly right.

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

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

Simmias: It must.

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

Simmias: How so?

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

Simmias: Very much so.

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

Simmias: That's true.

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

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

Simmias: That does seem to be the case.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cebes: Very true.

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

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

Cebes: Right.

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

Cebes: Yes.

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

Cebes: Certainly.

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

Cebes: Yes.

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

Cebes: We are.

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

Cebes: Yes.

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

Cebes: Very true.

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

Cebes: There is.

Socrates: What is it?

Cebes: Death.

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

Cebes: Of course.

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

Cebes: Entirely.

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

Cebes: It is.

Socrates: And they're generated from each other?

Cebes: Yes.

Socrates: What is generated from the living?

Cebes: The dead.

Socrates: And what from the dead?

Cebes: I can only say -- the living.

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

Cebes: That's clear.

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

Cebes: So it seems.

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

Cebes: Yes.

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

Cebes: Absolutely.

Socrates: And what is that process?

Cebes: Coming back to life.

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

Cebes: Quite right.

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

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

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

Cebes: What do you mean?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simmias: Yes.

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

Simmias: What do you mean?

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

Simmias: Right.

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

Simmias: Endless, absolutely.

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

Simmias: Very true.

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

Simmias: Certainly.

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

Simmias: Yes.

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

Simmias: It can.

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

Simmias: Yes, it does.

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

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

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

Simmias: Certainly.

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

Simmias: Definitely.

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

Simmias: Impossible, Socrates.

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

Simmias: Clearly not.

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

Simmias: That's very true.

Socrates: Whether equal things are like or unlike it?

Simmias: Yes.

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

Simmias: Right.

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

Simmias: They fall far short.

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

Simmias: That's necessary.

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

Simmias: Exactly.

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

Simmias: That's right.

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

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

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

Simmias: Yes.

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

Simmias: That follows from everything we've said.

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

Simmias: Of course.

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

Simmias: So it seems.

Socrates: That is, before we were born.

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

Simmias: That's right.

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

Simmias: Exactly, Socrates.

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

Simmias: Certainly.

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

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

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

Simmias: I can't decide right now.

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

Simmias: They'd have to be able to.

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

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

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

Simmias: Certainly not.

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

Simmias: It must be so.

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

Simmias: No.

Socrates: Then before that?

Simmias: Yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cebes: Very true.

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

Cebes: Yes, I'd think so.

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

Cebes: I agree.

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

Cebes: They must always be the same, Socrates.

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

Cebes: The latter. They're always changing.

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

Cebes: That's very true.

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

Cebes: Agreed.

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

Cebes: Let's accept that.

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

Cebes: Certainly.

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

Cebes: Obviously the visible.

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

Cebes: Not visible to humans, at any rate.

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

Cebes: Yes.

Socrates: Then the soul is invisible?

Cebes: Yes.

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

Cebes: That follows necessarily, Socrates.

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

Cebes: Yes.

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

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

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

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

Socrates: And the body is more like the changing?

Cebes: Yes.

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

Cebes: Yes.

Socrates: And which does the soul resemble?

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

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

Cebes: No.

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

Cebes: Of course.

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

Cebes: Yes.

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

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

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

Cebes: Yes, beyond any doubt.

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

Cebes: Impossible.

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

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

Cebes: That seems very likely, Socrates.

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

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

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

Cebes: That seems very likely.

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

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

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

Cebes: Not hard at all.

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

Cebes: Why are they the happiest?

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

Cebes: Very likely.

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

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

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

Cebes: What do you mean?

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

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

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

Cebes: What evil is that, Socrates?

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

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

Cebes: How so?

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

Cebes: That is so true, Socrates.

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

Cebes: Certainly not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Echecrates: What happened next?

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

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

Phaedo: Yes, Socrates, I suppose they will.

Socrates: Not if you take my advice.

Phaedo: What should I do with them?

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

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

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

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

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

Phaedo: Careful about what?

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

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

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

What do you mean? I said.

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

Yes, I said, I have.

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

Yes, that seems likely, I said.

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

That's absolutely right, I said.

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

Yes, that really would be tragic, I said.

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

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

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

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

They both agreed that was a fair summary.

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

Only part of it, they replied.

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

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

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

Never, Socrates.

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

It can't, Simmias replied.

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

There ought to be, Simmias replied.

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

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

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

Certainly not.

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

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

He agreed.

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

That would be impossible, he replied.

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

I don't follow, he said.

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

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

Not in the slightest.

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

Yes, truthfully.

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

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

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

That's right.

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

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

Yes, equal harmony.

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

Right.

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

She doesn't.

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

Not at all.

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

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

How could she, if the argument holds?

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

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

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

It can't be true.

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

No, I really can't.

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

Very true.

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

That's right, he replied.

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

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

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

Yes, Socrates, I completely agree.

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

True, he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, said Cebes, I think so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, said Cebes, I really don't.

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

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

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

Yes, he said, I agree.

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

I do.

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

True.

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

I certainly would, said Cebes, laughing.

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

Absolutely, he said.

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

True.

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

That's right.

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

Simmias agreed.

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

That, replied Cebes, is exactly my view.

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

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

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

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

Completely agreed, he replied.

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

Yes.

But are they the same things as fire and snow?

Absolutely not.

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

Yes.

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

Absolutely.

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

That's true, he said.

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

Yes.

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

Of course, he said.

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

Absolutely, said Cebes.

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

No.

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

Very true, he said.

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

By all means.

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

What do you mean?

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

Certainly.

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

No.

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

Yes.

And the opposite of odd is even?

Yes.

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

Never.

So three has no share in the even?

None.

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

Yes.

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

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

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

Yes, he said, I understand you perfectly.

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

The soul, he replied.

And is this always the case?

Yes, of course, he said.

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

Yes, certainly.

And is there an opposite to life?

There is.

What is it?

Death.

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

Impossible, said Cebes.

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

The odd.

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

The unmusical, he said, and the unjust.

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

The immortal, he said.

And does the soul accept death?

No.

Then the soul is immortal?

Yes, he said.

And can we say this has been proven?

Yes, abundantly proven, Socrates.

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

Of course.

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

True, he said.

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

Certainly, he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She absolutely must.

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

Yes.

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

That will be enough, said Simmias.

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

Which certainly seems right, said Simmias.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

Socrates looked after him and said: I return your kind wishes, and I'll do as you ask.

Then turning to us, he said: What a good man. The whole time I've been in prison, he's been coming to visit me, talking with me sometimes, being as kind as anyone could be. And now, look how generously he weeps for me. Come, Crito, let's do as he says. Have the cup brought in, if the poison is ready. If not, have someone prepare it.

But Socrates, said Crito, the sun is still on the hilltops. I know that many men have taken the poison quite late — they've had the announcement made and then gone on to eat and drink and even spend time with those they love. Don't rush. There's still time.

Socrates said: The men you're talking about have their reasons, Crito, and they're right to act that way — they think they have something to gain from the delay. But I have my reasons for not following their example. I don't think I'd gain anything by drinking the poison a little later. I'd only make myself ridiculous in my own eyes, clinging to a life that's already over. Please — do as I ask. Don't refuse me.

Crito nodded to the servant standing nearby. The servant went out, and after some time returned with the jailer, who was carrying the cup of poison.

Socrates said: You, my good man — you're experienced in these things. Tell me what I need to do.

The man answered: Just walk around until your legs feel heavy. Then lie down, and the poison will do its work.

And he held out the cup to Socrates.

And Socrates — in the most calm and gentle manner, Echecrates, without the slightest tremor of fear, without the least change of color or expression — looking at the man with those wide, steady eyes of his, the way he always did — took the cup and said:

What do you say about pouring a libation from this cup to some god? Is that allowed, or not?

We only prepare as much as we think is the right dose, Socrates, the man replied.

I understand, Socrates said. But surely I may — and must — pray to the gods that my journey from this world to the next will be a fortunate one. That is my prayer. May it be so.

Then he raised the cup to his lips, and with perfect composure, with perfect cheerfulness, he drank it off.

Up to this point, most of us had managed to hold back our grief. But when we saw him drinking — when we saw that he had actually finished — we couldn't hold on any longer. My own tears came pouring down, despite everything I could do. I covered my face and wept — not for him, but for myself, for my own loss, for the friend I was about to lose. Crito had already gotten up and moved away because he couldn't control his tears. And Apollodorus — who had been crying the entire time — now broke into a loud, anguished cry that shattered every last one of us.

Socrates alone kept his composure. What is this? he said. What is this strange outcry? I sent the women away precisely so they wouldn't behave like this. I've always heard that a person should die in peace. Be still now. Have patience.

When we heard him say this, we were ashamed, and we held back our tears.

He walked around for a while, until, as he said, his legs began to feel heavy. Then he lay down on his back, as the man had directed. The man who had given him the poison checked on him from time to time, pressing his feet, then his legs, moving upward, asking if he could feel anything. He said no. Then the man pressed higher — his shins, his knees — and showed us that he was growing cold and stiff.

Socrates felt his own legs and said: When the poison reaches my heart, that will be the end.

He was growing cold up to his waist when he pulled the cloth from his face — he had covered himself — and spoke his last words.

Crito, he said, we owe a cock to Asclepius. Pay it, and don't forget.

The debt shall be paid, said Crito. Is there anything else?

There was no answer.

A moment later there was a slight movement. The attendants uncovered him. His eyes were fixed. Crito reached over and closed his eyes and his mouth.

***

Such was the end, Echecrates, of our friend — a man of whom I may truly say that of all the people I have ever known, he was the wisest, the most just, and the best.

Virtue and Knowledge

Meno

On Virtue

Persons of the dialogue: Meno Socrates A Slave of Meno (Boy) Anytus

Meno Can you tell me, Socrates -- is virtue something you can teach? Or do you get it through practice? Or does it come naturally, or in some other way entirely?

Socrates There was a time, Meno, when the Thessalians were famous among the Greeks only for their wealth and their horsemanship. But now, unless I'm mistaken, they're equally famous for their wisdom -- especially in Larisa, your friend Aristippus's hometown. And you have Gorgias to thank for that. When he arrived there, the cream of the Aleuadae fell in love with his brilliance -- your admirer Aristippus among them, along with the other leading men of Thessaly. He taught you all the habit of answering questions with confidence and flair, the way someone answers when they actually know what they're talking about. That's exactly how he handles questions himself -- any Greek who wants to can walk up and ask him anything at all.

How different things are here in Athens! My dear Meno, there's been a real drought of that kind of thing. All the wisdom seems to have packed up and moved to your part of the world. If you asked any Athenian whether virtue was natural or taught, he'd laugh in your face and say: "Friend, you've got far too high an opinion of me if you think I can answer that. I don't even know what virtue is, let alone whether it can be taught."

And I'm in the same boat, Meno. Living here in this intellectual wasteland, I'm as poor in wisdom as everyone else. I'm ashamed to say it, but I literally know nothing about virtue. And when I don't know what something is, how could I possibly know what it's like? If I knew absolutely nothing about you, Meno -- nothing at all -- how could I tell whether you were handsome or plain, rich or poor, well-born or not? Could I?

Meno No, I suppose not. But are you serious, Socrates? You really don't know what virtue is? Am I supposed to bring this report back to Thessaly?

Socrates Not only that, my friend, but you can add that I've never met anyone else who knows either, as far as I can tell.

Meno Really? You never met Gorgias when he was in Athens?

Socrates Yes, I did.

Meno And you didn't think he knew?

Socrates My memory isn't great, Meno, so I can't quite recall what I thought of him at the time. Maybe he did know. And I expect you know what he said. So please, remind me of his answer -- or better yet, just give me yours. I suspect you and he think pretty much alike.

Meno That's true.

Socrates Well, since he's not here, forget about him. Tell me yourself. By the gods, Meno, be generous and tell me what you think virtue is. I'd be absolutely delighted to discover that I was wrong -- that you and Gorgias really do have this knowledge, when I'd just been saying I've never found anyone who does.

Meno That won't be hard at all, Socrates. Take the virtue of a man first -- that's easy. A man's virtue is knowing how to manage public affairs, and in doing so to help his friends and harm his enemies, while being careful not to come to harm himself. A woman's virtue? Also easy to describe: she should run the household well, look after what's inside, and obey her husband. Then there's the virtue of a child, of an old person, of a free man, of a slave -- each one is different. There are countless virtues, and there's no shortage of ways to define them. Virtue depends on the particular actions and stage of life of each of us in everything we do. And the same goes for vice, Socrates.

Socrates What luck I'm having, Meno! I ask you for one virtue, and you hand me a whole swarm of them. And speaking of swarms -- let me run with that image. Suppose I asked you: "What is the nature of the bee?" And you answered: "There are many different kinds of bees." Then I'd ask: "But do bees differ as bees? Or is the difference really about something else -- their beauty, their size, their shape? What would make them different? What would make them the same?" How would you answer that?

Meno I'd say that bees don't differ from each other insofar as they're bees.

Socrates And if I followed up: "That's exactly what I want to know, Meno -- tell me what that quality is, the one in which they don't differ but are all alike" -- could you tell me?

Meno I could.

Socrates The same goes for the virtues. However many and different they may be, they all share some common nature that makes them virtues. Anyone who wants to answer the question "What is virtue?" would be wise to keep their eye on that common nature. Do you follow me?

Meno I'm starting to understand, but I don't quite have a grip on the question the way I'd like.

Socrates When you say there's one virtue for a man, another for a woman, another for a child, and so on -- does this only apply to virtue? Would you say the same about health and size and strength? Is health different in a man and a woman, or is health the same in both?

Meno I'd say health is the same in both men and women.

Socrates And size and strength? If a woman is strong, she's strong because of the same quality -- the same strength -- that exists in a man. I mean that strength, as strength, is the same whether it belongs to a man or a woman. Do you see any difference?

Meno I don't.

Socrates And won't virtue, as virtue, be the same whether it's in a child, a grown-up, a woman, or a man?

Meno I can't help feeling, Socrates, that this case is somehow different from the others.

Socrates How so? Didn't you just say that a man's virtue is managing the state, and a woman's is managing the house?

Meno I did.

Socrates And can you manage a state or a house or anything else well without self-discipline and justice?

Meno Certainly not.

Socrates And those who manage a state or a house well -- they do it with self-discipline and justice?

Meno Of course.

Socrates Then both men and women, if they're going to be good, need the same virtues of self-discipline and justice?

Meno So it seems.

Socrates And can a young person or an old person be good while being undisciplined and unjust?

Meno They can't.

Socrates They have to be disciplined and just?

Meno Yes.

Socrates So everyone is good in the same way -- by sharing in the same virtues?

Meno That's the logical conclusion.

Socrates And they wouldn't be good in the same way unless their virtue was the same?

Meno They wouldn't.

Socrates Good. Now that we've established that all virtue is fundamentally the same, try to remember what you and Gorgias say virtue actually is.

Meno You want a single definition that covers them all?

Socrates That's exactly what I'm after.

Meno Well, if you want one definition for all of them, I'd have to say that virtue is the power to govern people.

Socrates And does this definition cover all virtue? Is virtue the same in a child and a slave, Meno? Can a child govern his father? Can a slave govern his master? And if a slave governed, would he still be a slave?

Meno I don't think so, Socrates.

Socrates No, that doesn't quite work, does it? But let me push on, my friend. According to you, virtue is "the power of governing." But shouldn't you add -- "justly, not unjustly"?

Meno Yes, Socrates, I agree. Justice is virtue, after all.

Socrates Would you say justice is virtue, or a virtue?

Meno What do you mean?

Socrates I mean the same distinction we'd make about anything. I'd say that roundness, for example, is "a shape" and not just "shape" -- because there are other shapes too.

Meno Fair point. That's exactly what I'm saying about virtue -- there are other virtues besides justice.

Socrates What are they? Name them for me, the way I'd name other shapes if you asked.

Meno Courage, self-discipline, wisdom, generosity -- there are virtues, and plenty of them.

Socrates And here we are again, Meno. We went looking for one virtue and found a whole swarm -- just in a different way than before. We still can't find the one common thread that runs through them all.

Meno I know. I just can't seem to get a handle on a single, unifying concept of virtue the way I can with other things.

Socrates No wonder. But I'll try to get us closer, if I can. You understand that this applies to everything, right? Suppose someone asked you the question I just raised: "Meno, what is shape?" And if you answered "roundness," he'd say: "Is roundness shape, or a shape?" And you'd have to say "a shape."

Meno Certainly.

Socrates Because there are other shapes?

Meno Yes.

Socrates And if he asked what those other shapes are, you'd tell him?

Meno I would.

Socrates And if he asked about color in the same way, and you answered "whiteness," and he asked "Is whiteness color, or a color?" -- you'd say "a color," because there are other colors too?

Meno I would.

Socrates And if he said "Tell me what they are" -- you'd name other colors that are just as much colors as whiteness?

Meno Yes.

Socrates Now suppose he pushed the question the way I do. He'd say: "We keep landing on specific examples, but that's not what I want. Since you use the word 'shape' as a common name that covers them all -- round and straight alike, and everything in between -- tell me: what is that common nature you're calling 'shape'? What includes the straight and the round, and is no more one than the other?" That's the kind of question you'd face, right?

Meno Yes.

Socrates And in asking it, you wouldn't mean that the round is round any more than it's straight, or that the straight is straight any more than it's round?

Meno Of course not.

Socrates You'd only be saying that roundness is no more "shape" than straightness is?

Meno Exactly right.

Socrates So what do we actually call "shape"? Try to answer. Suppose that when someone asked you this question about shape or color, you said: "Look, I don't understand what you want." They'd probably stare at you and say: "You don't understand that I'm looking for what's common to all these cases?" If they put it another way: "Meno, what is this thing you call 'shape' that includes round and straight and everything else?" -- could you answer that? Give it a try. It'll be good practice for answering the question about virtue.

Meno I'd rather you answered, Socrates.

Socrates You want me to indulge you?

Meno Absolutely.

Socrates And then you'll tell me about virtue?

Meno I will.

Socrates Then I'd better give it my best shot -- there's a prize to be won.

Meno Certainly.

Socrates All right, I'll try to explain what shape is. How about this: shape is the only thing that always accompanies color. Does that work for you? I'd certainly be happy with an answer like that about virtue.

Meno But Socrates, that's such a simple answer.

Socrates Why simple?

Meno Because according to you, shape is "whatever always accompanies color."

Socrates Granted.

Meno But what if someone said they don't know what color is, any more than what shape is? What kind of answer would that be?

Socrates An honest one, I think. And if the person asking were one of those combative debaters -- the eristic types who just want to win arguments -- I'd say: "There's my answer. If it's wrong, that's your job to show me." But if we were friends, talking the way you and I are now, I'd answer more gently, in a more genuinely philosophical way. That means I'd not only speak the truth, but I'd build my answer from things we both already agree on.

That's the approach I'll take with you. You'd agree, wouldn't you, that there's such a thing as a boundary, or an edge, or a limit? I'm using all these words to mean the same thing. Prodicus might insist on fine distinctions between them, but I'm sure you understand what I mean by "where something ends."

Meno Yes, I think I understand you.

Socrates And you'd agree there are things like surfaces and solids -- like in geometry?

Meno Yes.

Socrates Then you're ready for my definition. Here it is: I define shape as that in which a solid ends. Or more concisely -- shape is the limit of a solid.

Meno All right, Socrates, now tell me: what is color?

Socrates You're outrageous, Meno! Pestering a poor old man to answer your questions when you won't bother to recall what Gorgias says about virtue!

Meno Once you've answered my question, I'll answer yours, Socrates.

Socrates A blindfolded man would only have to hear you talking to know that you're good-looking and still have plenty of admirers.

Meno Oh? Why do you say that?

Socrates Because you always talk in commands -- like beautiful people do when they're in their prime. You're a tyrant! And I suspect you've figured out that I have a weakness for good-looking people, so I'll give in to please you.

Meno Please do.

Socrates Want me to answer in the style of Gorgias? That's what you're most familiar with.

Meno I'd like nothing better.

Socrates Don't you and Gorgias and Empedocles say that there are certain emanations flowing off everything that exists?

Meno Definitely.

Socrates And that there are channels through which these emanations travel?

Meno Exactly.

Socrates And that some of these emanations fit perfectly into the channels, while others are too small or too large?

Meno True.

Socrates And there's such a thing as sight?

Meno Yes.

Socrates Then, as Pindar says, "read my meaning": color is an emanation from shapes that fits the channels of sight and is perceivable by the senses.

Meno That, Socrates, strikes me as an excellent answer.

Socrates Well, it probably appeals to you because it's the kind of answer you're used to hearing. And I'm sure your sharp mind has already noticed you could use the same approach to explain sound and smell and plenty of other similar things.

Meno Quite true.

Socrates It's a grand, theatrical kind of answer, Meno, which is why you like it better than my definition of shape.

Meno Yes, I do.

Socrates And yet, my friend, I can't help thinking the other one was better. And I'm sure you'd agree, if you didn't have to rush off -- you mentioned yesterday you need to leave before the mysteries begin. If you could stay and be initiated, I think you'd come around.

Meno I'd stay gladly, Socrates, if you'd give me many more answers like that one.

Socrates Well, for your sake and mine, I'll do my very best -- though I'm afraid I won't be able to keep up that standard for long. But now it's your turn to fulfill your promise. Tell me what virtue is, in the universal -- give me the one thing, not a plural. Don't break it into pieces. As the jokers say when someone shatters a vase -- don't do that to virtue. Deliver it to me whole and intact. I've given you the pattern to follow.

Meno All right, Socrates. Virtue, as I see it, is this: to desire what's fine and noble and to have the power to get it. As the poet says, and I agree:

"Virtue is the desire of noble things and the power to attain them."

Socrates And does someone who desires noble things also desire good things?

Meno Of course.

Socrates Then are there some people who desire evil, while others desire good? Don't all people desire what's good, my friend?

Meno I don't think so.

Socrates There are some who desire evil?

Meno Yes.

Socrates Do you mean they think the evil things they desire are actually good? Or do they know those things are evil and desire them anyway?

Meno Both, I think.

Socrates You really think someone can know something is evil and desire it anyway?

Meno I certainly do.

Socrates And to desire is to want to possess?

Meno Yes, to possess.

Socrates And does this person think the evil things will benefit him, or does he know they'll harm him?

Meno Some people think evil things will benefit them. Others know the evil things will harm them.

Socrates And in your view, the ones who think evil things will benefit them -- do they actually know those things are evil?

Meno Certainly not.

Socrates Then isn't it obvious? Those people don't desire evil at all. They don't even know it's evil. They desire what they believe is good, even though it turns out to be evil. They're mistaken about what's good, but what they actually desire is good things -- right?

Meno Yes, I suppose so, in that case.

Socrates Now what about the other group -- the ones who, as you say, desire evil things and know perfectly well that those things will harm whoever possesses them? They must also know they themselves will be harmed by these things?

Meno They must.

Socrates And don't they realize that people who are harmed are miserable, in proportion to the harm?

Meno How could they not?

Socrates And that the miserable are unfortunate?

Meno Yes, definitely.

Socrates And does anyone actually want to be miserable and unfortunate?

Meno I'd say no, Socrates.

Socrates Then if no one wants to be miserable, no one desires evil -- because what is misery but desiring and possessing evil things?

Meno You seem to be right, Socrates. I'll admit it: nobody desires evil.

Socrates Now, weren't you just saying that virtue is desiring good things and having the power to get them?

Meno Yes, I said that.

Socrates Well, if the desiring part is universal -- if everyone desires good things -- then one person is no better than another in that respect, right?

Meno True.

Socrates So if one person is more virtuous than another, it can't be because they desire good things more. It must be because they're better at getting them?

Meno Exactly.

Socrates Then by your definition, virtue is simply the power to get good things?

Meno I entirely approve of the way you're looking at this now, Socrates.

Socrates Good. Let's see whether you're right. You might well be. You say virtue is the power to acquire good things?

Meno Yes.

Socrates And by "good things" you mean things like health, wealth, gold and silver, political office, and honors -- that sort of thing?

Meno Yes, I'd include all of those.

Socrates So according to Meno -- hereditary friend of the Great King of Persia, no less -- virtue is the power to get gold and silver. But would you add that you have to get them piously and justly? Or doesn't it matter how you get them? Is getting them dishonestly just as much "virtue" as getting them fairly?

Meno Of course not, Socrates. That would be vice, not virtue.

Socrates So justice or self-discipline or piety -- some part of virtue -- has to accompany the getting. Without those, the mere acquisition of good things isn't virtue.

Meno How could there be virtue without them?

Socrates And choosing not to acquire gold and silver dishonestly -- whether for yourself or someone else -- that kind of restraint can also be virtue?

Meno True.

Socrates So it turns out that acquiring good things is no more virtue than not acquiring them. What makes the difference is whether justice and honesty are present. Without justice, it's vice.

Meno I think that has to be right.

Socrates But didn't we say just a moment ago that justice, self-discipline, and the rest are each a part of virtue?

Meno Yes.

Socrates So, Meno -- you're making fun of me.

Meno Why do you say that, Socrates?

Socrates Because I asked you to give me virtue whole and unbroken. I gave you a pattern to follow. And what did you do? You forgot already! You told me virtue is the power to acquire good things justly -- and you yourself admit that justice is a part of virtue.

Meno Yes, that's what I said.

Socrates So it follows from your own words that virtue is doing what you do with a part of virtue. You've used justice -- a part of virtue -- to define virtue itself.

Meno So what?

Socrates So what? Let me spell it out. I asked you to tell me what virtue is as a whole. And instead of telling me that, you say every action done with a part of virtue counts as virtue -- as if you'd already told me what the whole of virtue is, and I should just know. So I'm afraid, my dear Meno, that I have to ask the same question all over again: What is virtue? Because at the moment, all you've told me is that every action done with justice is virtue -- which just brings us back to: What is virtue? Or do you think someone who doesn't know what virtue is can know what a part of virtue is?

Meno No, I don't think so.

Socrates Remember how, in our discussion of shape, we agreed you can't define something using terms that haven't been explained yet?

Meno Yes, Socrates, and we were right to reject that.

Socrates Then, my friend, don't try to explain what virtue is through some unexplained part of virtue. That would just force us to ask the same question again: What is virtue? Am I right?

Meno I think you are.

Socrates Then start over. What do you and your friend Gorgias say virtue is?

Meno Oh, Socrates, before I met you, people used to tell me that you were always in a state of confusion yourself and that you made everyone around you confused too. And now I see it's true -- you're casting some kind of spell over me. I'm completely bewitched and enchanted, and I've lost my bearings entirely. If you'll forgive me a little joke: you remind me, both in your looks and in the effect you have on people, of that flat torpedo fish -- the one that numbs anyone who comes near it and touches it. That's what you've done to me. My mind and my tongue are truly numb. I don't know how to answer you. And the thing is, I've given countless speeches about virtue before -- to large audiences -- and very good ones, I thought. But right now, I can't even say what virtue is. I think you're very wise not to travel abroad, by the way. If you did this in other cities, they'd throw you in prison as a sorcerer.

Socrates You're a rogue, Meno. You almost had me.

Meno What do you mean, Socrates?

Socrates I can see why you made that comparison about me.

Meno Why?

Socrates So I'd make a flattering comparison back about you. I know how handsome young men work -- they love having pretty images made of them, and why shouldn't they? But I won't return the favor. As for the torpedo fish comparison -- if the torpedo fish is itself numb while it numbs others, then sure, I'm like a torpedo fish. But otherwise, no. I don't confuse people because I have everything figured out myself. I confuse them because I'm genuinely confused. Right now, for instance, I have no idea what virtue is. And you, who maybe knew before you touched me, seem to be in the same fix now. Still, I'm happy to join you in investigating the question.

Meno But how will you investigate something you don't know at all, Socrates? What will you even be looking for? And if you stumble onto it, how would you recognize it as the thing you didn't know?

Socrates I see what you're getting at, Meno. It's a clever puzzle, but look at what a dead-end argument you're pushing. You're saying a person can't investigate what they know -- because they already know it and don't need to investigate. And they can't investigate what they don't know -- because they don't even know what to look for. So investigation is impossible.

Meno Well, doesn't that argument make sense, Socrates?

Socrates I don't think so.

Meno Why not?

Socrates I'll tell you why. I've heard from certain wise men and women who have studied divine things --

Meno What did they say?

Socrates Something glorious and true, I believe.

Meno What was it? Who were they?

Socrates Some were priests and priestesses -- the kind who take the trouble to understand the reasons behind what they do. And there have been poets who spoke with divine inspiration -- Pindar and many others.

Here's what they say -- and pay attention, see whether their words ring true: The soul is immortal. It comes to an end -- what we call "dying" -- and then it's born again, but it's never destroyed. And so we should live as righteously as possible. For as Pindar writes: "In the ninth year, Persephone sends the souls of those who have paid the penalty for ancient wrongs back up from the underworld into the sunlight above, and from them spring noble kings and swift warriors and the greatest in wisdom, and ever after they are called holy heroes among humankind."

The soul, then, being immortal and having been born many times over, has seen everything -- both in this world and in the world below -- and has learned it all. So it's no surprise that the soul can remember what it once knew about virtue, and about everything else. Since all of nature is connected, and the soul has learned all things, there's nothing to stop someone who remembers just one thing -- what we call "learning" -- from recovering all the rest, as long as they're determined and don't give up. Because all learning, all investigation, is really just remembering.

So we shouldn't listen to that clever argument of yours about the impossibility of searching for knowledge. It would make us lazy -- and it's the kind of thing that only appeals to people who don't want to make the effort. My view is the opposite: believing we should search for what we don't know makes us better, braver, and more resourceful. That's a principle I'm prepared to fight for, in word and in deed.

Meno That's well said, Socrates. But what exactly do you mean when you say we don't learn -- that what we call learning is actually a process of recollection? Can you show me how that works?

Socrates I just called you a rogue, Meno, and here you go again -- asking me to teach you, when I've just said there's no such thing as teaching, only recollection. You're trying to catch me in a contradiction.

Meno Honestly, Socrates, I didn't mean to trick you. I just asked out of habit. But if you can actually demonstrate what you're saying, I'd really like to see it.

Socrates It won't be easy, but I'll try to show you. Call over one of your servants -- any one of them -- and I'll demonstrate using him.

Meno Certainly. Come here, boy.

Socrates He speaks Greek, doesn't he?

Meno Oh yes. He was born and raised in my household.

Socrates Good. Now pay close attention to my questions, Meno, and watch whether this boy learns something from me -- or merely remembers it.

Meno I'm watching.

Socrates Tell me, boy -- do you know what a square is? A figure like this?

Boy I do.

Socrates So a square has four sides, all equal?

Boy Yes.

Socrates And these lines I've drawn through the middle -- they're equal too?

Boy Yes.

Socrates A square can be any size, right?

Boy Sure.

Socrates Now, if one side is two feet long, and the other side is also two feet long, how big is the whole square? Let me put it this way: if it were two feet in one direction and only one foot in the other, the area would be two square feet -- two times one. Right?

Boy Yes.

Socrates But since this side is also two feet, we have two times two?

Boy Right.

Socrates So the area is two times two?

Boy Yes.

Socrates And how much is two times two? Count it out for me.

Boy Four, Socrates.

Socrates Good. Now, could there be another square that's twice as large as this one, with all its sides equal, just like this one?

Boy Yes.

Socrates And how many square feet would that be?

Boy Eight.

Socrates Now here's the key question: how long would each side of that eight-square-foot square be? This square here has sides of two feet. What would the sides of the double square be?

Boy Obviously, Socrates -- it'll be double. Four feet.

Socrates You hear that, Meno? I'm not teaching him anything. I'm only asking questions. And right now he thinks he knows the length of the side that produces an eight-square-foot figure. Doesn't he?

Meno He does.

Socrates But does he actually know?

Meno Certainly not.

Socrates He's just guessing that because the square is double, the side must be double.

Meno True.

Socrates Now watch as he works through this step by step.

[To the Boy] Tell me, boy -- you say that doubling the side gives you double the area? Remember, I'm not talking about a rectangle. I mean a square -- equal on all sides -- that's twice the size of our four-square-foot square. That would be eight square feet. You still think doubling the side does that?

Boy Yes.

Socrates All right. If we take our two-foot side and add another two feet to it, we get a four-foot side, right?

Boy Yes.

Socrates And with four such sides, we get a square of eight square feet?

Boy Yes.

Socrates Let me draw this figure. Now -- look at it. Don't we have four smaller squares inside it, each one equal to our original four-square-foot square?

Boy Yes.

Socrates So how big is the whole thing? Isn't it four times the original?

Boy It has to be.

Socrates And is four times the same as double?

Boy No way.

Socrates Then how many times bigger is it?

Boy Four times bigger.

Socrates So, boy, doubling the side didn't give us double the area. It gave us four times the area.

Boy That's true.

Socrates Because four times four is sixteen. Right?

Boy Yes.

Socrates Then what length side would give us eight square feet? The four-foot side gave us sixteen. Do you see the problem?

Boy Yes.

Socrates And our original two-foot side gave us four square feet?

Boy Yes.

Socrates And eight square feet is bigger than four but smaller than sixteen?

Boy Definitely.

Socrates So the side we need must be longer than two feet but shorter than four?

Boy It must be.

Socrates Good -- I like hearing you say what you think. Now tell me: how long do you think it is?

Boy Three feet.

Socrates All right, if the side is three feet, let's see what happens. We take our two-foot side and add half of it -- one foot -- to get three feet. Here's two, and here's the extra one. And on this side, same thing -- two feet plus one foot. So we have a square that's three feet on each side. Yes?

Boy Yes.

Socrates And if it's three feet this way and three feet that way, the total area is three times three?

Boy Obviously.

Socrates And three times three is?

Boy Nine.

Socrates But what did we need? What's double four?

Boy Eight.

Socrates So a three-foot side gives us nine, not eight?

Boy No, it doesn't work.

Socrates Then what side gives us eight? Tell me exactly. If you'd rather not calculate, just point to the line.

Boy Honestly, Socrates, I don't know.

Socrates Now do you see what's happening, Meno? Look at the progress this boy has made in recollection. At first, he didn't know the side of the eight-square-foot square -- and he still doesn't. But back then he was confident he knew, and he answered without any hesitation. He felt no confusion at all. Now he does feel confused. He doesn't know the answer, and he no longer thinks he does.

Meno That's true.

Socrates Isn't he better off now, knowing what he doesn't know?

Meno I think he is.

Socrates And when we made him doubt and gave him "the torpedo's shock" -- did we do him any harm?

Meno I don't think so.

Socrates In fact, we've moved him closer to discovering the truth. Before, he would've happily told anyone who'd listen that a double square requires a double side. Now he actually wants to find the real answer -- because he realizes he doesn't have it.

Meno True.

Socrates Do you think he would have ever tried to investigate or learn what he thought he already knew? He had to first fall into confusion -- had to realize he didn't know -- before he could feel any desire to actually find out.

Meno I don't think so, Socrates.

Socrates So the torpedo's shock did him good?

Meno I think it did.

Socrates Now watch what happens next. I'm going to ask him questions -- nothing more. I won't teach him a thing. Watch carefully: see if you can catch me explaining or telling him anything, rather than simply drawing out his own ideas.

[To the Boy] Tell me, boy -- this is a square of four square feet, right? This figure I've drawn?

Boy Yes.

Socrates And I can add another square right next to it, the same size?

Boy Yes.

Socrates And a third one here, the same size as each of the other two?

Boy Yes.

Socrates And we can fill in this corner with a fourth?

Boy Sure.

Socrates So now we have four equal squares?

Boy Yes.

Socrates And how many times bigger is this whole figure compared to the original square?

Boy Four times.

Socrates But we needed it to be only twice as big, remember?

Boy Right.

Socrates Now -- doesn't this diagonal line, going from corner to corner, cut each of these four squares exactly in half?

Boy Yes.

Socrates And don't these four diagonals form a new square right here in the middle -- a square sitting on its point, contained by these four equal lines?

Boy Yes.

Socrates Now look carefully. How big is this inner square?

Boy I'm not sure I see it.

Socrates Think about it. Each diagonal cuts one of the four-square-foot squares in half, right?

Boy Yes.

Socrates And how many of these half-squares make up the inner figure?

Boy Four.

Socrates And how many make up the original small square?

Boy Two.

Socrates And four is how many times two?

Boy Twice.

Socrates So how many square feet is this inner square?

Boy Eight!

Socrates And what line produced this figure?

Boy This one -- the diagonal.

Socrates That's right. The line that goes from corner to corner of the four-square-foot square. The experts call it the diagonal. And if that's its name, then you, Meno's boy, are prepared to say that the double square is the square built on the diagonal?

Boy Absolutely, Socrates.

Socrates What do you say, Meno? Did that boy give a single answer that wasn't his own?

Meno No -- every answer came from him.

Socrates And yet, as we said earlier, he didn't know?

Meno True.

Socrates But these ideas were in him all along, weren't they?

Meno Yes.

Socrates So someone who doesn't know a thing can still have true ideas about it?

Meno Apparently so.

Socrates Right now these ideas have been stirred up in him, like images in a dream. But if someone kept questioning him about these same things in different ways, he'd eventually come to know them as well as anyone.

Meno I'd expect so.

Socrates And he'd reach that knowledge without anyone teaching him -- just by being asked questions?

Meno Yes.

Socrates And this process of recovering knowledge through questioning -- that's recollection?

Meno Yes.

Socrates Now, this knowledge that's been stirred up in him -- he must have either acquired it at some point or always possessed it.

Meno Yes.

Socrates If he always had it, he always knew it. If he acquired it, he couldn't have acquired it in this life. Has anyone ever taught him geometry? He can be led through this same process with all of geometry and every other branch of knowledge. Has anyone taught him all of this? You should know -- after all, he was born and raised in your house.

Meno I'm certain that no one ever taught him.

Socrates Yet he has this knowledge?

Meno The fact is undeniable, Socrates.

Socrates And if he didn't acquire it in this life, then he must have had it and learned it at some other time?

Meno It seems so.

Socrates A time when he was not yet a human being?

Meno Yes.

Socrates And if true ideas have always existed in him -- both during the times he was a man and during the times he was not -- and these ideas only need to be awakened into knowledge through questioning, then his soul must have always possessed this knowledge. He always either was or was not a man.

Meno That follows.

Socrates And if the truth of all things has always existed in the soul, then the soul is immortal. So take heart, and boldly try to recollect -- to recover -- what you don't currently know. Or rather: what you don't currently remember.

Meno Somehow, Socrates, I feel that I like what you're saying.

Socrates And I like it too, Meno. I won't pretend to be completely confident about every detail of what I've said. But this much I will fight for, in word and deed, with everything I've got: we are better, braver, and less helpless people if we believe we should search for what we don't know, than if we sit back and tell ourselves there's no point in trying to learn because it's impossible. That's a principle I'll defend to the end.

Meno There again, Socrates, your words are excellent.

Socrates Good. Then since we agree that a person should investigate what they don't know, shall we join forces and try to discover what virtue actually is?

Meno By all means, Socrates. Though I'd really prefer to go back to my original question: should we think of virtue as something that can be taught, something that comes naturally, or something that comes to people in some other way?

Socrates If I had any control over you as well as myself, Meno, I wouldn't ask whether virtue can be taught until we'd figured out what it is. But since you insist on controlling me while never controlling yourself -- that being your idea of freedom -- I'll give in. You're irresistible.

So here we are: investigating the qualities of something whose nature we still don't know. But at least grant me this much -- let me approach the question through a hypothesis. Here's what I mean. Geometers, when asked whether a certain triangle can be inscribed in a certain circle, might say: "I can't tell you yet. But let me offer a hypothesis that might help. If the triangle has such-and-such a property, then one conclusion follows; if not, then another." That's the geometric method -- reasoning from a hypothesis.

Let's do the same with virtue. Since we don't know its nature, let's reason hypothetically: if virtue belongs to a certain class of things -- say, if it's a kind of knowledge -- would it be teachable or not? Here's our first hypothesis: Is virtue knowledge? If it is, can it be taught?

Actually, let's start from what's obvious: isn't it true that the only thing that can be taught is knowledge?

Meno I agree.

Socrates So if virtue is knowledge, it can be taught?

Meno Of course.

Socrates Good. We've settled that quickly. If virtue is a kind of knowledge, it's teachable. If it's not, it's not.

Meno Agreed.

Socrates The next question, then: is virtue knowledge, or something else?

Meno Yes, that seems like the right question to ask next.

Socrates Well, we do say that virtue is a good thing, don't we? That's a hypothesis we're not going to set aside.

Meno Definitely.

Socrates Now, if there are any good things that are separate from knowledge -- things that aren't knowledge at all -- then virtue might be one of those things. But if knowledge covers all good things, then we'd be right to conclude that virtue is knowledge.

Meno True.

Socrates And virtue does make us good?

Meno Yes.

Socrates And if we're good, we're useful? Because all good things are useful?

Meno Yes.

Socrates So virtue is useful?

Meno That's the only conclusion.

Socrates Then let's think about what kinds of things are useful to us. Health, strength, beauty, wealth -- we'd call those useful, right?

Meno Right.

Socrates But those same things can also sometimes harm us, can't they?

Meno Yes.

Socrates And what makes the difference? When are they useful and when are they harmful? Aren't they useful when they're used wisely and harmful when they're not?

Meno Absolutely.

Socrates Now let's look at the qualities of the soul: self-discipline, justice, courage, quickness of mind, good memory, generosity, and so on.

Meno All right.

Socrates Take the ones that aren't knowledge but something else. Aren't they sometimes useful and sometimes harmful? Courage, for instance -- when it's just raw boldness without good judgment, it's really just recklessness. Courage with good judgment helps you. Courage without it hurts you.

Meno True.

Socrates Same with self-discipline and mental sharpness. Whatever you learn or do with wisdom benefits you. Without wisdom, it harms you.

Meno Very true.

Socrates In fact, as a general rule: everything the soul undertakes, when guided by wisdom, leads to flourishing. When guided by foolishness, it leads to the opposite.

Meno That seems right.

Socrates So if virtue is a quality of the soul, and if we agree it's useful, then it must be wisdom. Because nothing about the soul is useful or harmful in itself -- it's the presence or absence of wisdom that makes the difference. So if virtue is useful, virtue must be a kind of wisdom.

Meno I completely agree.

Socrates And the same logic applies to everything else we mentioned -- wealth and all the rest. We said those things are sometimes good and sometimes bad. Well, when the soul uses them wisely, they become beneficial. When it uses them foolishly, they become harmful. Just as the soul's own qualities are directed by wisdom to good ends and by foolishness to bad ones.

Meno True.

Socrates And the wise soul directs things well, while the foolish soul directs them badly.

Meno Yes.

Socrates So here's the universal principle: everything in human life depends on the soul, and everything about the soul depends on wisdom, if it's to be good. By this reasoning, wisdom is what makes things useful -- and virtue, we've said, is useful.

Meno Certainly.

Socrates So we arrive at the conclusion that virtue is either entirely or at least partly wisdom?

Meno I think what you're saying is very true, Socrates.

Socrates And if that's right, then good people aren't good by nature?

Meno I'd say not.

Socrates Because if they were, there would be experts who could identify naturally virtuous children. We'd spot them early, lock them away in a citadel for safekeeping -- guard them more carefully than we'd guard gold -- so nobody could corrupt them. When they grew up, they'd be ready to serve the state.

Meno Yes, Socrates, that would make sense.

Socrates But if good people aren't good by nature, are they made good by instruction?

Meno It seems like there's no other option, Socrates. If virtue is knowledge, it has to be taught.

Socrates Maybe. But what if our hypothesis is wrong?

Meno I was just feeling so sure we were right.

Socrates Yes, Meno. But a principle that's any good should hold up not just for the moment but always.

Meno True. But why are you so reluctant to believe that virtue is knowledge?

Socrates I'll try to explain. I'm not taking back the claim that if virtue is knowledge, it can be taught. But I'm starting to wonder whether virtue really is knowledge. Consider this: for anything that can be taught, there must be teachers and students. Agreed?

Meno Of course.

Socrates And if something has no teachers and no students, we'd have good reason to think it can't be taught?

Meno True. But do you really think there are no teachers of virtue?

Socrates I've spent a lot of time asking that very question, Meno, and I've searched hard for them. I've never been able to find any. And plenty of people have helped me look -- people I thought were most likely to know.

But look -- how lucky we are! Sitting right here, just when we need him, is Anytus. He's exactly the person we should ask. He has every qualification for it. His father, Anthemion, was a wealthy man -- and not the kind who got rich by accident or inheritance, the way Ismenias the Theban did, falling into a fortune the size of Polycrates'. No, Anthemion earned his money through his own intelligence and hard work. He was also known as a decent, modest citizen -- not arrogant or pompous or difficult. He gave his son here an excellent education, as the Athenian people obviously believe, since they keep electing him to the highest offices. This is exactly the kind of man who can tell us whether there are teachers of virtue and who they are.

Please, Anytus -- help me and your friend Meno answer this question: who teaches virtue? Think about it this way. If we wanted Meno to become a good doctor, who would we send him to?

Anytus To doctors, obviously.

Socrates And if we wanted him to become a good cobbler?

Anytus To cobblers.

Socrates And so on?

Anytus Yes.

Socrates Let me push this a bit further. When we say we should send him to the doctors to learn medicine, we mean we'd be right to send him to people who actually practice the skill, who charge a fee for teaching it, and who are open to anyone who wants to learn. Those are the reasons we'd send him, yes?

Anytus Yes.

Socrates And the same goes for flute-playing and every other skill. It would be ridiculous to refuse to send someone to the recognized experts -- the ones who charge for teaching -- and instead pester random people who've never taught the subject and don't even claim to. Wouldn't that be the height of foolishness?

Anytus By Zeus, yes -- foolishness and ignorance both.

Socrates Exactly right. So now you're in a position to advise me about our friend Meno here. He's been telling me he wants to acquire that kind of wisdom and excellence by which people govern states and households, honor their parents, and know how to welcome friends and strangers as a good person should. So who should he go to in order to learn this? Doesn't our argument clearly point to the people who advertise themselves as teachers of exactly this -- who claim to teach it to any Greek who wants to learn, for a set fee?

Anytus And who exactly do you mean, Socrates?

Socrates You know perfectly well who I mean, Anytus. The people everyone calls Sophists.

Anytus By Heracles, Socrates -- don't even say it! I pray that no friend or relative of mine, no citizen or foreigner I know, is ever crazy enough to go near those people and let himself be corrupted by them. They're nothing but a plague and a poison to everyone who has anything to do with them.

Socrates What are you saying, Anytus? Out of everyone who claims to know how to improve people, the Sophists are the only ones who not only fail to improve them but actually make them worse? And they have the nerve to charge money for it? I can hardly believe that. I know for a fact that one man -- Protagoras -- made more money from his craft than Phidias, who created some of the most magnificent sculptures in the world, or any ten other sculptors put together.

Think about it: a shoe-mender who returned shoes in worse condition than he received them couldn't last thirty days in business. He'd starve. But Protagoras supposedly corrupted everyone he taught for more than forty years, and no one noticed? He was about seventy when he died, and he practiced his profession for forty of those years -- and the whole time, right up to this day, his reputation has remained excellent. And it's not just Protagoras. Plenty of other Sophists, both before him and still living today, are well regarded.

So when you say they deceived and corrupted the youth -- were they doing it on purpose, or accidentally? Are you really suggesting that people widely considered to be among the wisest men in Greece were actually out of their minds?

Anytus They're not the ones who are out of their minds, Socrates. The young men who pay them money are out of their minds. Their parents and guardians who let them go are even more out of their minds. And most of all, the cities that allow them in and don't drive them out are out of their minds.

Socrates Has any Sophist actually done you wrong, Anytus? Why are you so angry at them?

Anytus By Zeus, no! I've never had anything to do with them, and I wouldn't let any member of my family near them either.

Socrates So you have absolutely no experience with them?

Anytus And I don't want any.

Socrates Then how can you know whether something is good or bad if you have no experience with it at all?

Anytus Easily. I know exactly what kind of people they are, whether I've had personal dealings with them or not.

Socrates You must be some kind of prophet, Anytus, because I really can't figure out how you could know about them based on what you've just told me. But never mind that. I'm not asking who will corrupt Meno -- let's say those are the Sophists, if you like. I'm asking who will make him better. Who in this great city can teach him the virtues I just described? He's a friend of your family, and you'd be doing him a favor. Tell him who to go to.

Anytus Why don't you tell him yourself?

Socrates I did tell him who I thought the teachers were, but you've informed me I was completely wrong. And you're probably right. So now it's your turn. Tell me -- which Athenians should he approach? Name someone.

Anytus Why single out individuals? Any Athenian gentleman, chosen at random, will do him far more good than the Sophists would.

Socrates And did these gentlemen become virtuous all by themselves? Without teachers of their own? And yet they can somehow teach what they never learned?

Anytus I'd say they learned from the generation of gentlemen before them. Are you going to tell me there haven't been many good men in this city?

Socrates There certainly have been many good statesmen in Athens, Anytus, and there still are. But the question isn't whether there have been good men. The question is whether they were also good teachers of their own virtue. That's what we're discussing: not whether good people exist, but whether virtue can be taught. And that comes down to this: did these good men know how to pass their goodness on to others, or is virtue the kind of thing that can't be communicated from one person to another?

That's what Meno and I have been trying to figure out. Look at it from your own perspective: wouldn't you say Themistocles was a good man?

Anytus Absolutely. One of the best.

Socrates And if anyone ever was a good teacher of virtue, he would've been one?

Anytus I'd think so -- if he wanted to be.

Socrates And wouldn't he have wanted to? He certainly wanted to make his own son a good man. He couldn't have been jealous of his own child or deliberately withheld his own excellence from him. You must have heard that he had his son Cleophantus trained to be a superb horseman -- the boy could stand upright on horseback and throw javelins and perform all kinds of amazing feats. In anything that could be learned from a master, the boy was top-notch. You've heard all this?

Anytus I have.

Socrates So no one could say his son lacked natural ability?

Anytus I suppose not.

Socrates But here's the thing: has anyone -- young or old -- ever said that Cleophantus, son of Themistocles, was a wise or good man, the way his father was?

Anytus I've never heard anyone say that.

Socrates And if virtue could have been taught, do you think Themistocles would have spent money training his son in those lesser skills while letting the boy -- his own son, remember -- turn out no better than his neighbors in the one thing Themistocles himself excelled at?

Anytus No, I really don't think so.

Socrates So there's one teacher of virtue -- a man you agree was among the best in history -- who apparently couldn't teach it to his own son. Let's try another. Aristides, the son of Lysimachus -- you'd say he was a good man?

Anytus Without question.

Socrates And he gave his son Lysimachus the best education available, in everything masters could teach. But the result? Was his son any better than anyone else? You know him -- you've seen what he's like.

Then there's Pericles -- a magnificently wise man. He had two sons, Paralus and Xanthippus.

Anytus I know.

Socrates And you know he had them trained as the finest horsemen in Athens, and gave them instruction in music and athletics and every other art -- they were the equal of anyone in those things. Didn't he want to make them good men too? Of course he did. But apparently virtue isn't the kind of thing that can be taught.

And in case you think it's only the most prominent Athenians who failed at this, consider Thucydides. He had two sons, Melesias and Stephanus. Besides giving them an excellent general education, he had them trained in wrestling by the two best coaches of the day -- Xanthias and Eudorus. They were the finest wrestlers in Athens. Do you remember hearing about them?

Anytus Yes, I've heard of them.

Socrates Now, Thucydides was perfectly willing to spend money on his sons' training in skills that cost money. Would he have neglected to teach them virtue -- which would have cost him nothing -- if it were something that could be taught? Was Thucydides some nobody with no connections? Of course not. He was from a great family, enormously influential in Athens and throughout Greece. If virtue could have been taught, he would have found someone -- Athenian or foreigner -- to teach his sons, even if he was too busy with politics to do it himself.

I'm afraid, friend Anytus, that virtue simply isn't the kind of thing that can be taught.

Anytus Socrates, I think you're far too ready to speak badly of people. I'd advise you to be careful. There may be no city where it's easier to do a man harm than good, and this is certainly the case in Athens -- as I think you know.

Socrates Meno, I think Anytus is angry. And he has some reason to be. He thinks, first, that I'm insulting these great men. And second, he thinks he's one of them himself. But someday he'll understand what it truly means to slander someone, and when he does, he'll forgive me. For now, let's go back to you, Meno. I assume there are gentlemen in your part of the world too?

Meno There certainly are.

Socrates And are they willing to teach the young? Do they claim to be teachers? Do they agree that virtue can be taught?

Meno Far from it, Socrates. Sometimes you'll hear them say virtue can be taught, and sometimes you'll hear them say the exact opposite.

Socrates And can we call people teachers when they can't even agree on whether their own subject can be taught?

Meno I'd say not, Socrates.

Socrates And what about these Sophists -- the only people who actually advertise as teachers of virtue? Do they seem like genuine teachers to you?

Meno That's the thing I admire about Gorgias, Socrates. You'll never hear him promise to teach virtue. When he hears other Sophists making that promise, he just laughs at them. He thinks what people should learn is how to speak well.

Socrates So you don't think the Sophists are real teachers of virtue either?

Meno I honestly can't say, Socrates. Like everyone else, I go back and forth. Sometimes I think they are, sometimes I think they're not.

Socrates Did you know it's not just you and the other politicians who can't decide whether virtue can be taught? The poet Theognis says the very same thing.

Meno Where does he say that?

Socrates In his elegiac verses:

"Eat and drink and sit with the powerful, and make yourself welcome among them. For from the good you will learn what is good, but if you mix with the bad, you will lose even the sense you already have."

Notice how he seems to be saying that virtue can be taught -- that you learn it from good company.

Meno Clearly.

Socrates But then in other verses he contradicts himself:

"If understanding could be manufactured and installed in a man, then those who could do it would earn enormous fees."

And again:

"A bad son never springs from a good father, for he would have listened to wise instruction. But you will never make a bad man good through teaching."

You see the contradiction?

Meno I do.

Socrates Can you name any other subject where the supposed experts are said to be not only bad teachers but actually ignorant of the very thing they claim to teach? Or any subject where even the acknowledged "gentlemen" sometimes say "this can be taught" and sometimes say it can't? Would you really call people "teachers" when they're this confused?

Meno Certainly not.

Socrates So if neither the Sophists nor the gentlemen are genuine teachers of virtue, clearly there aren't any teachers at all?

Meno I don't think there are.

Socrates And if there are no teachers, there are no students?

Meno That seems right.

Socrates And we agreed that a thing can't be taught if there are neither teachers nor students?

Meno We did.

Socrates And no teachers of virtue are to be found anywhere?

Meno No.

Socrates And if there are no teachers, there are no students?

Meno That seems true.

Socrates Then virtue can't be taught?

Meno Apparently not -- if we've been reasoning correctly. But I can't quite believe it, Socrates. Are there really no good people? And if there are, how did they get that way?

Socrates I'm afraid you and I aren't very good at this, Meno. Gorgias was a poor educator of you, and Prodicus was a poor educator of me. We clearly need to turn our attention to ourselves and find someone who can help us improve. I say this because something important slipped by us in our earlier discussion. We overlooked the fact that right and good action is possible not only through knowledge but through another kind of guidance as well. And if we miss that, we'll never understand how good people come to be good.

Meno What do you mean, Socrates?

Socrates We agreed that good people are necessarily useful, right? That had to be correct.

Meno Yes.

Socrates And that they'll be useful only if they guide us correctly in our actions?

Meno Yes.

Socrates But we were wrong when we said a person can't be a good guide unless they have knowledge. That was our mistake.

Meno What do you mean by "wrong"?

Socrates Let me illustrate. Suppose someone knows the road to Larisa -- or anywhere else -- and goes there and leads others along the way. Wouldn't he be a perfectly good guide?

Meno Of course.

Socrates But what about someone who has a correct belief about which road it is, even though he's never been there and doesn't know for certain? Wouldn't he be just as good a guide?

Meno Just as good.

Socrates So as long as he has a true opinion about the way -- even without certain knowledge -- he'll guide people just as well as someone who actually knows?

Meno Exactly.

Socrates So true opinion is just as good a guide to right action as knowledge. And that's what we missed in our investigation of virtue. We said knowledge is the only guide to correct action. But there's also true opinion.

Meno So it seems.

Socrates Then true opinion is no less useful than knowledge?

Meno Well, there's this difference, Socrates: the person with knowledge will always be right, but the person with true opinion will sometimes be right and sometimes not.

Socrates What do you mean? Can someone with a true opinion be wrong, as long as their opinion is true?

Meno I'll grant you that. So then, Socrates, I'm puzzled. Why should knowledge be valued above true opinion? What's the difference between them?

Socrates Shall I explain?

Meno Please.

Socrates You wouldn't be puzzled if you'd ever seen the statues of Daedalus. But maybe you don't have them in Thessaly.

Meno What do they have to do with this?

Socrates They had to be fastened down to keep them in place. If you didn't chain them, they'd wander off.

Meno So?

Socrates An unfastened Daedalus statue isn't worth very much -- it'll walk away like a runaway slave. But once it's fastened down, it's incredibly valuable. They're magnificent works of art.

Now, this is exactly like the difference between true opinions and knowledge. True opinions are wonderful things, and they produce fine results while they stick around. But they don't stick around for long. They run away from the human soul and don't stay put. So they're not worth very much -- until you fasten them down with reasoning about the cause. And that fastening, Meno, is what we agreed to call recollection. Once true opinions are tied down, they become knowledge -- and they stay. That's why knowledge is more valuable and more reliable than true opinion: it's chained in place.

Meno What you're saying, Socrates, sounds very much like the truth.

Socrates Well, I'm speaking more from conjecture than from certainty. But this much I don't merely conjecture -- this I'm quite sure of: knowledge and true opinion are genuinely different things. There aren't many things I'd claim to know, but this is definitely one of them.

Meno And you're quite right to be sure of it, Socrates.

Socrates And am I not also right that true opinion, as a guide to action, produces results just as good as knowledge?

Meno Yes, I think you're right about that too.

Socrates So true opinion is no less useful in practice than knowledge. And the person with true opinion is no less useful than the person with knowledge?

Meno True.

Socrates And we've agreed that the good person is useful?

Meno Yes.

Socrates So people become good and useful to their communities not only through knowledge but also through true opinion. And neither knowledge nor true opinion is something people are born with -- neither one comes by nature.

Or do you think either of them does?

Meno No, I don't.

Socrates So if they don't come by nature, good people aren't good by nature?

Meno No.

Socrates And since they're not good by nature, we asked: can virtue be taught?

Meno Yes.

Socrates And we concluded that it could be taught if it was knowledge?

Meno Yes.

Socrates And if it could be taught, then it was knowledge?

Meno Right.

Socrates And if there were teachers of it, it could be taught. But if there were no teachers, it couldn't?

Meno True.

Socrates And we agreed there are no teachers of virtue?

Meno Yes.

Socrates So it's not taught, and it's not knowledge?

Meno Apparently not.

Socrates And yet we agreed it's a good thing?

Meno Yes.

Socrates And that the right kind of guidance is useful and good?

Meno Certainly.

Socrates And there are only two kinds of right guidance: knowledge and true opinion. These are what guide human beings. Things that happen by chance aren't the result of human guidance. But insofar as people are guided rightly, it's by either knowledge or true opinion.

Meno I agree.

Socrates But since virtue isn't taught, it isn't knowledge.

Meno Apparently not.

Socrates So of the two good and useful guides, knowledge is ruled out. Knowledge isn't what guides people in political life.

Meno I'd say not.

Socrates So it wasn't through wisdom -- it wasn't because they were wise -- that men like Themistocles and the others Anytus mentioned governed their states. That's why they couldn't make others like themselves: their virtue wasn't based on knowledge.

Meno That's probably true, Socrates.

Socrates And if not knowledge, the only remaining option is true opinion. That must be what statesmen use to govern. They're no different, when it comes to wisdom, from fortune-tellers and prophets. Those people say many true things too, but they don't really know what they're saying.

Meno That sounds about right.

Socrates Then wouldn't we be right to call these statesmen "divinely inspired"? They achieve great things in word and deed without any real understanding -- just like prophets and seers.

Meno Certainly.

Socrates And women too, Meno, call good men "divine," don't they? And the Spartans, when they praise someone, say "there goes a divine man."

Meno And I think they're right, Socrates -- though our friend Anytus might not appreciate the phrase.

Socrates I don't mind about that. There'll be another chance to talk with Anytus.

But to sum up our whole investigation: if we've reasoned correctly, the result seems to be that virtue is neither natural nor taught. It comes as a kind of divine gift to those who possess it -- without being accompanied by understanding. Unless, that is, there's some statesman out there who's capable of making other statesmen wise. If such a person exists, you could say about him what Homer says about Tiresias among the dead: "He alone has true understanding; the rest are flitting shades." A man like that would be the real thing among shadows -- genuine virtue among mere appearances.

Meno That's beautifully put, Socrates.

Socrates Then the conclusion, Meno, is that virtue comes to those who have it as a gift from the gods. But we'll never know this with certainty until we first tackle the question we keep putting off: What is virtue itself? What is its actual nature?

Now I have to go. But you -- do me a favor. Now that you've been persuaded, go persuade your friend Anytus of the same things. Calm him down, if you can. If you succeed in soothing him, you'll have done the people of Athens a real service.

Protagoras

On the Unity of Virtue

Persons of the dialogue: Socrates, who narrates the whole conversation to his Companion Hippocrates, a young Athenian Alcibiades Critias Protagoras, a Sophist Hippias, a Sophist Prodicus, a Sophist Callias, a wealthy Athenian

Scene: The house of Callias

Companion: Where have you been, Socrates? Actually, I barely need to ask -- I know you've been chasing after the gorgeous Alcibiades. I saw him just the other day, and I have to say, he's got a beard now -- a real one. He's a man. But between you and me, he's still stunning.

Socrates: What's a beard got to do with it? Don't you agree with Homer, who says "youth is most charming when the beard first appears"? That's exactly where Alcibiades is right now.

Companion: Fair enough. So how did it go? Have you been spending time with him? Was he receptive?

Socrates: Very receptive, actually -- especially today. I've just come from his company, and he was helping me in an argument. But here's the strange part: I barely noticed him. Several times I completely forgot he was even there.

Companion: What do you mean? Has something gone wrong between you two? Surely you haven't found someone more beautiful than Alcibiades. Not in this city.

Socrates: Much more beautiful, actually.

Companion: What are you talking about -- a citizen or a foreigner?

Socrates: A foreigner.

Companion: From where?

Socrates: Abdera.

Companion: And you're seriously telling me that this stranger is more beautiful to you than the son of Cleinias?

Socrates: Isn't the wiser always more beautiful, my friend?

Companion: So you've actually met someone wise?

Socrates: The wisest man alive, if you're willing to give that title to Protagoras.

Companion: Wait -- Protagoras is in Athens?

Socrates: He's been here two days.

Companion: And you've just come from seeing him?

Socrates: I have. We talked for hours.

Companion: Well then, if you've got no other plans, why don't you sit down right here and tell me everything that happened? My attendant will give up his seat for you.

Socrates: I'd love to. And I'll be grateful to you for listening.

Companion: And we'll be grateful to you for telling us.

Socrates: Double gratitude all around. Well then, listen --

Last night -- or rather, very early this morning -- Hippocrates, son of Apollodorus and brother of Phason, came pounding on my door with his walking stick. Someone let him in, and he burst into the room shouting: "Socrates! Are you awake or asleep?"

I recognized his voice. "Hippocrates, is that you? What's the news?"

"Good news!" he said. "Nothing but good!"

"Wonderful," I said. "But what is it, and why are you here at this ungodly hour?"

He came closer and sat down at the foot of my bed. "Protagoras is here."

"Yes," I said. "He arrived two days ago. Are you just hearing about this now?"

"Yes, by the gods! I only found out yesterday evening. I got back late from Oenoe -- I'd gone there chasing my runaway slave Satyrus, and I was meaning to tell you about it, but something else came up. Anyway, when we'd finished dinner and were getting ready for bed, my brother told me: 'Protagoras is in town.' I wanted to come to you right then, but it was already too late. The moment I woke up, though, I came straight here."

I knew Hippocrates and his headstrong enthusiasm, so I said, "What's the matter? Has Protagoras stolen something from you?"

He laughed. "Yes, actually! He's stolen wisdom -- because he's hoarding it all for himself and keeping it from me."

"Well," I said, "if you give him money and get on his good side, he'll make you as wise as he is."

"If only it were that simple!" he said. "He could take everything I own -- everything my friends own too -- if only he would. That's exactly why I've come to you: so you can put in a good word for me. I'm young, and I've never met the man -- I've never even heard him speak. Last time he came to Athens, I was just a boy. But everyone says he's incredible, Socrates. They say he's the most brilliant speaker alive. Can't we go see him right now? He's staying with Callias, the son of Hipponicus. Let's go."

"Not yet, my friend," I replied. "It's way too early. Let's get up and walk around the courtyard until dawn. When it's light, we'll go. Protagoras keeps regular hours -- we'll find him at home, don't worry."

So we got up and walked around in the courtyard. I decided to test just how serious Hippocrates was about all this, so I started questioning him.

"Tell me, Hippocrates," I said, "you're planning to go to Protagoras and pay him money. But what is he, exactly, and what will he make of you? Suppose you were thinking of going to your namesake, Hippocrates of Cos, the great physician, and you were about to pay him your money. If someone asked you, 'You're paying money to this Hippocrates -- what is he?' What would you say?"

"I'd say he's a physician."

"And what would he make of you?"

"A physician."

"Right. And if you were going to Polycleitus of Argos or Pheidias the Athenian and paying them money, and someone asked, 'What are Polycleitus and Pheidias, and why are you paying them?' What would you say?"

"I'd say they're sculptors."

"And what would they make of you?"

"A sculptor, obviously."

"Good. Now, you and I are going to Protagoras, ready to spend your money on him. If our own funds are enough, fine. If not, we'll spend your friends' money too. So suppose, while we're rushing off on this mission, someone stopped us and said, 'Tell me, Socrates and Hippocrates -- what is Protagoras? Why are you paying him money?' I know Pheidias is a sculptor and Homer is a poet. But what do we call Protagoras? How is he described?"

"People call him a Sophist, Socrates."

"So we're going to pay him as a Sophist?"

"Yes."

"But suppose someone asked you the next question: 'And what about you? What will Protagoras make of you?'"

He blushed -- day was just beginning to break, so I could see his face -- and said, "Well, unless this is somehow different from the other examples... I suppose he'd make a Sophist of me."

"By the gods," I said, "wouldn't you be embarrassed to present yourself to the Greek world as a Sophist?"

"Honestly, Socrates? Yes, I would be."

"But hold on, Hippocrates. Maybe the education Protagoras offers isn't like that at all. Maybe you'd learn from him the same way you learned from your grammar teacher, your music teacher, your athletic trainer -- not to become a professional in any of those fields, but as part of a general education. The kind of thing a free citizen ought to know."

"Yes, exactly!" he said. "That's a much better way to think about what Protagoras teaches."

"I wonder," I said, "if you really know what you're getting into."

"What do you mean?"

"You're about to hand your soul over to a man you call a Sophist. But I doubt you even know what a Sophist is. And if you don't know that, then you don't know whether you're handing your soul to someone who'll do it good or harm."

"I'm pretty sure I know what a Sophist is," he said.

"Then tell me."

"He's someone who knows wise things -- that's what the name means."

"You could say that about a painter or a carpenter too," I said. "They also know wise things. But if someone asked, 'What kind of wise things do painters know?' we'd say, 'The kind that relate to making likenesses,' and so on. So if someone asked, 'What's the Sophist's area of wisdom? What does he produce?' -- what would we say?"

"What else could we say, Socrates, except that he produces eloquence -- the ability to speak well?"

"Maybe," I said. "But that answer raises another question: eloquence about what? A lyre teacher makes you eloquent about playing the lyre, right?"

"Right."

"So what does the Sophist make you eloquent about? He must make you eloquent about whatever he actually understands."

"That makes sense."

"And what is it that the Sophist knows and teaches his students to know?"

"I honestly can't say."

"Well then," I said, "do you realize the danger you're walking into? If you were going to hand your body over to someone who might help or hurt it, you'd think it over carefully. You'd ask your friends and family. You'd deliberate for days before trusting your body to a stranger. But your soul -- which you consider far more valuable than your body, and on which your entire well-being depends -- about that, you haven't consulted your father, or your brother, or any of us, your friends. This foreigner shows up, and you immediately want to hand your soul over to him. You hear about him one evening and come running to me at dawn, without a moment's deliberation, without asking anyone whether you should trust him. You've already made up your mind to be a student of Protagoras no matter what, ready to spend everything you and your friends have on it -- and yet by your own admission, you don't know him, you've never spoken to him, you call him a Sophist but can't even explain what a Sophist is. This is what you're staking your soul on."

"When you put it that way, Socrates," he said, "I can't argue with you."

"Think about it this way," I said. "Isn't a Sophist basically a kind of merchant -- someone who deals, wholesale or retail, in food for the soul?"

"Food for the soul? What do you mean?"

"Knowledge. Knowledge is what nourishes the soul. And we need to be careful, my friend, that the Sophist doesn't trick us the way food merchants trick their customers. Merchants who sell food for the body -- wholesalers, retailers -- they praise everything they sell without distinction, without knowing what's actually healthy or harmful. And their customers don't know either, unless they happen to be a doctor or a trainer. It's the same with people who peddle knowledge from city to city, selling their intellectual wares to whoever's buying. They praise everything they're selling, but plenty of them probably have no idea what effect their teachings actually have on the soul. And their customers are just as ignorant -- unless one of them happens to be, as it were, a doctor of the soul.

"Now, if you're someone who can tell good knowledge from bad, you can safely buy from Protagoras or anyone else. But if you can't -- well, then be careful, my friend. Don't gamble with what's most precious to you. There's actually more danger in buying knowledge than in buying food. Food and drink you can carry home in containers, and before you eat or drink anything, you can set it aside, call in an expert, and ask them what's safe to consume, how much, and when. You have time to decide. But knowledge? You can't carry it away in a separate container. Once you've paid for it and taken it in, it goes straight into your soul, and you walk away either greatly helped or greatly harmed. So we should think this through. We should consult people who've been around longer than us, because we're still young -- too young to decide something this important on our own.

"For now, let's go hear what Protagoras has to say, as we planned. After we've listened, we can consult others. Protagoras isn't the only one at Callias' house -- Hippias of Elis is there too, and I believe Prodicus of Ceos, and several other distinguished thinkers."

We agreed on this plan and headed off. When we reached the front door, we stopped for a moment to finish a point that had come up in our conversation along the way. We stood in the vestibule talking until we'd reached an understanding, and then we knocked.

The doorkeeper -- a eunuch, probably fed up with the constant parade of Sophists -- heard us talking before he opened. When he saw us, he said, "More Sophists. He's not home." And he slammed the door in our faces.

We knocked again.

"Didn't you hear me?" he shouted through the closed door. "He's not home, gentlemen."

"Listen, friend," I said, "we're not Sophists, and we're not here to see Callias. We want to see Protagoras. Just announce us."

After a good deal of back-and-forth, the man finally let us in.

When we entered, we found Protagoras strolling in the colonnade. Walking alongside him on one side were Callias, son of Hipponicus; Paralus, son of Pericles (his half-brother on their mother's side); and Charmides, son of Glaucon. On his other side were Xanthippus, Pericles' other son; Philippides, son of Philomelus; and Antimoerus of Mende, who was the most prominent of Protagoras' students -- a professional in training, planning to become a Sophist himself.

Behind them trailed a whole entourage of admirers. Most of them seemed to be foreigners Protagoras had collected during his travels from city to city, drawing them along with the spell of his voice, like Orpheus leading his followers through song. There were some Athenians mixed in too.

What delighted me most about this procession was their choreography. They never once got in Protagoras' way. Every time he and his inner circle turned at the end of the colonnade, this band of followers split neatly in two, parted to either side, wheeled around, and fell back into formation behind him. It was like watching a perfectly rehearsed dance.

After that, as Homer says, "I lifted up my eyes and saw" -- Hippias the Elean, sitting in the opposite colonnade on a chair like a throne. Around him, seated on benches, were Eryximachus, son of Acumenus; Phaedrus of Myrrhinous; Andron, son of Androtion; and a mix of foreigners Hippias had brought from Elis and local Athenians. They were peppering Hippias with questions about science and astronomy, and he was holding court, answering each question from his throne with definitive authority.

And then, "my eyes beheld Tantalus" -- Prodicus of Ceos was also in the house. He'd been put up in a room that used to be a storage closet back when Hipponicus owned the place, but since the house was packed with guests, Callias had cleared it out and turned it into a bedroom. Prodicus was still in bed, buried under what looked like a mountain of sheepskins and blankets. Sitting nearby on couches were Pausanias from the deme of Cerameis, and beside him a very young man who was remarkably handsome and seemed to have a gentle, fine nature. I thought I heard them call him Agathon -- and I suspect he was Pausanias' beloved. There were also the two Adeimantuses -- one the son of Cepis, the other of Leucolophides -- and a few others.

I was dying to hear what Prodicus was saying, because the man seemed absolutely brilliant -- almost divinely inspired. But I couldn't get close enough to hear. His magnificent deep voice created an echo in the small room that turned everything into a beautiful rumble.

We'd barely gotten inside when Alcibiades walked in behind us -- beautiful, as you say, and I don't disagree -- along with Critias, son of Callaeschrus.

We paused for a moment to take in the scene, then walked up to Protagoras.

"Protagoras," I said, "my friend Hippocrates and I have come to see you."

"Do you want to speak with me privately," he asked, "or in front of everyone?"

"Whatever you prefer," I said. "You can decide once you've heard why we're here."

"And why are you here?"

"My friend Hippocrates is a native Athenian -- son of Apollodorus, from a great and prosperous family. In natural ability, he's the equal of anyone his age. He has ambitions in politics, and he believes that spending time with you is the best way to achieve them. So it's up to you -- would you rather discuss this privately, or with the company here?"

"I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Socrates," Protagoras said. "A man in my position has to be careful. When a foreigner goes into great cities and persuades the best young men to leave behind their other mentors -- family, friends, old and young alike -- and attach themselves to him instead, on the promise that his company will improve them, he has to be cautious. This kind of thing provokes enormous jealousy. It breeds hostility and conspiracies.

"Now, I believe the Sophist's craft is actually ancient. But in the old days, those who practiced it were afraid of the resentment it provoked, so they disguised themselves. Some hid behind the label of 'poet' -- Homer, Hesiod, Simonides. Others called themselves religious prophets -- Orpheus, Musaeus. Some even disguised themselves as athletic trainers, like Iccus of Tarentum, or Herodicus, who was originally from Megara and is now in Selymbria -- a first-rate Sophist. Your own Agathocles pretended to be a musician when he was really an eminent Sophist. Pythocleides of Ceos did the same thing. There were plenty of others, and they all used these labels as disguises because they were afraid of the backlash.

"But that's not my way. I don't think their strategy worked anyway. It didn't fool the powerful people they were trying to deceive. As for the general public -- they don't have any independent judgment. They just repeat whatever their leaders tell them.

"And trying to hide but getting caught is the worst thing you can do. It makes people far more hostile, because now they think you're a fraud on top of everything else.

"So I take exactly the opposite approach. I openly declare that I'm a Sophist and a teacher of men. I believe honesty is a better strategy than concealment. And I take other precautions too, so I trust that, with heaven's help, no harm will come from my openness about being a Sophist. I've been doing this for many years now -- I've been alive a long time, all told. There's no one here whose father I couldn't be.

"So I'd much prefer to have this conversation in front of everyone."

I suspected he wanted an audience -- a chance to show off in front of Prodicus and Hippias and present us as his admirers. So I said, "Why don't we invite Prodicus and Hippias and their companions to join us?"

"Excellent idea," he said.

"Let's set up a proper discussion circle," said Callias, "with chairs so everyone can sit."

Everyone was thrilled at the prospect. We grabbed chairs and benches and arranged them near where Hippias was sitting, where there were already some seats. Meanwhile, Callias and Alcibiades went and extracted Prodicus from his cocoon of blankets and brought him in, along with his companions.

When everyone had settled in, Protagoras said, "Now that we're all assembled, Socrates, tell me about the young man you mentioned."

"I'll start from the beginning," I said. "This is my friend Hippocrates. He's eager to make your acquaintance and wants to know what will happen to him if he studies with you. That's all there is to it."

Protagoras turned to Hippocrates and said, "Young man, if you study with me, on the very first day you'll go home a better person than when you came. And better still the second day. And every day after that, you'll keep improving."

"Protagoras," I said, "that's not a surprising claim. Even you, at your age and with all your wisdom -- if someone taught you something you didn't already know, you'd become better too. But please be more specific. Let me give you an example. Suppose Hippocrates, instead of wanting to study with you, wanted to study with the young painter Zeuxippus of Heraclea, who's been in Athens recently. And suppose Zeuxippus made the same claim -- 'Every day you'll get better.' Hippocrates would naturally ask, 'Better at what? Better in what way?' And Zeuxippus would answer, 'Better at painting.' Or suppose Hippocrates went to Orthagoras the Theban, heard the same promise, and asked the same question -- Orthagoras would say, 'Better at playing the flute.' So give us the same kind of answer. When Hippocrates spends a day with you and goes home better -- better at what? In what area will he improve?"

Protagoras said, "That's a fair question, Socrates, and I appreciate people who ask fair questions. If Hippocrates comes to me, he won't suffer the kind of abuse he'd get from other Sophists. Those people take young men who've just escaped from specialized training and drag them right back into it -- forcing them to study arithmetic, astronomy, geometry, and music." He glanced at Hippias as he said this. "But with me, he'll learn what he actually came to learn. And what is that? Good judgment in his personal affairs -- how to manage his own household in the best way -- and good judgment in public affairs -- how to be the most effective speaker and actor in the business of the state."

"Let me make sure I understand you," I said. "Are you saying you teach the art of politics? That you make men into good citizens?"

"That, Socrates, is exactly what I do."

"Then you possess a truly noble skill -- if you really do possess it. I'll be honest with you, Protagoras: I've always doubted whether this particular thing can be taught, though when I hear you speak, I'm tempted to change my mind. But let me tell you why I've had my doubts.

"I believe the Athenians are a wise people -- and other Greeks think so too. Now, I've noticed that when the assembly is debating something like building construction, they call in the builders for advice. When it's about shipbuilding, they summon the shipwrights. The same goes for any specialized skill that they consider learnable and teachable. If some random person tries to give advice who isn't recognized as an expert -- no matter how handsome, wealthy, or well-born he is -- they won't listen. They laugh and shout him down until he gives up and sits down, or the constables drag him out on orders from the presiding officers.

"That's how they handle technical matters. But when the question is about running the city -- about politics -- then it's a free-for-all. Anyone can get up and give their opinion: carpenters, metalworkers, cobblers, merchants, sailors, rich, poor, aristocrats, commoners. Nobody criticizes them for giving advice without any training or teacher. The obvious reason? The Athenians don't believe this kind of knowledge can be taught.

"And it's not just the state that operates this way. The same is true of individuals. Take Pericles -- the father of those two young men right over there. He gave his sons excellent instruction in everything that has trained teachers. But in his own area of expertise, politics? He neither taught them himself nor hired anyone else to teach them. He just let them wander on their own, hoping they'd somehow stumble onto political virtue by accident.

"Or take another example. Cleinias, the younger brother of our friend Alcibiades here -- Pericles was his guardian. And Pericles was terrified that Alcibiades would be a bad influence on him, so he took Cleinias away and put him in Ariphron's household to be educated. Within six months, Ariphron sent him back, completely at a loss for what to do with the boy.

"I could give you countless other examples of good men who never managed to make anyone else good -- not their friends, not their family, not strangers.

"So when I look at all this evidence, Protagoras, I'm inclined to believe that virtue can't be taught. But then I hear you speak, and I waver. I'm drawn toward thinking there must be something to what you say, because you clearly have vast experience and learning and ingenuity. So if you could show me more clearly that virtue really can be taught, I'd be deeply grateful."

"I'd be happy to, Socrates," he said. "But what would you prefer? Should I, as the elder speaking to younger men, tell a story -- a myth -- or should I work through the argument logically?"

Several people in the audience called out that he should choose whichever he liked.

"Well then," he said, "I think the myth will be more engaging."

Once upon a time, there were only gods -- no mortal creatures existed yet. But when the appointed time came for mortals to be created, the gods fashioned them deep inside the earth from a mixture of earth and fire and other elements. And when it was time to bring them up into the light, the gods assigned Prometheus and Epimetheus the task of equipping each species with the abilities it would need.

Epimetheus said to Prometheus, "Let me handle the distribution. You can inspect my work afterward."

Prometheus agreed, and Epimetheus got to work.

He gave some animals strength but not speed, and equipped the weaker ones with quickness instead. Some he armed with natural weapons; others he left defenseless but gave them other means of survival -- making some large enough that their size alone protected them, and making others small enough to escape by flying through the air or burrowing underground. In this way, he balanced everything out, making sure no species would be wiped out entirely.

After protecting them against each other, he devised protection against the weather. He clothed them in thick fur and tough hides -- warm enough for winter, resistant enough for summer heat, and serving as natural bedding when they lay down to rest. He fitted their feet with hooves, or hair, or hard callused pads. He gave them different kinds of food -- grass for some, fruit for others, roots for still others, and for some he made other animals their prey. The ones that were hunted, he made prolific breeders; the predators had fewer offspring. This way, the balance held.

But Epimetheus -- who wasn't exactly the wisest thinker -- made a critical mistake. He used up all the good qualities on the animals. When he got to human beings, he had nothing left to give them.

There stood humanity: naked, shoeless, without shelter or weapons.

And the appointed time had arrived. Humans were supposed to emerge from the earth into the light of day. Prometheus came to inspect the distribution and found that every other animal was well equipped -- but humans had nothing. He didn't know what to do. So he broke into the workshop that Athena and Hephaestus shared, stole the secret of working with fire and all the practical arts that went with it -- because without fire, those skills would have been useless -- and gave them to humanity. That's how humans got the practical skills they needed to survive.

But political wisdom? That, they did not receive. Political wisdom was kept in the citadel of Zeus himself, and Prometheus couldn't get in there -- Zeus had fearsome guards. But he managed to sneak into the workshop of Athena and Hephaestus, steal the art of fire and craftsmanship, and give them to humans. And so humanity was equipped with the means of staying alive.

Prometheus, they say, was later prosecuted for theft -- all thanks to Epimetheus' blunder.

Now, because humans had received a share of the divine, they were the only animals to believe in gods -- being, in a sense, kindred to them. They built altars and carved images of the gods. Before long, they invented language and gave names to things. They built houses, made clothing and shoes, and learned to grow food from the earth.

Equipped like this, humans at first lived scattered across the land. There were no cities. The consequence? They were easy prey for wild animals. Humans were far too weak to fight them. Their practical skills were enough to get food, but they hadn't yet developed the art of living together -- the art of politics -- of which warfare is one part. They tried banding together in cities for mutual protection, but without political skill, they treated each other so badly that they scattered again and went right back to being picked off one by one.

Zeus saw that the entire human race was about to be destroyed. So he sent Hermes down to give humanity two gifts: a sense of respect for others and a sense of justice -- the qualities that would make cities possible and bind people together in friendship.

Hermes asked Zeus, "How should I distribute these? The way the other skills are distributed -- one person with medical knowledge serving many, one builder for many who can't build? Should I give justice and respect to just a select few, or to everyone?"

"To everyone," Zeus said. "Let them all have a share. Cities can't exist if only a few people possess these qualities, the way only a few possess specialized skills. And make it a law in my name: anyone who can't participate in respect and justice must be put to death. He's a plague on the community."

And that, Socrates, is why the Athenians -- and everyone else -- behave the way they do. When the question is about carpentry or any other specialized craft, they let only the experts weigh in, and if anyone else tries to give advice, they shout him down -- just as you described, and rightly so. But when it comes to political virtue -- which operates through justice and wisdom -- they're patient with anyone who speaks up. And that's only natural, because they believe every person should have a share of this virtue. If they didn't, cities couldn't exist.

That's the reason for the phenomenon you noticed, Socrates.

Now, so you don't think I'm fooling you when I say that everyone genuinely believes all people have some share of justice and political virtue, consider this additional proof. In other fields, if a man claims to be an expert flute player or claims some other skill he doesn't actually have, people either laugh at him or get angry, and his family pulls him aside and tells him he's lost his mind. But when it comes to justice and other political virtues, even if everyone knows a man is dishonest, if he openly admits it in public, they call him crazy. They say that everyone ought to claim to be honest, whether they are or not, and that a person who refuses to even pretend to have some basic decency doesn't deserve to live among others. Their assumption is that everyone must have at least some degree of this virtue.

I've established that people are right to accept advice from anyone on matters of political virtue, because they believe everyone shares in it. Now let me show you something further: they don't think this virtue comes from nature or grows on its own. They think it's something that can be taught and developed through effort.

Here's the evidence. Nobody punishes or scolds people for defects that come from nature or bad luck. We don't get angry at someone for being ugly, or short, or weak. We feel sorry for them. Why? Because everyone knows these things aren't under a person's control. But when someone lacks the good qualities that come from education and practice and training -- and has the opposite vices instead -- that's when people get angry. That's when they punish and condemn. And what are those vices? Impiety, injustice -- everything we'd call the opposite of political virtue. People get angry about these things precisely because they believe the virtue in question can be acquired through effort and learning.

Think about the nature of punishment, Socrates, and the point becomes even clearer. No rational person punishes someone simply because they did wrong -- you can't undo the past. That's just the blind fury of an animal. Rational punishment is forward-looking. It aims to deter -- both the person being punished and anyone watching -- from doing wrong again. To punish with the aim of deterrence is to declare, implicitly, that virtue can be taught. And the Athenians, your own fellow citizens, punish wrongdoers exactly this way. From this we can conclude that they -- like everyone else -- believe virtue can be acquired and taught.

So there you have it, Socrates. I think I've shown clearly enough that your countrymen are right to accept advice from cobblers and metalworkers on political matters, and that they do believe virtue can be taught.

Now for the remaining difficulty you raised: the sons of good men. Why do good men teach their sons everything that has professional teachers -- and make them knowledgeable in those subjects -- but don't seem to do anything to pass on their own virtue?

Here, Socrates, I'll drop the myth and give you a straight argument.

Consider this: is there some quality that every citizen must possess if a city is going to exist at all? The answer to this question is the answer to your puzzle -- there is no other solution.

If such a quality exists -- and it isn't the skill of a carpenter, or a smith, or a potter, but rather justice, self-control, and reverence (in a word, human virtue) -- if this is the quality everyone must share, the quality that must be present in every person before they can learn or do anything else, and if anyone who lacks it, man or woman, child or adult, must be taught and corrected until they improve, and if whoever resists correction must be exiled or put to death as incurable -- if all this is true, then consider how absurd it would be for good men to teach their sons everything else but this.

We've already established that they believe virtue can be taught and cultivated, both privately and publicly. And yet we're supposed to believe that they teach their sons lesser subjects -- subjects whose ignorance doesn't carry the death penalty -- while neglecting the most important knowledge of all? Knowledge whose absence can lead to death, exile, confiscation of property, the ruin of entire families? We're supposed to believe they don't take the utmost care to teach their children that? How absurd, Socrates!

The truth is, education in virtue begins in the cradle and never stops. From the moment a child can understand speech, mother, nurse, father, and tutor are all competing to make the child better. They say: "This is right, that is wrong. This is honorable, that is shameful. This is sacred, that is wicked. Do this, don't do that." If the child obeys, good. If not, they straighten him out with threats and punishment -- like bending a warped piece of wood.

Later, they send the child to school and tell the teachers to pay even more attention to the child's character than to reading and music. And the teachers do as they're asked. When the child has learned to read and begins to understand written words -- just as he previously understood only spoken ones -- they put the works of great poets in front of him. He reads them on his school bench, and in them he finds stories and praise and examples of great men from the past. He's required to memorize these so he can imitate them, so he can want to be like them.

The music teachers do something similar. They focus on instilling self-discipline, and when they've taught the child to play the lyre, they introduce him to the lyrics of great poets, setting the words to music. They make harmonies and rhythms familiar to the child's soul so he becomes more graceful, more balanced, more rhythmical -- and therefore better fitted for speech and action. Because all of human life, in every part, needs harmony and rhythm.

After music comes athletics. They send the child to the gymnasium, so his body can serve a virtuous mind, and so physical weakness won't force him into cowardice in war or anywhere else. This is what the wealthy do -- and the wealthy have the advantage here: their children start school earliest and stay longest.

When formal education ends, the state takes over. The state requires citizens to learn the laws and live by them -- not by their own whims. It's like a writing teacher who draws guide lines for a beginning student and gives him the tablet to trace: the city provides the laws (invented by wise lawmakers of the past) as guidelines for conduct. Anyone who strays beyond those lines is corrected -- "called to account," as they say, a phrase used not just in Athens but in many other cities, because justice calls people to account.

So with all this care given to virtue -- both private and public -- you're still wondering whether virtue can be taught? Socrates, you should stop wondering. The truly astonishing thing would be if it couldn't be taught.

But then why do the sons of good fathers often turn out badly? There's nothing mysterious about this. As I've been arguing, virtue isn't something any one person owns privately -- if the city is to exist, everyone must share in it. And if that's true (and nothing is more true), let me give you an analogy.

Imagine that cities couldn't exist unless everyone was a flute player, to whatever degree they were capable of it. And imagine that everyone taught everyone else the flute, freely, publicly and privately, and criticized bad players openly -- the way everyone now teaches justice and the laws without hiding anything, the way we don't conceal virtue from each other the way we might conceal trade secrets, because we all have a stake in each other's justice and decency.

In that world, Socrates, do you think the sons of good flute players would necessarily be better than the sons of bad ones? I don't think so. Everyone's children would grow up to be better or worse flute players based on their natural talent. The son of a great player might turn out mediocre, and the son of a terrible player might turn out gifted. But the key point is this: even the worst player in that society would still be a decent flute player compared to someone who'd never learned at all.

It's the same with virtue. Even the person you consider the worst among those raised in a society with laws and education would look like a master of justice compared to people who had no education, no laws, no courts, no social pressure to be decent -- compared to savages. You know the kind I mean: Pherecrates put some on stage at last year's Lenaean festival. If you had to live among the man-haters in his comedy, you'd be thrilled to run into even the worst scoundrels of Athens, and you'd weep with longing for the "rascality" of this civilized world.

The truth is, you're spoiled, Socrates. Everyone teaches virtue, each according to their ability, and you say, "Where are the teachers?" That's like asking, "Who teaches Greek?" There aren't any dedicated Greek teachers -- because everyone teaches it. Or asking, "Who teaches the sons of craftsmen their father's trade beyond what their father and fellow workers can show them?" You'd have trouble finding such a teacher, but you'd have no trouble finding a teacher for someone who knew nothing at all about the craft.

It's the same with virtue, and everything else. If anyone is even slightly better than we are at advancing virtue, we should be grateful. I believe I'm one such person. More than anyone else, I have the knowledge that makes someone noble and good. And I give my students their money's worth -- more than their money's worth, as they themselves will tell you. That's why I've set up this payment system: when a student finishes studying with me, he pays my fee if he's satisfied. If he's not satisfied, he goes to a temple, swears an oath about what he thinks the lessons were worth, and pays only that amount.

That, Socrates, is my myth and my argument for why virtue can be taught and why the Athenians agree with me. And I've also explained why good fathers can have disappointing sons, and good sons can come from undistinguished fathers -- just look at the sons of Polycleitus, who are friends with Paralus and Xanthippus over there but can't hold a candle to their father. The same is true for the sons of many other masters. As for Paralus and Xanthippus -- well, they're still young. There's still hope for them.

When Protagoras finished, his voice lingered in my ears, and like the enchanted listener in Homer --

"So charming left his voice, that I the while thought him still speaking; still stood fixed to hear."

Finally, when I realized he'd actually stopped, I shook myself out of it. I turned to Hippocrates and said, "Son of Apollodorus, I can't tell you how grateful I am to you for bringing me here. I wouldn't have missed Protagoras' speech for anything. I used to think no amount of human effort could make people virtuous. Now I'm not so sure."

"But," I continued, turning back to Protagoras, "I still have one small difficulty, and I'm sure you can clear it up easily -- you've already explained so much. If someone went to Pericles or any of our other great speakers and asked about these things, he might hear an equally fine speech. But then if you questioned any of them about a particular point, they'd be like books -- unable to answer questions or ask their own. Challenge the smallest detail in their speech, and they start droning on in endless monologues, like bronze pots that ring and ring once you strike them until someone puts a hand on them to stop the vibration.

"But Protagoras -- he can not only deliver a magnificent speech, as he's just shown, but when someone asks him a question, he can answer briefly. And when he asks a question, he waits for the answer and listens. That's a very rare combination.

"So here's what I'd like to ask, Protagoras -- just a small question, and your answer will completely satisfy me. You said virtue can be taught, and if there's anyone in the world I'd trust on that, it's you. But one thing puzzled me, and I'd love to have it cleared up. You talked about Zeus sending justice and respect to humanity. And several times during your speech, you mentioned justice, self-control, reverence, and the rest, as though they were all parts of one thing -- virtue. What I want to know is this: Is virtue one unified thing, with justice, self-control, and reverence as its parts? Or are all these just different names for the same single thing? That's my remaining question."

"That's easy," Protagoras said. "They're parts of virtue, which is one whole."

"Parts in what sense?" I asked. "Like the parts of a face -- mouth, nose, eyes, ears -- where each part is different and has its own function? Or like pieces of gold, which only differ from each other and from the whole by being larger or smaller?"

"The first way," he said. "They relate to each other the way the parts of a face relate to the whole face."

"And do people have some parts of virtue but not others? Or if someone has one part, does he necessarily have all of them?"

"Not at all," he said. "Plenty of men are brave without being just, or just without being wise."

"So you wouldn't deny that courage and wisdom are also parts of virtue?"

"Absolutely they are," he said. "And wisdom is the most important part."

"And each part is different from the others?"

"Yes."

"And does each part have its own distinct function, like the parts of the face? The eye isn't like the ear, and doesn't do what the ear does. None of the parts resemble each other, either in their function or in any other way. Is that how the parts of virtue work too? Each one different in itself and in what it does? That's what your comparison implies."

"Yes, Socrates. You're right. That's what I mean."

"So no part of virtue is like any other? Knowledge isn't like justice, justice isn't like courage, courage isn't like self-control, self-control isn't like reverence?"

"That's correct."

"All right then," I said, "let's look more closely at their natures. First: you'd agree that justice is a real thing? Not just a word, but something that actually exists?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now suppose someone asked us, 'You two keep talking about this thing called justice -- is justice itself just, or unjust?' I'd answer: just. Would you agree?"

"I would."

"And if he pressed further, I'd say that justice, by its very nature, is the kind of thing that is just. Would you say the same?"

"Yes."

"Now suppose he continued: 'And is there also such a thing as holiness?' We'd say yes, right?"

"Right."

"'And holiness is a real thing too?' We'd agree?"

He agreed.

"'And is this thing -- holiness -- of the nature of the holy, or the unholy?' Honestly, I'd be annoyed by that question. I'd say, 'Watch yourself -- how could anything be holy if holiness itself isn't holy?' What would you say?"

"The same thing, absolutely."

"Good. Now suppose this questioner moved on and said, 'Wait a moment. Didn't I hear you say earlier that the parts of virtue are different from one another?' I'd reply, 'You heard that correctly, but it wasn't me who said it -- I only asked the question. Protagoras gave that answer.' And then he turns to you and says, 'Is that right, Protagoras? You maintain that the parts of virtue are unlike each other?' What would you say?"

"I couldn't deny it, Socrates. It is what I said."

"Well then, having established that, suppose our questioner continued: 'So holiness isn't like justice in nature, and justice isn't like holiness? In fact, holiness is of a nature that is not-just, and justice is of a nature that is not-holy -- which means justice is unholy and holiness is unjust?'

"How would we answer that? Personally, I'd say on my own behalf that justice is holy and holiness is just. And I'd say the same on your behalf, if you'd let me -- that justice is either the same as holiness, or at least very nearly the same. Above all, I'd insist that justice is like holiness and holiness is like justice. What do you say? Will you let me answer that way, or do you disagree?"

"It's not quite that simple, Socrates," he said. "I can't just agree that justice is holy and holiness is just. There seems to me to be a difference between them. But what does it matter? If you want to call them the same, I'm fine with that."

"Hold on," I said. "I don't want your 'if you want' or 'I'm fine with that.' I want us to test what's actually true, not just reach a convenient agreement. The conclusion will be strongest if we strip away all the 'ifs.'"

"Fair enough," he said. "I'll grant that justice resembles holiness. But then again, everything resembles everything else in some way. White resembles black in certain respects. Hard resembles soft. Even the most extreme opposites share some quality. And the parts of the face, which we just said are different and have different functions, are still similar to each other in some way. By that logic, you could prove anything is like anything else. But things that share one small similarity shouldn't be called 'alike,' and things that differ in one small way shouldn't be called 'unlike.'"

"Are you really saying," I asked, surprised, "that justice and holiness are only slightly alike?"

"Not exactly," he said. "But it's not what I think you're arguing either."

"All right," I said. "Since this is giving you trouble, let's set it aside and try a different angle. Do you agree that there's such a thing as foolishness?"

"Yes."

"And isn't wisdom the exact opposite of foolishness?"

"It is," he said.

"Now, when people act rightly and effectively, would you say they're acting with self-control?"

"Yes."

"And it's self-control that makes them act that way?"

"Yes."

"And people who don't act rightly are acting foolishly, and when they act foolishly, they're clearly not acting with self-control?"

"I agree."

"So acting foolishly is the opposite of acting with self-control?"

He agreed.

"And foolish actions are done through foolishness, while self-controlled actions are done through self-control?"

He agreed.

"And things done with strength are done strongly, and things done with weakness are done weakly?"

He agreed.

"And things done with speed are done quickly, and things done with slowness are done slowly?"

He agreed.

"And whatever is done in the same manner is done by the same quality, and whatever is done in the opposite manner is done by the opposite quality?"

He agreed.

"Now," I said, "is there such a thing as beauty?"

"Yes."

"And its only opposite is ugliness?"

"Yes."

"And is there such a thing as good?"

"Yes."

"And its only opposite is evil?"

"Yes."

"And is there such a thing as high pitch in sound?"

"Yes."

"And its only opposite is low pitch?"

"Nothing else."

"So every quality has one and only one opposite?"

He agreed.

"Now let's go back through what we've established. We agreed that everything has one opposite and no more?"

"Yes."

"And we agreed that what is done in opposite ways is done by opposite qualities?"

"Yes."

"And we agreed that what is done foolishly is done in the opposite way from what is done with self-control?"

"Yes."

"And that self-controlled actions come from self-control, foolish actions from foolishness?"

"Yes."

"And that what is done in opposite ways is done by opposites?"

"Yes."

"And self-control produces one kind of action, foolishness produces the opposite?"

"Yes."

"Done in opposite ways?"

"Yes."

"Therefore by opposite qualities? So foolishness is the opposite of self-control?"

"It appears so."

"Now, do you remember that we already agreed foolishness is the opposite of wisdom?"

He nodded.

"And we said that every quality has only one opposite?"

"Yes."

"Then, Protagoras, which of our claims do we give up? One says that everything has exactly one opposite. The other says that wisdom and self-control are distinct, that they're separate parts of virtue, and that they're not only distinct but dissimilar -- different in themselves and in their functions, like the parts of a face. Which claim do we abandon? Because they can't both be true. If everything has only one opposite, and foolishness clearly seems to be the opposite of both wisdom and self-control -- then wisdom and self-control must be the same thing. Isn't that right?"

He conceded, very reluctantly.

"So self-control and wisdom are the same thing -- just as justice and holiness appeared to be the same, or nearly the same, a moment ago.

"Now, Protagoras," I said, "we can't stop here. Let's not lose our nerve. Do you think a man can be unjust and yet exercise self-control in his injustice?"

"I'd be ashamed to say yes to that, Socrates," he said. "Though I know plenty of people do."

"Would you rather I argued with them, or with you?"

"Why don't you argue with the majority opinion first," he said, "if you don't mind."

"It doesn't matter to me -- whichever you prefer, as long as you're the one answering. My goal is to test the validity of the argument. But it may turn out that both of us -- the questioner and the answerer -- end up being tested."

Protagoras hedged at first, saying the argument wasn't going in an encouraging direction. But eventually he agreed to continue.

"All right then," I said. "Let's start from the beginning. Some people are unjust, yet exercise self-control. Is that the position?"

"Let's say it is," he said.

"And self-control means having good sense?"

"Yes."

"And having good sense means having good judgment -- including in doing injustice?"

"Let's say so."

"Good judgment if they succeed," I said, "or if they don't?"

"If they succeed."

"Now, would you agree that some things are genuinely good?"

"Yes."

"And are good things the things that benefit people?"

"Well, yes," he said. "Though I'd add that some things can be harmful to people and yet I'd still call them good."

I could see Protagoras getting irritated. He looked like he was bracing for a fight. So I proceeded gently.

"When you say some harmful things are good, Protagoras, do you mean harmful to people specifically? Or harmful in every way? Do you call something good even if it's completely useless in every respect?"

"Of course not," he said. "But I know many things that are harmful to people yet still good -- foods, drinks, medicines, and ten thousand other things. Some things are bad for humans but good for horses. Some are good only for cattle, others only for dogs. Some aren't good for any animal but are good for trees. And even within trees, what's good for the roots can destroy the branches. Take manure: spread it on the roots and the tree thrives; dump it on the young shoots and branches and you'll kill them. Or take olive oil -- it's terrible for plants and absolutely destructive to the hair of every animal except humans, for whom it's actually beneficial. And even for humans, what's good for the outside of the body can be very bad for the inside. That's why doctors tell their patients to use only tiny amounts of oil in their food -- just enough to mask unpleasant smells in their meals."

The audience applauded.

"Protagoras," I said, "I have a terrible memory. When someone gives a long speech, I lose track of the argument. Now, if I were hard of hearing and you wanted to talk to me, you'd raise your voice. So since I have a bad memory, please cut your answers shorter -- otherwise I won't be able to follow you."

"What do you mean, shorter?" he said. "Too short?"

"No, not that."

"Short enough?"

"Yes."

"Short enough in my judgment, or in yours?"

"I've heard," I said, "that you're equally capable of speaking at great length -- so that the words never run dry -- or with such brevity that no one could use fewer words. So if you're going to talk with me, please use the shorter method."

"Socrates," he said, "I've fought many a verbal battle, and if I'd used whatever method my opponents preferred -- the way you're asking me to do -- I'd never have beaten anyone. The name of Protagoras would mean nothing."

I could tell he wasn't happy with how his previous answers had gone, and that he wasn't going to keep playing the role of answerer if he could help it. I decided it wasn't my job to force the issue.

"Protagoras," I said, "I don't want to push you into a conversation you'd rather not have. When you're willing to argue in a way I can follow, I'll argue with you. You're said to be equally good at long and short discourse -- that's your gift. But I can't handle the long speeches. I wish I could. Since you're capable of both, though, I'm just asking you to use the shorter form. But I can see you'd rather not, and I do have somewhere I need to be, so I should probably go. I would have liked to hear more, though."

I stood up and was starting to leave when Callias grabbed me -- my right hand in his right hand, and my old cloak in his left.

"We can't let you leave, Socrates! If you go, the whole discussion falls apart. Please stay. There's nothing I'd rather hear than you and Protagoras going at it."

"Son of Hipponicus," I said, "I've always admired your love of philosophy, and I'd gladly oblige if I could. But what you're asking is impossible. It's as if you asked me to keep pace with Crison of Himera in a footrace, when the man's in his prime. I'd love to run as fast as he does -- but my legs won't cooperate. If you want to see us in the same race, you'd have to ask him to slow down. I can't run fast, but he can run slow. Same thing here. If you want to hear Protagoras and me have a real discussion, ask him to keep his answers short, like he did at the beginning. Otherwise, how can we have a discussion? A discussion is one thing, and giving a speech is quite another."

"But Socrates," Callias said, "surely Protagoras has the right to speak in his own way, just as you speak in yours?"

At this point Alcibiades jumped in: "That's not fair, Callias. Socrates freely admits he can't give long speeches -- he yields that crown to Protagoras. But I'd be amazed if he yielded to any living person in the ability to hold and follow an argument. If Protagoras would make a similar concession -- admitting he's not quite as good at tight argumentation as Socrates -- that would settle it. But if he claims to be better at argument too, then let him prove it by asking and answering properly, instead of launching into lengthy speeches every time he's asked a question -- speeches so long that most of the audience forgets what the original question was. Not that Socrates will forget -- I'll vouch for that, even when he jokes about having a bad memory. So I think Socrates is in the right here, and I think every person should say what he honestly thinks."

After Alcibiades, Critias spoke up: "Prodicus, Hippias -- it looks like Callias is taking Protagoras' side, which naturally led Alcibiades to take the opposite position. But we shouldn't be partisans of either Socrates or Protagoras. Let's all join together in asking both of them not to break off the discussion."

Then Prodicus added: "Well said, Critias. Those of us in the audience should be impartial listeners, hearing both sides. But remember: impartiality isn't the same as treating both sides equally. We should hear both speakers without prejudice, but give more weight to the wiser one.

"So I too ask you, Protagoras and Socrates, to keep discussing -- to argue, but not to bicker. Friends argue with friends out of goodwill. Enemies bicker. If you do that, you speakers will earn our genuine esteem -- not mere praise. Esteem is the honest conviction that forms in a listener's soul. Praise is often just polite words people say without believing them. And we in the audience will experience true satisfaction -- not just pleasure. Satisfaction comes to the mind through the intake of wisdom and knowledge. Pleasure is what the body feels when eating or enjoying some other physical delight."

The audience applauded Prodicus warmly.

Hippias the sage spoke up next. He said: All of you here -- I consider you kinsmen, friends, and fellow citizens, by nature if not by law. Because by nature, like is drawn to like, but law is a tyrant over humanity, and often forces us to do things that go against our nature. So how embarrassing would it be if we -- people who understand how things really work, the wisest people in all of Greece, gathered here in this city that's the capital of wisdom, in the greatest and most impressive house in the city -- if we had nothing to show for all this distinction except squabbling with each other like the lowest sort of people? What I'm urging -- begging, really -- is that you, Protagoras, and you, Socrates, agree to a compromise. Let us be your peacemakers. Socrates, don't insist on that extreme, razor-sharp brevity in your arguments if Protagoras objects. Loosen the reins a bit, let your words flow more freely and grandly. And Protagoras, don't set all your sails and go racing off into an ocean of words until you're completely out of sight of land. Let there be a happy middle ground between you. And here's my advice: choose an umpire or moderator or chairman, someone who'll keep an eye on both of you and make sure your speeches stay a reasonable length.

Everyone approved of this proposal. Callias said he wasn't going to let me leave, and they all urged me to choose an umpire. But I said that choosing a referee for a discussion would be inappropriate. If the person chosen were less capable than us, then having someone inferior presiding over his betters would be wrong. If he were our equal, he'd do exactly what we do, so what's the point of choosing him? And if you say, "Let's find someone better" -- well, I don't think you can find anyone wiser than Protagoras. And if you choose someone who isn't really better but you just say he is, that would be an insult to Protagoras, as if you were putting a supervisor over him like he were some inferior person -- not that something like that would bother me much personally. But here's what I'll do instead, so that the conversation can go on the way you all want it to. If Protagoras doesn't feel like answering, let him ask the questions and I'll answer. And at the same time, I'll try to show him how I think an answerer ought to respond. Once I've answered as many questions as he likes, he can take his turn answering mine. If he doesn't seem to be sticking to the point, all of you can join me in urging him -- just as you urged me -- not to derail the discussion. This way we won't need any special referee. You'll all be referees together.

This was generally approved, and Protagoras, very much against his will, was forced to agree that he'd ask questions first, and then, when he'd asked enough, take his turn answering mine in short replies. He began his questioning like this:

I believe, Socrates, he said, that the most important part of education is being skilled in poetry -- by which I mean the ability to understand which parts of the poets' compositions are correct and which aren't, to tell them apart, and to explain the difference when asked. So I'm going to take the question you and I have been debating and move it into the realm of poetry. We'll still be talking about virtue, but through the lens of a particular poem. Now, Simonides says to Scopas, the son of Creon of Thessaly:

"Hard it is, on the one hand, for a man to become truly good, built foursquare in hands and feet and mind, crafted without a flaw."

Do you know the poem? Or should I recite the whole thing?

No need, I said. I know it perfectly well -- I've studied it carefully.

Very good, he said. And do you think the poem is well composed, and true?

Yes, I said. Both well composed and true.

But if there's a contradiction in it, can it really be good or true?

No, not in that case, I replied.

And isn't there a contradiction? he asked. Think about it.

Well, my friend, I have thought about it.

And doesn't the poet go on to say, "I disagree with the saying of Pittacus, wise man though he was: 'Hard it is to be good'"? You see that this comes from the same poet.

And do you think, he said, that these two statements are consistent?

Yes, I said -- I think so. (Though I have to admit, I couldn't help worrying that he might be onto something.)

And you really think otherwise?

Look, he said, how can he possibly be consistent? First, he states as his own view that "hard it is for a man to become truly good." Then a little later in the poem, apparently forgetting what he said, he criticizes Pittacus and refuses to agree with him when Pittacus says "hard it is to be good" -- which is exactly the same thing. So when he criticizes someone for saying the same thing he said himself, he's criticizing himself. He must be wrong in either his first statement or his second.

A lot of the audience cheered and applauded at this. And I have to say, at first I felt dizzy and faint, like I'd taken a punch from a professional boxer -- between his words and the roar of the crowd. To be honest, I needed time to figure out what the poet really meant. So I turned to Prodicus and called out to him. Prodicus, I said, Simonides is from your part of the world -- you ought to come to his defense. I need to summon your help, the way the river Scamander in Homer, when it's being overwhelmed by Achilles, calls on the Simois for backup:

"Dear brother, let the two of us together hold back this hero's power."

I'm calling on you the same way, because I'm afraid Protagoras is going to demolish Simonides. This is the moment to defend Simonides using that specialty of yours -- your philosophy of synonyms, the one that lets you distinguish between "wanting" and "wishing" and draw all those delightful fine distinctions you were making earlier. Tell me if you agree with my reading. I don't think there's any contradiction in Simonides at all. But first, Prodicus, let me ask you: in your view, is "being" the same thing as "becoming"?

Certainly not, replied Prodicus.

Right. Now, didn't Simonides first state, as his own view, that "hard it is for a man to become truly good"?

Exactly right, said Prodicus.

And then he criticizes Pittacus -- but not, as Protagoras imagines, for repeating what Simonides himself said. The statements are different. Pittacus didn't say, like Simonides, that it's hard for a man to become good. He said it's hard to be good. And as our friend Prodicus here would insist, being is not the same as becoming. So Simonides isn't contradicting himself at all. I'd guess Prodicus and many others would agree with Hesiod, who said:

"Hard it is, on the one hand, for a man to become good, for the gods have placed virtue at the end of a long road of toil. But on the other hand, once you've climbed to the summit, holding onto virtue, however hard it was to win -- that part is easy."

Prodicus heard this and approved. But Protagoras said: Your correction, Socrates, contains a bigger mistake than the one you're trying to fix.

Well, I said, that's terrible news, Protagoras. I'm like a doctor who's making his patient worse.

That's exactly the situation, he said.

How so? I asked.

Because, he replied, the poet could never have made the mistake of saying that virtue -- which everyone agrees is the hardest thing in the world -- can be easily kept.

Ah, I said, and what a stroke of luck that we have Prodicus with us at just the right moment! You know, Protagoras, Prodicus has a kind of wisdom that I suspect is more than human -- it may be as old as Simonides himself, or even older. You're clearly learned in many things, but you don't seem to know about this. I know it because I'm Prodicus's student. And if I'm not mistaken, you're misunderstanding the word "hard" as Simonides used it. Let me set you straight, the way Prodicus always sets me straight when I use the word "terrible" as a compliment. If I say that Protagoras or anyone else is a "terribly" wise man, Prodicus asks me if I'm not ashamed to call something good "terrible." He explains that "terrible" always has a negative connotation -- nobody talks about "terrible" health, "terrible" wealth, or "terrible" peace. They say "terrible" disease, "terrible" war, "terrible" poverty -- because "terrible" means bad. I think Simonides and his fellow Ceans, when they said "hard," meant "bad" -- something that you're missing. Let's ask Prodicus, since he should be the expert on Simonides's dialect. What did Simonides mean by "hard," Prodicus?

Bad, said Prodicus.

So, I said, that's why Prodicus says Simonides criticizes Pittacus for saying "hard is it to be good" -- it's as if Pittacus had said "bad is it to be good."

Exactly, Prodicus said. That was certainly Simonides's meaning. He's mocking Pittacus for not knowing how to use words properly -- which is only natural for a Lesbian, someone raised speaking a rough dialect.

Do you hear that, Protagoras? I asked. Do you have an answer for him?

You're completely wrong, Prodicus, said Protagoras. I know perfectly well that when Simonides used the word "hard," he meant what all of us mean by it -- not "bad," but "not easy," something that takes a great deal of effort. I'm certain of it.

I said: You know, Protagoras, I'm actually inclined to think you're right about what Simonides meant. I suspect our friend Prodicus knew that too, but was having a bit of fun -- testing whether you could defend your position. Because that Simonides couldn't have meant "bad" is obvious from what follows in the poem, where he says that only a god can have this gift. He surely can't mean that being good is bad, and then turn around and say that only a god possesses this quality. If he meant "bad," then Prodicus would be making Simonides out to be reckless -- which is very unlike his fellow Ceans. But let me tell you what I think the real meaning of Simonides's poem is, if you'd like to put my poetic interpretation to the test. Or if you'd rather, I'll listen.

Protagoras replied: Whatever you like. And Hippias, Prodicus, and the others all urged me to go ahead.

Well then, I said, I'll try to explain my reading of this poem. There's a very ancient tradition of philosophy that flourished more in Crete and Sparta than anywhere else in Greece -- and there are more philosophers in those places than anywhere in the world. But here's the thing: it's a secret. The Spartans deny it. They pretend to be ignorant, because they don't want the rest of the world to realize that they rule through wisdom, like the Sophists Protagoras was talking about, rather than through courage and military strength. They figure that if people knew the real reason for their supremacy, everyone would start studying philosophy. And this secret has never been discovered by the fans of Spartan culture in other cities -- you know, the ones who go around with cauliflower ears in imitation of the Spartans, who wrap their fists with boxing straps, who are always in training, who wear those short cloaks. They think those are the practices that make the Spartans dominant. But when the Spartans want to relax and have open conversation with their wise men, when they've had enough of meeting in secret, they drive out all these Spartan-wannabes and any foreigners who happen to be around, and hold philosophical discussions in private, hidden from strangers. They also don't let their young men travel to other cities -- just like the Cretans -- so they won't unlearn what they've been taught. And in Sparta and Crete, it's not only men but women who take pride in their intellectual culture. And here's how you can tell I'm right that the Spartans truly excel at philosophy: if you talk to the most ordinary Spartan, you'll find he's usually nothing special in general conversation. But then, at some random point, he'll fire off a remark as sharp and precise as a spear throw -- terse, packed with meaning, perfectly aimed. And whoever he's talking to suddenly looks like a child in comparison. Many people, in our time and in the past, have recognized that the true Spartan character loves philosophy even more than athletics. They understand that only a perfectly educated person can produce sayings like that. Among them were Thales of Miletus, Pittacus of Mytilene, Bias of Priene, our own Solon, Cleobulus of Lindos, Myson of Chenae, and seventh on the list, Chilon the Spartan. All of these were admirers and students of Spartan culture, and anyone can see that their wisdom was of this kind -- consisting of short, memorable sayings. They met together and dedicated to Apollo at Delphi, as the first fruits of their wisdom, those famous inscriptions that everyone knows: "Know thyself" and "Nothing in excess."

Why am I telling you all this? To explain that this Spartan-style brevity was the hallmark of ancient philosophy. Now, there was a particular saying of Pittacus that circulated privately and was admired by the wise: "Hard it is to be good." Simonides, who was ambitious for a reputation in wisdom, knew that if he could demolish this saying, it would be like defeating a famous champion. He'd win the prize among his contemporaries. And if I'm not mistaken, he composed his entire poem as a deliberate attack on this saying of Pittacus.

Let's examine his words together and see if I'm right. Simonides would have had to be crazy if, right at the start of the poem, wanting simply to say that becoming good is hard, he threw in the word "on the one hand" -- "On the one hand, hard it is for a man to become truly good." There's no reason for that "on the one hand" unless you suppose he's setting up a contrast with Pittacus's words. Pittacus says "Hard it is to be good," and Simonides fires back: the really hard thing, Pittacus, is to become good -- connecting "truly" not with "good" but with "hard." Not that it's hard to be truly good, as if some people are truly good and others are sort of good but not truly (that would be a trivial observation, unworthy of Simonides). No, you have to read "truly" as modifying "hard." He's recasting Pittacus's saying. Imagine the two of them in a debate. "My friends," Pittacus says, "hard it is to be good." And Simonides answers: "Wrong, Pittacus. The hard thing isn't to be good. What's hard -- truly hard -- is to become good: foursquare in hands and feet and mind, crafted without a flaw." This reading explains the "on the one hand," explains why "truly" comes where it does, and everything that follows confirms this interpretation. There's much more that could be said about the fine details of this beautifully crafted poem, but that would get tedious. Let me just lay out the general argument, which is clearly designed throughout as a refutation of Pittacus.

Because what Simonides goes on to argue, a bit further along, is this: although it's difficult to become good, it is possible -- for a time, and only for a time. But having become good, to stay good permanently, as you claim, Pittacus -- that's impossible. That's not something granted to human beings. Only a god has that privilege. "But a person can't help being bad when irresistible circumstances overpower him." Now, who gets overpowered by irresistible circumstances in commanding a ship? Not the ordinary passenger -- he's always helpless anyway. You can't knock down someone who's already lying on the ground; you can only knock down someone who's standing. In the same way, irresistible circumstances can only overpower someone who has ability and resources at some point, not someone who's helpless all the time. A massive storm can overpower a skilled pilot. A brutal season can overpower a good farmer or a skilled doctor. The good person can become bad, as another poet says:

"The good are sometimes good and sometimes bad."

But a bad person doesn't become bad -- he always was bad. So when overwhelming circumstances crush someone with ability, skill, and virtue, then and only then does the person "become bad" helplessly. And you, Pittacus, say "hard it is to be good." But really: becoming good is the hard part, though it's possible. Being good permanently? That's impossible --

"For the one who does well is the good person, and the one who does badly is bad."

But what counts as "doing well" in reading and writing? What kind of doing makes someone good at it? Obviously, knowing how to read and write. And what kind of doing makes someone a good doctor? Obviously, knowledge of the healing arts. "And the one who does badly is bad." So who becomes a bad doctor? Clearly, someone who is first of all a doctor, and secondly a good doctor -- such a person might also become a bad one. But none of us amateurs, no matter how badly we perform, can ever become doctors, let alone bad doctors. We can't become bad carpenters or bad anything else in a field we never entered. In the same way, only the good person can deteriorate -- through time, or hardship, or illness, or some other misfortune (the only real "doing badly" is being robbed of knowledge). The bad person will never become bad, because he's bad already. If he were ever to become bad, he'd have to have been good first. So the whole thrust of the poem is that a person can't stay good continuously, but can become good and can also become bad; and that

"Those are best for the longest time whom the gods love."

All of this is aimed at Pittacus, as the rest of the poem proves further. Because Simonides adds:

"Therefore I won't waste my brief span of life searching in vain for what can't exist -- a completely faultless human being among all those who share the fruit of the broad earth. But if I find one, I'll send you word."

(This is the aggressive way he keeps up his attack on Pittacus throughout the entire poem.)

"But anyone who does no evil -- willingly I praise and love. Not even the gods fight against necessity."

All of this has the same point. Simonides wasn't so foolish as to say he praised those who did no evil willingly, as though some people do evil on purpose. No wise person, I believe, would say that any human being makes mistakes voluntarily or willingly does bad and shameful things. They know perfectly well that everyone who does bad and shameful things does them against their will. And Simonides doesn't say he praises someone who does no evil "willingly" -- that "willingly" applies to himself, to his own act of praising. He believed that a good person might often have to force himself to love and praise another person -- might have to become the friend and supporter of someone he doesn't naturally admire. It's like a kind of involuntary love, the sort you might feel toward a difficult father or mother, or your country, or something like that. When bad people have parents or a country with serious flaws, they look on with almost gleeful spite, pointing out the defects and exposing them to others -- figuring that the rest of the world will be less likely to blame them for their own neglect. They criticize the flaws far more than they deserve, piling on extra hostility. But good people hide their feelings, force themselves to find praise, and if they've been wronged and are angry, they calm themselves down and make peace, compelling themselves to love and honor their own flesh and blood. Simonides, I think, had often found himself in the position of having to praise and glorify some tyrant or similar figure very much against his will. And he also wants Pittacus to understand that he's not criticizing him out of spite.

"I'm satisfied," he says, "when a person is neither bad nor too foolish, and when he knows justice (which is the health of communities) and is of sound mind -- I won't find fault with him. I'm not the fault-finding type, and there's no shortage of fools."

(implying that if he enjoyed fault-finding, he'd have plenty of targets.)

"All things are good from which evil is absent."

In these words, he doesn't mean that all things are good which have no evil in them -- the way you might say "all things are white that have no black in them," which would be absurd. He means he accepts and doesn't criticize the moderate, in-between state.

("I don't hope," he says, "to find a perfectly blameless person among those who share the fruit of the broad earth -- but if I find one, I'll send you word. In this spirit, I praise no one. But whoever is moderately good and does no evil is good enough for me, and I love and approve of everyone")

(and notice here that he uses a Lesbian word, epainemi -- "approve" -- because he's addressing Pittacus,

"who love and approve of everyone willingly, who does no evil")

and the key punctuation break should come after "willingly": "but there are some whom I involuntarily praise and love. You, Pittacus -- I'd never have criticized you if you'd said something moderately good and true. But I do criticize you because, while putting on the appearance of truth, you're speaking falsely about the most important matters." And that, I said, addressing Prodicus and Protagoras, is what I take to be Simonides's meaning in this poem.

Hippias said: I think, Socrates, that's a very good explanation of the poem. But I also have an excellent interpretation of my own, which I'd like to share with you, if you'll let me.

Hold on, Hippias, said Alcibiades. Not now -- some other time. Right now we need to stick to the agreement between Socrates and Protagoras: as long as Protagoras is willing to ask questions, Socrates should answer; or if Protagoras would rather answer, then Socrates should ask.

I said: I'd be happy if Protagoras wants to either ask or answer, as he prefers. But I'd really rather be done with poems and odes, if he doesn't mind, and get back to the question I was raising at the start, Protagoras -- and with your help, see it through to the end. Honestly, all this talk about poets reminds me of the kind of entertainment at a low-rent dinner party where the guests can't actually hold a conversation or amuse each other with their own words over drinks -- because they've got nothing interesting to say -- so they hire flute-girls at inflated prices, paying for someone else's music to fill the silence. But when the guests are genuinely educated, thoughtful people, you won't see any flute-girls or dancing-girls or harp-girls. They don't need that noise. They're perfectly content with their own conversation, speaking in turn, keeping things orderly, even when they're drinking freely. A group like ours, made up of people who claim to be what we claim to be, shouldn't need someone else's voice or the poets' words -- poets you can't even cross-examine about what they meant. When people quote poets in arguments, one person says the poet meant this, another says he meant that, and they're debating a point that can never be settled. Serious thinkers avoid that kind of thing. They prefer to test each other directly, using their own words and ideas. That's the model I'd like us to follow. Let's leave the poets behind and stick to ourselves, putting each other to the proof in honest conversation. If you want to ask questions, I'm ready to answer. Or if you'd rather, you answer and give me the chance to pick up where we left off and finish the argument we started.

I said all of this and more along the same lines. But Protagoras wouldn't clearly say which he'd rather do. So Alcibiades turned to Callias and said: Do you think it's fair, Callias, that Protagoras refuses to say whether he'll answer or not? I certainly don't. He should either continue the argument or say straight out that he won't -- so the rest of us know where we stand. Then Socrates can talk with someone else, and the rest of the company can have their own conversations.

I think Protagoras was genuinely embarrassed by Alcibiades's words. And when Callias and the rest of the group added their appeals, he finally agreed to continue the argument. He said I should ask the questions and he'd answer.

So I said: Don't think, Protagoras, that I have any motive in asking you questions beyond wanting to work through the problems that genuinely puzzle me. I really believe Homer was right when he said:

"When two go together, one sees what the other misses."

Because all of us, when we have a companion, are sharper in action, word, and thought. But when someone

"sees a thing when he is alone,"

he goes looking right away for someone to share his discovery with and confirm it. And I'd rather work through these problems with you than with anyone else, because I think no one has a better grasp of the things a good person should understand, and of virtue in particular. Who else could I turn to? You don't just claim to be a good and honorable person -- plenty of people can claim that without being able to make others good. But you are yourself good and can make others good too. And you have so much confidence in your abilities that while other Sophists try to hide what they do, you've announced to all of Greece that you're a Sophist, a teacher of virtue and education, and you were the first to charge a fee for it. How could I possibly not invite you to examine these questions with me? I have to.

So let me refresh both our memories about where we were. If I'm right, the question was this: are wisdom, self-control, courage, justice, and piety five names for the same thing? Or does each name refer to a distinct underlying reality, each with its own unique nature, no one of them being the same as any other? And you said they're not names for the same thing. Each has its own distinct reality. They're all parts of virtue -- but not the way pieces of gold are parts of a bar of gold, where every piece is like every other piece and like the whole. They're parts the way the features of a face are parts -- where the mouth, nose, eyes, and ears are all different from each other and from the whole face, and each has its own distinct function. I'd like to know if that's still your view. Or if you've changed your mind, just say so. I won't hold you to it. You may have said what you did earlier just to test me.

I stand by what I said, Socrates, he replied. All these qualities are parts of virtue, and four of the five are reasonably similar to each other. But the fifth -- courage -- is very different from the rest. Here's my proof: you can find plenty of people who are thoroughly unjust, impious, undisciplined, and ignorant, but who are nevertheless remarkably brave.

Wait, I said. I'd like to think about that. When you say brave people, do you mean people who are bold and confident? Or some other kind?

Yes, he said -- I mean the reckless ones, the people who charge at things that everyone else is afraid of.

Next point: would you agree that virtue is a good thing -- a thing you teach others?

Yes, he said. I'd call it the best of all things, if I'm in my right mind.

And is it partly good and partly bad, I asked, or entirely good?

Entirely good, and in the highest degree.

Now tell me: who feels confident about diving into a well?

The trained divers, I'd say.

And why? Because they have knowledge?

Yes, that's the reason.

And who feels confident fighting on horseback -- the skilled rider or the unskilled one?

The skilled rider.

And who in fighting with light shields -- the trained soldiers or the untrained?

The trained soldiers. And that's true across the board, he said, if that's where you're heading: people with knowledge are more confident than people without it, and they're more confident after they've learned something than they were before.

But haven't you also seen people who are completely ignorant of these things and yet full of confidence?

Yes, he said. I've seen far too many people like that.

And aren't these confident people also courageous?

In that case, he replied, courage would be something shameful, because the people we're talking about are clearly out of their minds.

Then who are the courageous? Aren't they the confident ones?

Yes, he said. I'll stick with that.

But the people who are confident without knowledge, I said -- we've just agreed they're not really courageous, they're crazy. So the wisest people would also be the most confident, and being the most confident, would also be the bravest. And on that logic, wisdom would be the same as courage.

No, Socrates, he replied. You're misremembering what I said. When you asked me, I did say that the courageous are the confident. But you never asked whether the confident are courageous. If you had, I'd have said, "Not all of them." You haven't shown that my answer was wrong. What you showed was that people with knowledge are more confident than they were before, and more confident than people without knowledge -- and from that, you jumped to the conclusion that courage is the same as wisdom. But by this logic, you could prove that strength is wisdom. You might start by asking me: "Are the strong able?" and I'd say yes. Then: "Are people who know how to wrestle more able than those who don't? And more able after they've learned than before?" I'd agree. And then you'd use my answers to prove that, on my own view, wisdom is strength. But I'd never admitted that the able are the strong -- only that the strong are able. Ability and strength aren't the same thing. Ability can come from knowledge, but also from madness or rage. Strength comes from nature and a healthy body. And it's the same with confidence and courage. They're not identical. The courageous are confident, but not everyone who's confident is courageous. Confidence can come from training, but also from madness and rage. Courage comes from nature and the healthy condition of the soul.

I said: You'd agree, Protagoras, that some people live well and others live badly?

He agreed.

And do you think someone lives well if they spend their life in pain and misery?

No, he said.

But if someone lives pleasantly all the way to the end of their life -- wouldn't you say they've lived well?

Yes.

So living pleasantly is good, and living in pain is bad?

Yes, he said -- if the pleasure comes from what's good and honorable.

Really, Protagoras? I asked. Are you like most people, who call some pleasant things bad and some painful things good? Because my own view is more like this: things are good insofar as they're pleasant -- assuming they don't lead to bad consequences -- and things are bad insofar as they're painful.

I don't know, Socrates, he said, whether I can state it quite that simply -- that the pleasant is the good and the painful is the bad. Considering not just this particular answer but my whole life and reputation, I think I'd be safer saying: there are some pleasant things that aren't good, some painful things that are good, some that are neutral, and some that are neither one thing nor the other.

And by "pleasant," I said, you mean things that involve pleasure or create pleasure?

Certainly, he said.

So what I'm asking is this: insofar as things are pleasant, aren't they good? I'm suggesting that pleasure is itself a good.

Let's do what you always say, Socrates, Protagoras replied. "Let's think about this together." If the investigation supports it, and pleasure and good really turn out to be the same, then we'll agree. If not, then we'll have something to argue about.

Do you want to lead the investigation, I asked, or should I?

You should lead, he said. It's your question.

Fair enough. Let me use an analogy, I said. Suppose someone were examining another person's health or physical condition. He looks at the face and the fingertips and says, "Take off your shirt -- let me see your chest and back so I can examine you properly." That's the kind of thing I want to do here. Having heard your views on pleasure and good, I want to say: Open up your mind to me, Protagoras. Tell me what you think about knowledge. Do you agree with most people, or not? Here's what most people believe: knowledge isn't something powerful, isn't something that leads or commands. They think a person can have knowledge, and yet be overwhelmed by anger, or pleasure, or pain, or passion, or fear -- as if knowledge were a slave that gets dragged around by whatever impulse comes along. Is that your view? Or do you think knowledge is something noble and commanding, something that can't be overpowered -- that if a person truly knows the difference between good and bad, nothing can force them to act against that knowledge, and wisdom is strong enough to keep them on the right path?

I agree with you, Socrates, said Protagoras. And more than that -- it would be especially disgraceful for me, of all people, to deny that wisdom and knowledge are the most powerful forces in human life.

Good, I said. And true. But are you aware that most people disagree? The common belief is that people often know what's best and don't do it, even when they could. And when I've asked people why this happens, they say it's because they're "overcome by pleasure" or pain or one of those other things I mentioned.

Yes, Socrates, he replied. And that's hardly the only thing the majority gets wrong.

Well then, I said, suppose you and I tried to educate them about the true nature of this experience they call "being overcome by pleasure" -- this thing they say prevents them from always doing what's best. If we told them, "Friends, you've got it wrong -- that's not what's really going on," they'd probably say: "Socrates and Protagoras, if it's not 'being overcome by pleasure,' then what is it? What would you call it?"

But why, Socrates, should we bother with the opinion of the masses, who just say whatever pops into their heads?

I think, I said, that examining their views might actually help us figure out how courage relates to the other parts of virtue. If you're willing to stick with the plan and let me lead us toward what I think is the clearest path through this difficulty, then follow along. If not, we can drop it.

No, you're absolutely right, he said. Go on.

All right then, I said. Suppose they ask us again: "What do you say is really happening in what we call 'being overcome by pleasure'?" Here's what I'd answer: Listen, and Protagoras and I will try to explain. When people are overcome by food, drink, and other sensual desires -- things that are pleasant -- and they indulge in them while knowing they're harmful, you'd say they've been overcome by pleasure, right? They'd agree.

Then suppose you and I pressed them: "In what sense do you call these things harmful? Is it that they're pleasant in the moment, that they give you immediate gratification? Or is it because down the road they cause disease, poverty, and other problems? If these pleasures had no bad consequences at all -- if they simply gave you the experience of pleasure and nothing else -- would they still be bad?" I think they'd have to answer: these things aren't bad because of the pleasure they give right now. They're bad because of what comes after -- the diseases, the poverty, and so on.

I believe, said Protagoras, that most people would answer the way you describe.

And when these pleasures cause disease, don't they cause pain? And when they cause poverty, don't they cause pain? They'd agree to that too, wouldn't they?

Protagoras said yes.

Then I'd say to them, speaking for both of us: So you think these things are bad for no other reason than that they end in pain and deprive you of other pleasures? They'd agree, right?

We both thought so.

Now flip it around. "Friends, when you say that painful things are good -- aren't you talking about things like physical training, military service, medical treatments involving cautery, surgery, harsh drugs, and strict diets? These are the things that are painful but good?" They'd agree.

"And you call them good not because they cause terrible suffering in the moment, but because they eventually bring health, physical fitness, the safety of your city, power, and wealth?" They'd agree to that too, wouldn't they?

He said yes.

"And are these things good for any reason other than that they end in pleasure and relieve or prevent pain? Is there any standard you're using besides pleasure and pain when you call them good?" They'd have to say no.

I think so, said Protagoras.

"So you chase after pleasure because it's good, and you avoid pain because it's bad?"

He agreed.

"So pain is what you regard as bad, and pleasure as good. You even call pleasure bad when it costs you more pleasure than it gives, or causes more pain than the pleasure is worth. But if you're calling pleasure bad in relation to some other standard, you'd be able to tell us what that standard is. But you don't have one."

I don't think they do, said Protagoras.

"And isn't it the same with pain? You call pain good when it takes away greater pain or produces greater pleasure than the pain it causes. But if you have some other standard besides pleasure and pain for calling pain 'good,' you could show us what it is. But you can't."

True, said Protagoras.

Now suppose, I said, people ask us: "Why are you going on about this at such length?" Fair question, I'd say. But first: the whole argument hinges on explaining what "being overcome by pleasure" really means. And even now, if you can show us any way that good can be something other than pleasure, or bad something other than pain, you can retract what we've said. Can you? Are you satisfied to say that the good life is a life of pleasure without pain? If you are, and if you can't point to any good or bad that doesn't ultimately come down to pleasure and pain, then listen to what follows.

If all this is true, then the claim that people often knowingly do bad things because they're "overcome by pleasure" becomes absurd. And so does saying that someone knowingly refuses to do what's good because they're "overwhelmed by pleasure in the moment." To see how ridiculous this is, just stop switching between names. There are two things at work here. Let's call them by one pair of names at a time -- first "good" and "bad," then "pleasant" and "painful." Using the first pair: we say a person does what's bad knowing it's bad. Why? "Because he's overcome." Overcome by what? We can't say "by pleasure" anymore, because we've replaced "pleasure" with "good." So our answer is: "He's overcome by... the good." Imagine someone hearing that and laughing: "How absurd! A person does what he knows is bad, when he shouldn't, because he's overcome by the good?" And he'd ask: "Is the good that overcame him worth the trade, or not?" We'd clearly have to say: "No, it wasn't worth it -- because if it had been, the person who was supposedly 'overcome by pleasure' wouldn't have been wrong." "But how," our questioner presses, "can the good not be worth the bad, or the bad not worth the good?" There's only one answer: because they're out of proportion. One is greater, the other smaller. One is more, the other less. "And when you talk about being 'overcome,'" he'd say, "don't you just mean choosing a greater bad in exchange for a lesser good?"

We'd have to admit it.

Now put the words "pleasure" and "pain" back in for "good" and "bad," and say: a person does what's painful knowingly, because he's overcome by pleasure -- by pleasure that isn't worth overcoming the pain. And what determines whether pleasure is worth the pain or not? What measure compares them? Nothing but excess and deficiency -- they become greater and smaller, more and fewer, differ in degree. "But wait," someone says, "immediate pleasure is totally different from future pleasure and pain." And I'd reply: different in what way? Only in how much pleasure and how much pain they involve. There's no other standard.

Think of it like a scale, I'd say. You put pleasures on one side and pains on the other. You factor in how near or far away each one is, and you weigh them. Whichever side is heavier, that's the one you should go with. If you're weighing pleasures against pleasures, obviously take the greater amount. Pains against pains? Take the fewer and the smaller. Pleasures against pains? Choose the path where the painful is outweighed by the pleasant -- whether the distant outweighs the near, or the near outweighs the distant. And avoid the path where the pleasant is outweighed by the painful. Isn't that right, friends? I'm confident they couldn't deny it.

He agreed with me.

Good. Then answer me this, I'd continue: Don't the same objects look larger when they're close and smaller when they're far away? They'd agree. And the same goes for thickness and number. And sounds that are equal in themselves seem louder up close and softer at a distance. They'd agree to that too.

Now, if living well depends on choosing the greater and avoiding the lesser, what would be our salvation? Would it be the skill of measuring, or the power of appearances? Isn't it appearances -- that deceiving force -- that makes us wander back and forth, choosing one thing now and regretting it later, in our actions and our choices of great and small? But the skill of measuring would cut through the illusion of appearances, reveal the truth, and let the soul rest securely in that truth -- and so save our lives. Wouldn't people agree that the skill that accomplishes this is the skill of measuring?

Yes, he said. The skill of measuring.

Or suppose our salvation depended on choosing correctly between odd and even, on knowing when to choose the greater or the lesser, whether in relation to themselves or to each other, whether near or far. What would save us? Knowledge, obviously -- specifically, the knowledge of measuring when it's a matter of more and less, and the knowledge of number when it's a matter of odd and even. People would agree, wouldn't they?

Protagoras himself thought they would.

Well then, friends, I'd say to them: since it turns out that the salvation of human life depends on the right choice of pleasures and pains -- the choice of more and fewer, greater and lesser, nearer and farther -- doesn't that come down to measuring their excess, their deficit, and their equality relative to one another?

That's undeniable.

And whatever involves measuring must surely be a skill and a form of knowledge?

They'd agree, he said.

What exactly this skill or science is -- that's a question for another time. But the mere fact that such a science exists gives us a decisive answer to the question you originally asked me and Protagoras. Remember? We'd agreed that nothing is more powerful than knowledge, that knowledge always has the advantage over pleasure and everything else. But you challenged us: "What about when people are 'overcome by pleasure'? What's going on there? Tell us what you'd call it." If we'd immediately answered "Ignorance," you'd have laughed at us. But now, if you laugh, you're laughing at yourselves. Because you've admitted that people go wrong in choosing pleasures and pains -- that is, in choosing good and bad -- through a lack of knowledge. And not just knowledge in general, but specifically the knowledge we've been calling the skill of measuring. And as you know, every wrong action done without knowledge is done from ignorance. So this is what "being overcome by pleasure" really means: ignorance. The worst kind of ignorance.

And our friends Protagoras, Prodicus, and Hippias here claim to be the doctors who cure this ignorance. But you -- because you're under the delusion that ignorance isn't the real cause, and because you think this skill can't be taught -- you don't go to the Sophists yourselves, and you don't send your children to them. You guard your money and give them none. And the result is that you do worse both in public and in private life.

Let's suppose that's our answer to the general public. And now I want to ask you, Hippias, and you, Prodicus, along with Protagoras -- since this argument belongs to all of us -- do you think what I'm saying is true or not?

They all said they thought every word of it was true.

So you agree, I said, that the pleasant is the good and the painful is the bad. And here I'll ask my friend Prodicus to spare us his fine distinctions about terminology -- whether he wants to call it "pleasurable," "delightful," or "joyful," I don't care. Please just answer in the spirit of what I mean, Prodicus.

Prodicus laughed and agreed, and so did the others.

Then how about this, friends? I continued. Aren't all actions honorable and beneficial whose tendency is to make life free from pain and full of pleasure? Isn't honorable work also useful and good?

This was admitted.

So, I said, if the pleasant is the good, then nobody does something bad when they believe something better is available and within their reach. This kind of inferiority to oneself is simply ignorance, just as superiority over oneself is wisdom.

They all agreed.

And isn't ignorance exactly this: holding false beliefs and being deceived about important matters?

They unanimously agreed.

Then, I said, no one voluntarily pursues what's bad, or what they believe to be bad. It isn't in human nature to prefer what's bad over what's good. And when a person is forced to choose between two evils, no one will choose the greater when they can have the lesser.

Everyone agreed with every word of this.

Good, I said. Now there's a certain thing called fear or dread. And here, Prodicus, I'd particularly like to know: would you agree with me in defining fear or dread as the expectation of something bad?

Protagoras and Hippias agreed. Prodicus said that was fear, but not dread.

Never mind the distinction, Prodicus, I said. Here's my question: if everything we've said is true, would anyone run toward what they fear, when they're not forced to? That would flatly contradict what we've already established -- that people regard whatever they fear as bad, and no one willingly pursues or accepts what they believe to be bad.

This too was universally agreed.

Now then, I said, those are our premises, Hippias and Prodicus. And I'd like Protagoras to explain how he can still be right about what he said earlier. I'm not talking about his very first statement -- that there are five parts of virtue, none of which is like any other, each with its own distinct function. I'm talking about what he said after that: that four of the five virtues are closely related, but the fifth -- courage -- is fundamentally different from the rest. He gave this evidence: "You'll find, Socrates, that some of the most impious, unjust, undisciplined, and ignorant people are among the bravest. That proves courage is very different from the other parts of virtue." I was surprised by this at the time, and I'm even more surprised now that we've worked through all of this. So I asked him: when you say the brave, do you mean the bold and confident? "Yes," he said, "and the reckless -- the ones who charge straight in." (You remember saying that, Protagoras?)

He agreed.

Well then, I said, tell us: what do the courageous charge toward? The same things as cowards?

No, he answered.

Different things, then?

Yes, he said.

Do cowards go where it's safe, and the courageous where there's danger?

That's what people say, Socrates.

True, I said. But what I want to know is: do the courageous go toward things they believe to be dangerous, or toward things they don't believe to be dangerous?

They can't go toward what they believe to be dangerous, he said. We proved that's impossible in our earlier argument.

Exactly right, I replied. And if that proof was sound, then nobody goes to meet what they think is dangerous -- because being overwhelmed by one's impulses when rushing into danger has been shown to be ignorance.

He agreed.

And yet both the courageous and the cowardly go toward what they're confident about. So in that respect, they go toward the same things.

But Socrates, said Protagoras, what the coward goes toward is the exact opposite of what the courageous person goes toward. For instance, the courageous person is ready to go into battle, and the coward isn't.

And is going to battle honorable or disgraceful? I asked.

Honorable, he replied.

And if it's honorable, then we've already agreed it's good -- since we said all honorable actions are good.

That's true, and I'll always stand by that view.

Right, I said. So which group refuses to go to war, which is a good and honorable thing?

The cowards, he replied.

And what's good and honorable, I said, is also pleasant?

That's certainly what we established, he replied.

So the cowards knowingly refuse to go toward what's nobler, pleasanter, and better?

If we admit that, he replied, it would contradict everything we've already agreed to.

And doesn't the courageous person go toward what's better, pleasanter, and nobler?

I have to admit that.

And the courageous person has no shameful fear or shameful confidence?

True, he replied.

And if not shameful, then honorable?

He admitted it.

And if honorable, then good?

Yes.

But the fear and confidence of the coward, or the reckless fool, or the madman -- those are shameful?

He agreed.

And these shameful fears and misplaced confidences -- they come from ignorance and lack of education?

True, he said.

Now, the reason cowards act the way they do -- would you call that cowardice or courage?

Cowardice, he replied.

And haven't we just shown that they're cowards because of their ignorance about what's really dangerous and what isn't?

Absolutely, he said.

And it's because of that ignorance that they're cowards?

He agreed.

And you've admitted that what makes them cowards is cowardice?

He agreed again.

So ignorance of what is and isn't dangerous -- that is cowardice?

He nodded.

But surely courage is the opposite of cowardice?

Yes.

Then wisdom about what is and isn't dangerous is the opposite of ignorance about these things?

He nodded again.

And the ignorance of what is and isn't dangerous is cowardice?

Again he nodded, very reluctantly.

So the knowledge of what is and isn't dangerous -- that is courage, and it's the opposite of that ignorance?

At this point he wouldn't nod or speak. He was silent.

Why won't you agree or disagree, Protagoras? I asked.

Finish the argument yourself, he said.

Just one more question, I said. Do you still believe that there are people who are profoundly ignorant and yet profoundly brave?

You seem determined to make me answer, Socrates. Very well -- I'll give you what you want. Based on our argument, it appears to be impossible.

My only reason for pushing this discussion, I said, was my desire to understand the true nature of virtue and how its parts relate to each other. Because if we could get clear on that, I'm sure the other big debate we've been having -- you arguing that virtue can be taught, and I denying it -- would finally be settled too. And the result of our discussion strikes me as truly remarkable. If the argument had a human voice, it would be laughing at both of us, saying:

"What a strange pair you are, Socrates and Protagoras! There you are, Socrates, who started by claiming that virtue can't be taught -- and now you're contradicting yourself by trying to prove that everything is knowledge: justice, self-control, courage -- all of it knowledge. Which would mean that virtue obviously can be taught. After all, if virtue were something other than knowledge, as Protagoras was trying to show, then clearly it couldn't be taught. But if virtue turns out to be entirely a matter of knowledge, as you're now trying to demonstrate, then of course it can be taught.

"And then there's Protagoras, who started by saying virtue can be taught -- and now he's desperately trying to prove it's anything but knowledge. And if that's true, then it can't be taught at all."

When I see this enormous tangle, I said, all I want is to sort it out. I'd love to keep going until we've figured out what virtue actually is -- whether it can be taught or not -- so that Epimetheus doesn't trip us up and fool us in the argument the way he forgot about the humans in the story. I prefer your Prometheus to your Epimetheus, Protagoras. I'm trying to use Promethean foresight to take care of my own life. And if you're willing, I'd love your help in working through it, just as I said at the start.

Protagoras replied: Socrates, I'm not a petty person, and I'm the last man in the world to be envious. I can only admire your energy and the way you conduct an argument. As I've often said, of all the people I know, I admire you more than anyone -- and far more than anyone your age. I believe you're going to become truly distinguished in philosophy. Let's come back to this another time. For now, I think we should move on to other things.

By all means, I said. That suits me fine. I should have left a long time ago to keep the appointment I mentioned earlier. I only stayed because I couldn't refuse such a gracious host as Callias.

And with that, the conversation ended. And we went on our way.

Rhetoric, Love, and Beauty

Gorgias

On Rhetoric

Persons of the dialogue: Callicles Socrates Chaerephon Gorgias Polus

Scene: The house of Callicles

Callicles Well, as the saying goes, the wise man shows up late for the fight but right on time for the party.

Socrates Are we late for a party?

Callicles The best kind. Gorgias just gave us a magnificent performance.

Socrates That's not my fault, Callicles. Blame our friend Chaerephon here — he kept us wandering around the Agora.

Chaerephon Don't worry, Socrates. The damage I've done, I can undo. Gorgias is a friend of mine, and I'll get him to give the performance again — either now or whenever you'd like.

Callicles What's going on, Chaerephon — does Socrates want to hear Gorgias?

Chaerephon Yes, that's exactly why we came.

Callicles Then come inside. Gorgias is staying with me, and he'll perform for you.

Socrates Excellent, Callicles. But will he also answer our questions? I want to hear from him what exactly his skill is — what he claims to do and teach. He can save the big performance for another time, as Chaerephon suggests.

Callicles Nothing like asking him yourself, Socrates. In fact, answering questions is part of the performance. He was just saying that anyone in my house could ask him anything, and he'd answer.

Socrates How fortunate! Would you ask him, Chaerephon?

Chaerephon What should I ask?

Socrates Ask him who he is.

Chaerephon What do you mean?

Socrates I mean the kind of question that, if he were a shoemaker, would get the answer "I'm a cobbler." You understand?

Chaerephon I understand. I'll ask him. Tell me, Gorgias — is our friend Callicles right that you're willing to answer any question put to you?

Gorgias Absolutely right, Chaerephon. I was saying exactly that just now. And I might add, it's been years since anyone has asked me a new one.

Chaerephon Then you must be very quick on your feet, Gorgias.

Gorgias Try me and find out, Chaerephon.

Polus Oh, yes — and if you want, Chaerephon, you can try me too. I think Gorgias is tired after talking so long.

Chaerephon Really, Polus? You think you can answer better than Gorgias?

Polus What does it matter, as long as I answer well enough for you?

Chaerephon Fair enough. Go ahead and answer, then.

Polus Ask away.

Chaerephon My question is this: If Gorgias had the skill of his brother Herodicus, what should we call him? Shouldn't he go by the same title as his brother?

Polus Of course.

Chaerephon So we'd be right to call him a physician?

Polus Yes.

Chaerephon And if he had the skill of Aristophon the son of Aglaophon, or of his brother Polygnotus, what should we call him?

Polus Obviously, a painter.

Chaerephon But what do we call him now? What's the skill he's an expert in?

Polus Well, Chaerephon, human beings have developed many skills through experience, because experience guides life through craft while inexperience leaves things to chance. Different people excel at different skills, and the best people excel at the best skills. Our friend Gorgias here is among the best, and the skill he practices is the noblest of all.

Socrates Polus certainly knows how to deliver a beautiful speech, Gorgias — but he hasn't exactly kept his promise to Chaerephon.

Gorgias What do you mean, Socrates?

Socrates I mean he hasn't really answered the question he was asked.

Gorgias Well, why not ask him yourself?

Socrates I'd much rather ask you, if you don't mind. I can see from the few words Polus has spoken that he's had a lot more training in what's called rhetoric than in careful argument.

Polus What makes you say that, Socrates?

Socrates Because when Chaerephon asked you what skill Gorgias practices, you praised it as though someone had been attacking it — but you never actually said what the skill was.

Polus Didn't I say it was the noblest of skills?

Socrates You certainly did. But nobody asked about its quality. The question was about its nature — what the skill is, and what name we should give Gorgias. You answered Chaerephon's earlier questions so clearly and briefly — please do the same now and tell us: what is this skill, and what should we call Gorgias? Or better yet, Gorgias, let me ask you directly. What should we call you, and what's the skill you practice?

Gorgias Rhetoric, Socrates. That's my skill.

Socrates So I should call you a rhetorician?

Gorgias Yes, Socrates — and a good one, too, if you want to call me what, in Homer's words, "I claim to be."

Socrates That's exactly what I'd like to do.

Gorgias Then please, go ahead.

Socrates And can you make other people into rhetoricians too?

Gorgias That's precisely what I do — not just here in Athens, but everywhere.

Socrates And will you keep answering questions, Gorgias, the way we've been going? Short and direct? Will you save the long speeches for another time — like the one Polus was starting into — and give brief answers to the questions you're asked?

Gorgias Some answers, Socrates, do require length. But I'll do my best to keep things short. In fact, being brief is one of my specialties.

Socrates That's what I need, Gorgias. Show me the short version now, and save the long version for later.

Gorgias I will. And you'll say you've never met a man who uses fewer words.

Socrates Very good. Now, since you claim to be a rhetorician and a teacher of rhetoric, let me ask: what does rhetoric deal with? I could ask, for example, what weaving deals with, and you'd say the making of cloth, right?

Gorgias Yes.

Socrates And music deals with composing melodies?

Gorgias It does.

Socrates By Hera, Gorgias, I have to admire how wonderfully brief your answers are.

Gorgias Yes, Socrates, I do pride myself on that.

Socrates I'm glad to hear it. Now answer the same way about rhetoric: what does rhetoric deal with?

Gorgias With speech.

Socrates What kind of speech, Gorgias? The kind that teaches sick people what treatment will make them well?

Gorgias No.

Socrates So rhetoric doesn't deal with every kind of speech?

Gorgias Certainly not.

Socrates But it does make people able to speak?

Gorgias Yes.

Socrates And to understand what they're speaking about?

Gorgias Of course.

Socrates But doesn't medicine — which we just mentioned — also make people able to understand and speak about diseases?

Gorgias Certainly.

Socrates So medicine also deals with speech?

Gorgias Yes.

Socrates Speech about diseases?

Gorgias Exactly.

Socrates And doesn't physical training also deal with speech — speech about the health and fitness of the body?

Gorgias Very true.

Socrates And the same goes for all the other skills, Gorgias. Every one of them involves speech about the subjects they deal with.

Gorgias Clearly.

Socrates Then why, if you call rhetoric the skill that deals with speech, don't you call all these other speech-involving skills "rhetoric" too?

Gorgias Because in those other skills, Socrates, the knowledge is tied to some kind of physical work — work done with the hands. But rhetoric has no such physical component. It works and achieves its effects entirely through speech. That's why I'm justified in saying rhetoric deals with speech.

Socrates I'm not sure I fully understand you, but I think I will soon. Let me ask you this: you'd agree that there are various skills?

Gorgias Yes.

Socrates Now, most of those skills are mainly about doing things and require little or no speaking. Painting, sculpture, and many others — the work can happen in complete silence. Those, I take it, are the skills you'd say fall outside of rhetoric.

Gorgias You've grasped my meaning perfectly, Socrates.

Socrates But there are other skills that work entirely through language and require little or no physical action — skills like arithmetic, calculation, geometry, and even playing board games. In some of these, speech is roughly equal to action, but in most, the verbal element dominates. They depend entirely on words for their power. And I take it you mean rhetoric is that kind of skill?

Gorgias Exactly.

Socrates But I don't think you'd actually call any of those skills rhetoric, would you? Even though your exact words were that rhetoric is a skill "that works and achieves its effects through speech." A nitpicker might jump on that and say, "So, Gorgias, you're calling arithmetic rhetoric!" But I don't think that's what you mean — you wouldn't call arithmetic or geometry rhetoric.

Gorgias You're quite right, Socrates. You've understood me correctly.

Socrates Good, then let me get the rest of my answer. Since rhetoric is one of those skills that works mainly through words, and there are other skills that also use words, tell me: what is it about the words rhetoric uses that sets it apart? Suppose someone asked me about one of the skills I just mentioned. He might say, "Socrates, what is arithmetic?" And I'd say, as you did, that it's one of those skills that work through words. Then he'd ask, "Words about what?" And I'd say, "Words about odd and even numbers and their quantities." And if he asked, "What about calculation?" I'd say that's also a skill that works through words. "Words about what?" he'd press. And I'd say — like the clerks in the assembly reading something already on record — "Same as arithmetic, but with a difference: calculation looks not just at the quantities of odd and even numbers but also at their relationships to each other." And if he asked about astronomy, I'd say it's about the movements of the stars, the sun, and the moon, and their relative speeds.

Gorgias You'd be absolutely right, Socrates.

Socrates Now it's your turn, Gorgias. Tell us the truth about rhetoric. You'd agree that it's one of those skills that accomplishes everything through words?

Gorgias True.

Socrates Words that do what? What subject do the words of rhetoric deal with?

Gorgias The greatest and most important of human concerns, Socrates.

Socrates But that's ambiguous, Gorgias — I'm still in the dark. Which are the greatest and most important human concerns? I'm sure you've heard that old drinking song people sing at parties, the one that lists the blessings of life: first health, then beauty, then — as the songwriter puts it — honestly earned wealth.

Gorgias Yes, I know the song. But what are you getting at?

Socrates I mean that the people who produce those blessings — the ones the songwriter praises — would immediately challenge you. The physician would step up first: "Socrates, Gorgias is fooling you. It's my skill that deals with the greatest human good, not his." And when I ask, "Who are you?" he'd say, "I'm a physician." "What do you mean?" I'd ask. "Your skill produces the greatest good?" "Obviously," he'd answer. "What could be a greater good than health?" Then the athletic trainer would come along and say, "I'd be astonished if Gorgias can show a greater benefit from his skill than I can from mine." I'd ask who he is. "I'm a trainer," he'd say, "and my business is making people strong and beautiful." And then the moneymaker would show up and look down on all of them. "Think about it, Socrates — can Gorgias or anyone else produce a greater good than wealth?" And we'd say to him, "Are you claiming to create wealth?" "Yes," he'd reply. "And who are you?" "A moneymaker." "And you think wealth is the greatest human good?" "Obviously." And then we'd say, "But our friend Gorgias here claims his skill produces a greater good than yours." And the moneymaker would naturally ask, "What good? Let Gorgias tell us." So that's what I want from you, Gorgias. Imagine this question coming from all of them and from me: what is this thing you say is the greatest human good, and that you're the one who produces it? Tell us.

Gorgias It truly is the greatest good, Socrates — the one that gives people personal freedom and the power to rule over others in their own cities.

Socrates And what would that be, specifically?

Gorgias The power of persuading people with your words — persuading judges in the courts, senators in the council, citizens in the assembly, or any other political gathering. With that power, the physician becomes your servant, the trainer becomes your servant, and that moneymaker you mentioned? It turns out he's been making money not for himself but for you — the one who can speak and persuade the crowd.

Socrates Now I think you've explained very precisely what you take rhetoric to be, Gorgias. If I understand you correctly, you're saying rhetoric is the craft of persuasion — that's its whole business, its crowning achievement, its purpose. Can you point to any other effect of rhetoric beyond producing persuasion?

Gorgias No, I think that's a perfectly fair definition, Socrates. Persuasion is the whole point of rhetoric.

Socrates Then hear me out, Gorgias. Because if there's one thing I'm sure of, it's this: if anyone ever entered a discussion out of pure love for finding the truth, I'm that person. And I'd say the same about you.

Gorgias What's coming, Socrates?

Socrates I'll tell you. I'm not entirely clear on what kind of persuasion you mean, or what subjects it covers — though I have my suspicions about both. And I'm going to ask you rather than state my suspicion, not for your benefit but to make sure the argument moves forward in a way that gets us to the truth. Notice that I'm right to ask this follow-up question. If I asked, "What kind of painter is Zeuxis?" and you said, "The painter of figures," wouldn't it be fair for me to ask, "What kind of figures, and where?"

Gorgias Certainly.

Socrates Because there are other painters who paint other kinds of figures?

Gorgias True.

Socrates But if Zeuxis were the only painter in the world, your answer would have been perfectly adequate?

Gorgias Quite so.

Socrates I want to know the same thing about rhetoric. Is rhetoric the only skill that produces persuasion, or do other skills do that too? Here's what I mean: when someone teaches you something, doesn't the teaching persuade you of that thing?

Gorgias Of course it does, Socrates — no question about it.

Socrates So let's go back to those skills we were discussing. Doesn't arithmetic persuade us about the properties of numbers?

Gorgias Certainly.

Socrates And therefore arithmetic, too, produces persuasion?

Gorgias Yes.

Socrates So arithmetic is also a craft of persuasion?

Gorgias Clearly.

Socrates And if anyone asks what kind of persuasion and about what subject, we'd answer: persuasion that teaches us about the properties of odd and even numbers. And we could show the same thing for every other skill we mentioned — they're all, in their own way, crafts of persuasion.

Gorgias Very true.

Socrates Then rhetoric isn't the only craft of persuasion?

Gorgias True.

Socrates Since other skills besides rhetoric can produce persuasion, we have a fair follow-up question — just like with the painter: what kind of persuasion does rhetoric produce, and what is it about? Isn't that a fair way to put it?

Gorgias I think so.

Socrates Then what's the answer, Gorgias?

Gorgias The kind of persuasion used in courts of law and other assemblies, as I was saying. And it's about justice and injustice.

Socrates That's exactly what I suspected, Gorgias. But don't be surprised if I seem to keep repeating obvious questions. I'm not doing it to trip you up. I'm doing it so the argument moves forward in a logical way, so we don't start guessing at each other's meanings or jumping ahead. I want you to develop your own views in your own way, following whatever path makes sense to you.

Gorgias I think you're quite right to do that, Socrates.

Socrates Then let me raise another question. There's such a thing as "having learned" something?

Gorgias Yes.

Socrates And such a thing as "having come to believe" something?

Gorgias Yes.

Socrates Are "having learned" and "having come to believe" the same thing? Are learning and belief the same?

Gorgias In my judgment, Socrates, they're not.

Socrates And you're right about that. Here's how you can tell. If someone asked you, "Gorgias, is there such a thing as false belief as well as true belief?" you'd say yes.

Gorgias Yes.

Socrates But is there such a thing as false knowledge as well as true knowledge?

Gorgias No.

Socrates Exactly — and that proves that knowledge and belief aren't the same thing.

Gorgias Very true.

Socrates And yet both those who have learned and those who merely believe have been persuaded?

Gorgias Exactly.

Socrates So shall we say there are two kinds of persuasion — one that produces belief without knowledge, and one that produces actual knowledge?

Gorgias By all means.

Socrates And which kind does rhetoric produce in courts and assemblies about justice and injustice — the kind that creates belief without knowledge, or the kind that produces knowledge?

Gorgias Clearly, Socrates, the kind that creates belief.

Socrates So rhetoric produces persuasion that makes people believe things about justice and injustice, but it doesn't actually teach them about those things?

Gorgias True.

Socrates And the rhetorician doesn't teach courts and assemblies about what's just and unjust — he just makes people believe certain things. After all, no one could actually teach such vast crowds about matters that important in a short time, could they?

Gorgias Certainly not.

Socrates Well then, let's think carefully about what rhetoric really is. Because I'm honestly not sure I've figured it out yet. When the assembly meets to choose a physician, or a shipbuilder, or any other professional, the rhetorician isn't the one they consult, is he? Obviously, for each choice they pick the person with the most expertise. When walls or harbors or dockyards need to be built, they ask the master builders, not the rhetoricians. When generals need to be chosen or a battle plan arranged or a position fortified, the military experts advise — not the rhetoricians. What do you say to that, Gorgias? Since you claim to be a rhetorician and a teacher of rhetoric, the best way for me to learn about your skill is from you. And please understand that I have your interests at heart as well as my own. Some of these young men here probably want to become your students — I can see quite a few who seem eager but are too polite to interrogate you. So when I'm asking you these questions, imagine they're asking too: "What's the point of coming to study with you, Gorgias? What will you teach us to advise the state about? Only justice and injustice, or also those other things Socrates just mentioned?" How will you answer them?

Gorgias I like the way you're leading us, Socrates, and I'll try to reveal the full nature of rhetoric to you. You've heard, I'm sure, that the dockyards and walls of Athens and the plan for the harbor were designed on the advice of Themistocles and Pericles — not the builders.

Socrates That's the tradition about Themistocles, Gorgias. And I personally heard Pericles speak when he advised us about the middle wall.

Gorgias And you'll notice, Socrates, that when these decisions are made, it's the rhetoricians who give the advice. They're the ones who win the day.

Socrates That's exactly what amazes me, Gorgias, and why I've been asking what rhetoric really is. When I look at it this way, its power seems almost incredible.

Gorgias If you only knew, Socrates! Rhetoric practically contains all the other skills under its wing. Let me give you a striking example. I've gone with my brother Herodicus and other physicians to visit patients who refused to take their medicine or let the doctor use the knife or cautery on them. The physician couldn't persuade them — but I could, just by using rhetoric. And I tell you, if a rhetorician and a physician walked into any city and had to argue before the assembly over which of them should be appointed state physician, the physician wouldn't stand a chance. The person who could speak persuasively would be chosen, if he wanted the job. And in a contest against anyone from any other profession, the rhetorician would win every time. He can speak more persuasively to a crowd than anyone else, on any subject. That's the nature and power of rhetoric.

But, Socrates, rhetoric should be used the way any competitive skill should be used — not against everyone indiscriminately. Just because a rhetorician has the power to outperform anyone doesn't mean he should use it against friends or decent people. Consider: suppose a man trains at the gymnasium and becomes a skilled boxer. Then, in the peak of his strength, he goes and hits his father, his mother, or one of his friends. That's no reason to hate his trainers or ban them from the city. They taught their skill for a good purpose — to be used against enemies and wrongdoers, in self-defense, not aggression. The students are the ones who perverted it — who used their strength and skill for bad purposes. It's not the teachers who are bad, and it's not the skill that's bad. The blame belongs to those who misuse it.

The same argument applies to rhetoric. The rhetorician can speak against anyone on any subject — he can persuade any crowd of practically anything. But that doesn't mean he should cheat the physician or any other professional out of their reputation just because he has the power to do it. He should use rhetoric fairly, just as he'd use athletic skills fairly. And if someone becomes a rhetorician and then abuses his power, we shouldn't blame or punish his teacher. The teacher intended for his instruction to be used well. The student is the one who misused it — and he's the one who should be blamed, banished, or put to death. Not his teacher.

Socrates Gorgias, I'm sure you have as much experience with arguments as I do, and you must have noticed that people don't always manage to define clearly what they're discussing. When they disagree, they tend to think the other person is arguing in bad faith or out of jealousy rather than genuine interest in the truth. Sometimes they end up trading insults until everyone present regrets having to listen to them.

Why do I bring this up? Because I can't help feeling that what you're saying now doesn't quite match what you said earlier about rhetoric. And I'm nervous about pointing this out — I don't want you to think I have anything against you personally, or that I'm arguing for any reason other than getting at the truth.

Now, if you're the type of person I am, I'd love to keep examining this. If not, we can drop it. What type am I? I'm the kind of person who's perfectly happy to be proven wrong if I've said something false — and equally happy to prove someone else wrong if they've said something false. I consider being corrected the greater benefit of the two. It's a bigger gain to be cured of a serious error than to cure someone else's, because I can't imagine a worse affliction than having false beliefs about the things we're discussing right now. So if you're that kind of person too, let's continue. But if you'd rather stop, that's fine — we can end it here.

Gorgias I'd say I'm exactly the kind of person you describe, Socrates. But perhaps we should think about the audience. Before you arrived, I'd already given a long performance, and if we continue, this could go on for quite a while. Maybe some of them have other things to do.

Chaerephon Listen to that cheering, Gorgias and Socrates! The audience clearly wants to hear more. As for me — heaven forbid I should have anything more pressing than a discussion this fascinating and this well conducted.

Callicles By the gods, Chaerephon, I've been at many discussions, but I doubt I've ever enjoyed one this much. Keep going all day if you want — I'll only enjoy it more.

Socrates Well, I'm certainly willing, Callicles, if Gorgias is.

Gorgias After all this, Socrates, I'd look pretty bad if I refused, especially since I promised to answer any question anyone asked. So — as the audience wishes — go ahead. Ask me anything you like.

Socrates Then let me tell you what surprises me about what you said, Gorgias — though you may well be right, and I may have misunderstood. You're saying you can make anyone who studies with you into a rhetorician?

Gorgias Yes.

Socrates Meaning you'll teach them to win over a crowd on any subject — not through genuine instruction, but through persuasion?

Gorgias Exactly.

Socrates You were saying the rhetorician will be more persuasive than even a physician when it comes to health?

Gorgias Yes — with a crowd, at least.

Socrates "With a crowd" means "with people who don't know." Because among people who actually have medical knowledge, the rhetorician surely wouldn't be more persuasive.

Gorgias Very true.

Socrates But if he's more persuasive than the physician, he's more persuasive than someone who actually knows?

Gorgias Certainly.

Socrates Even though he's not a physician himself?

Gorgias No.

Socrates And someone who's not a physician is obviously ignorant of what the physician knows?

Gorgias Clearly.

Socrates So when the rhetorician is more persuasive than the physician, what we actually have is an ignorant person being more persuasive with other ignorant people than the person who actually has knowledge. That's the conclusion, isn't it?

Gorgias In that case, yes.

Socrates And the same goes for rhetoric in relation to every other field. The rhetorician doesn't need to know the truth about things — he just needs some technique for persuading ignorant people that he knows more than the actual experts?

Gorgias Yes, Socrates. And isn't that wonderfully convenient? You don't have to learn all those other skills — just rhetoric alone — and you're in no way inferior to the professionals!

Socrates Whether the rhetorician is actually inferior to the experts because of this is a question we can examine later, if it's useful. But first I'd rather ask about something else: is the rhetorician equally ignorant about what's just and unjust, what's honorable and shameful, what's good and evil — the way he's ignorant about medicine and the other skills? Does he actually know anything about good and evil, or does he just have a knack for making ignorant people think he knows more than the real experts? Does a student need to know these things before coming to you? If he doesn't know them, are you — the teacher of rhetoric — going to refuse to teach him? After all, that's not your department. You'll just make him seem to know about these things in front of a crowd, even when he doesn't — seem to be a good person, even when he's not. Or will you simply be unable to teach him rhetoric at all unless he knows the truth about these things first? By the gods, Gorgias, I wish you'd show me the real power of rhetoric, as you said you would.

Gorgias Well, Socrates, I suppose that if a student doesn't happen to know these things already, he'll have to learn them from me too.

Socrates Stop right there — that's a crucial admission. So anyone you make into a rhetorician must either already know the nature of justice and injustice, or must learn it from you.

Gorgias Certainly.

Socrates Now, someone who has learned carpentry is a carpenter?

Gorgias Yes.

Socrates And someone who has learned music is a musician?

Gorgias Yes.

Socrates And someone who has learned medicine is a physician? In general, anyone who has learned a subject becomes the kind of person their knowledge makes them?

Gorgias Certainly.

Socrates Then, by the same logic, someone who has learned what justice is... is a just person?

Gorgias Absolutely.

Socrates And a just person does what's just?

Gorgias Yes.

Socrates And a just person will always want to do what's just?

Gorgias That seems to follow, yes.

Socrates So a just person will never willingly do injustice?

Gorgias Certainly not.

Socrates And by our argument, the rhetorician must be a just person?

Gorgias Yes.

Socrates And therefore will never be willing to do injustice?

Gorgias Clearly not.

Socrates But do you remember what you said a minute ago? You said the trainer shouldn't be blamed or banished if the boxer misuses his boxing skills. In the same way, if a rhetorician makes bad and unjust use of his rhetoric, the teacher isn't the one to blame — the wrongdoer who misused the rhetoric is the one who should be banished. Didn't you say that?

Gorgias Yes, I did.

Socrates But now we're saying this same rhetorician would never do anything unjust at all?

Gorgias True.

Socrates And at the very beginning, Gorgias, you said rhetoric deals with speech not about odd and even numbers — like arithmetic — but about justice and injustice. Right?

Gorgias Yes.

Socrates When you said that, I assumed a skill that's constantly dealing with justice could never be an unjust thing. But then you added, a moment later, that a rhetorician might make bad use of rhetoric — and I noticed the contradiction. That's why I said that if you're the kind of person who benefits from being challenged, we should keep going, but if not, we should stop. And now, as we've worked through the argument, you can see for yourself: the rhetorician has been shown to be incapable of misusing rhetoric or of wanting to do injustice. By the dog, Gorgias, it's going to take quite a bit more discussion before we sort all this out.

Polus What — Socrates, do you actually believe what you're saying about rhetoric? Come on! Just because Gorgias was too embarrassed to deny that the rhetorician knows about justice and honor and goodness — just because he admitted he'd teach these things to any student who showed up without knowing them — and then a contradiction popped up from that admission — the kind of contradiction you absolutely love, and which you dragged the argument into with your tricky questions — do you seriously think there's any truth in all this? Who would ever admit they don't know what justice is or can't teach it? It's completely rude to push an argument to this kind of conclusion.

Socrates My dear Polus, the whole point of having friends and younger companions is that when we older folk stumble, a younger generation can set us back on our feet — in our words and in our actions. So if Gorgias and I have stumbled, here you are to help us up. I'm perfectly ready to take back anything you think I got wrong — on one condition.

Polus What condition?

Socrates That you rein in that tendency toward long speeches you showed earlier.

Polus What! You mean I can't say as much as I want?

Socrates My friend, it would be a real injustice if you came to Athens — the most free-speaking city in all of Greece — and you, of all people, were the only one not allowed to talk. But think about it from my side too: wouldn't it be pretty rough on me if, while you're delivering an endless speech and refusing to answer questions, I'm stuck here having to listen and can't leave? Look, if you genuinely care about the argument — if you want to, as I said before, set it back on its feet — go ahead and take back anything you want. Take turns asking and answering, the way Gorgias and I were doing. Challenge me and let me challenge you. After all, you claim to know everything Gorgias knows, don't you?

Polus Yes.

Socrates And like him, you invite anyone to ask you anything, because you'll know how to answer?

Polus Of course.

Socrates Well then — which will it be? Do you want to ask or answer?

Polus I'll ask. Answer me this, Socrates — the very question you think Gorgias couldn't answer: what is rhetoric?

Socrates Do you mean what kind of skill is it?

Polus Yes.

Socrates To tell you the truth, Polus — in my opinion, it's not a skill at all.

Polus Then what is it, in your opinion?

Socrates A thing that you yourself claim to have turned into a skill, in a book of yours I read recently.

Polus What thing?

Socrates I'd call it a kind of knack.

Polus A knack? Rhetoric is just a knack to you?

Socrates That's my view. But you might think differently.

Polus A knack for what?

Socrates A knack for producing a certain kind of pleasure and gratification.

Polus Well, if rhetoric can gratify people, isn't it a fine thing?

Socrates Hold on, Polus — why are you asking whether rhetoric is a fine thing when I haven't even finished explaining what rhetoric is?

Polus Didn't I just hear you say it's a kind of knack?

Socrates Since you're so eager to gratify people, would you gratify me a little?

Polus Sure.

Socrates Ask me what kind of skill cooking is.

Polus All right — what kind of skill is cooking?

Socrates It's not a skill at all, Polus.

Polus Then what is it?

Socrates A knack.

Polus A knack for what? Explain yourself.

Socrates A knack for producing pleasure and gratification, Polus.

Polus So cooking and rhetoric are the same thing?

Socrates No — they're different branches of the same activity.

Polus What activity?

Socrates I'm afraid the truth might sound rude, and I hesitate to say it in case Gorgias thinks I'm mocking his profession. Whether this is actually the rhetoric Gorgias practices, I honestly can't tell — nothing he said earlier gave me a clear picture of what he thinks his skill is. But the rhetoric I'm talking about is part of something not very respectable.

Gorgias Part of what, Socrates? Don't worry about me — just say it.

Socrates In my view, Gorgias, rhetoric isn't really a skill at all but the habit of a bold, quick mind that knows how to handle people. I'd sum up the whole thing with one word: flattery. And it seems to me this has several branches, one of which is cooking. Cooking might look like a skill, but I say it's only a knack — a routine, not a real skill. Rhetoric is another branch, along with cosmetics and sophistry. That makes four branches corresponding to four different things.

Now, Polus can ask me — if he wants — what branch of flattery rhetoric is, since he jumped ahead to ask whether I think rhetoric is a fine thing before I'd finished explaining what it is. I won't answer whether it's fine or not until I first explain what it is. That wouldn't be right, Polus. But I'm happy to answer if you ask me properly: what branch of flattery is rhetoric?

Polus Fine, I'll ask. What branch of flattery is rhetoric?

Socrates Will you understand my answer? Rhetoric, as I see it, is the counterfeit of one branch of politics.

Polus And is that a noble thing or not?

Socrates Not noble — I'd call it ignoble. Since you're making me answer, I call what's bad ignoble. Though I doubt you've grasped what I was saying before.

Gorgias Frankly, Socrates, I'm not sure I understand either.

Socrates That's understandable, Gorgias. I haven't explained myself fully yet. And our friend Polus here — young colt by name and young colt by nature — tends to bolt before the explanation is finished.

Gorgias Never mind him. Just explain what you mean by rhetoric being the counterfeit of a branch of politics.

Socrates I'll try. And if I'm wrong, my friend Polus can correct me. We'd agree that both bodies and souls exist?

Gorgias Of course.

Socrates And that there's a healthy condition for each of them?

Gorgias Yes.

Socrates And that this healthy condition might be merely apparent rather than real? There are plenty of people who seem healthy but whom only a physician or trainer would recognize as actually being unhealthy.

Gorgias True.

Socrates And the same applies to the soul — there can be an appearance of health without the reality?

Gorgias Yes, certainly.

Socrates Now let me try to explain what I mean more clearly. Body and soul are two things, and each has two genuine skills that serve its well-being. The skill that serves the soul is politics, and the skill that serves the body — well, I can't give it a single name, but it has two divisions: physical training and medicine. Within politics, the counterpart to physical training is legislation, and the counterpart to medicine is justice. These pairs overlap — justice deals with the same domain as legislation, and medicine deals with the same domain as physical training — but there are differences between them.

Now here's the key point. There are four genuine skills — two for the body, two for the soul — all aimed at the highest good. Flattery sensed what these skills were about — not through real knowledge, but through guesswork — and divided herself into four counterfeits. She puts on the costume of each genuine skill and pretends to be it, caring nothing for what's actually best for people and using pleasure as bait to trap the foolish, deceiving them into thinking she's supremely valuable.

Cooking disguises itself as medicine and pretends to know what food is best for the body. And if a doctor and a cook had to compete before an audience of children — or adults with no more sense than children — to determine which one really understands the difference between healthy and unhealthy food, the doctor would starve to death.

This is what I call flattery, Polus — and I call it ignoble, since I'm now addressing you directly — because it aims at pleasure without any concern for what's truly best. I refuse to call it a skill. It's a knack. It can't explain the nature of the things it applies or give any rational account of why it does what it does. And I don't call anything irrational a skill. If you want to challenge that, I'm ready to defend it.

So: cooking is the form of flattery that counterfeits medicine. Cosmetics, similarly, is the flattery that counterfeits physical training — dishonest, deceptive, and ignoble, creating an illusion of beauty through colors, creams, and clothes while neglecting the true beauty that comes from genuine fitness.

Rather than go on too long, let me put it the way a mathematician would — I think by now you can follow the proportions:

Cosmetics is to physical training as cooking is to medicine.

Or, more precisely:

Cosmetics is to physical training as sophistry is to legislation.

And: cooking is to medicine as rhetoric is to justice.

That's the natural difference between the rhetorician and the sophist, though they're so closely related that people constantly confuse them — and even they don't fully understand what they are. If the body governed itself without the soul's guidance, and the soul couldn't tell the difference between cooking and medicine, then — as Polus' favorite philosopher Anaxagoras might say — chaos would reign: cooking, health, and medicine would all blur into an indistinguishable mess.

So there you have it. Rhetoric is to the soul what cooking is to the body. Now, I know I may seem inconsistent — making a long speech after telling you to be brief. But you weren't understanding my short answers, so I had to explain at length. If I prove equally unable to understand your answers, you're welcome to go on at similar length. But if I can understand you, do me the favor of keeping things short. Fair enough? Now, do what you want with my answer.

Polus Wait — are you saying rhetoric is flattery?

Socrates I said it's a branch of flattery. Can't you remember at your age, Polus? What's going to happen when you're older?

Polus And you think good rhetoricians are looked down on in their cities as mere flatterers?

Socrates Is that a question or the start of a speech?

Polus I'm asking a question!

Socrates My answer is that they're not even thought about at all.

Polus What do you mean, not thought about? Don't they have enormous power in their cities?

Socrates Not if you mean that power is something good for the person who has it.

Polus That is exactly what I mean.

Socrates Then I'd say rhetoricians have the least power of anyone in the city.

Polus What? Don't they do whatever they want — kill people, seize property, exile anyone they choose — just like tyrants?

Socrates By the dog, Polus, every time you speak I can't tell whether you're stating your own opinion or asking me a question.

Polus I'm asking you a question!

Socrates All right, but you're asking two questions at once.

Polus How two?

Socrates Didn't you just say that rhetoricians are like tyrants — they kill, seize property, and exile anyone they choose?

Polus I did.

Socrates Well, I say those are actually two questions, and I'll answer both. Rhetoricians and tyrants have the least real power in their cities, just as I said. They do literally nothing that they truly will — only what they think is best.

Polus And isn't that a great power?

Socrates Not according to what you yourself just said.

Polus Not according to what I said? That's exactly what I'm asserting!

Socrates No it isn't, by the — what's the expression? You said power is a good thing for the person who has it.

Polus I do say that.

Socrates And would you say a fool has great power when he does what he thinks is best?

Polus No, I wouldn't.

Socrates Then prove to me that the rhetorician isn't a fool — that rhetoric is a genuine skill and not just flattery — and you'll have refuted me. But until you do, rhetoricians who do what they think is best, and tyrants who do the same, have nothing to congratulate themselves about. Power is only a good thing — as you yourself agree — if it's exercised with sense. And doing things without sense is an evil.

Polus Yes, I'll grant that.

Socrates Then how can rhetoricians or tyrants have great power in their cities, unless Polus can prove to Socrates that they do what they truly will?

Polus This guy —

Socrates I'm saying they don't do what they truly will. Prove me wrong.

Polus Didn't you just admit they do what they think is best?

Socrates Yes, I still say that.

Polus Then obviously they do what they will!

Socrates I deny it.

Polus Even though they do what they think best?

Socrates Yes.

Polus That's outrageous, Socrates. That's absurd.

Socrates Easy now, my good Polus — to borrow your own style. If you've got a question for me, either show me I'm wrong or answer the question yourself.

Polus Fine — I'm willing to answer, so I can find out what you mean.

Socrates Do people seem to you to will the specific thing they're doing at any given moment, or do they will the larger goal for which they're doing it? When people take medicine on their doctor's orders, for example — do they will the drinking of bitter medicine, or the health they're drinking it for?

Polus The health, obviously.

Socrates And when people go on a voyage or start a business, they don't will the voyage or the effort itself — who would actually want those risks and hardships? They will the wealth they're trying to gain.

Polus Certainly.

Socrates And isn't this universally true? Whenever someone does one thing for the sake of something else, they don't will the thing they're doing — they will the thing they're doing it for.

Polus Yes.

Socrates Now, isn't everything either good, evil, or something in between — neither good nor evil?

Polus Absolutely, Socrates.

Socrates Wisdom, health, wealth, and things like that — you'd call those good? And their opposites, evil?

Polus Yes, I would.

Socrates And things that are neither good nor evil — things that sometimes share in the nature of good, sometimes evil, sometimes neither — things like sitting, walking, running, sailing, or objects like wood and stones? You'd call those neutral?

Polus Exactly.

Socrates And people do these neutral things for the sake of the good things, right? Not the other way around?

Polus Obviously — the neutral things for the sake of the good.

Socrates So when we walk, we walk because we think it's better to walk — we're doing it for the sake of something good. And when we stand still, same thing — for the sake of something good?

Polus Yes.

Socrates And when we kill someone, or exile them, or take their property, we do it because we think it serves our good?

Polus Certainly.

Socrates So people do all these things for the sake of what's good?

Polus Yes.

Socrates And didn't we agree that when we do one thing for the sake of another, we don't will the thing we're doing — we will the thing we're doing it for?

Polus Absolutely.

Socrates Then we don't simply will to kill or exile people or seize their property. We will to do what's good for us. If the act turns out to be good for us, we will it. If it's not good for us — or if it's actually bad — then we don't will it. Because we will what's good, as you say, and we don't will what's neutral or evil. Am I right? Why aren't you answering, Polus?

Polus You're right.

Socrates So if anyone — whether tyrant or rhetorician — kills, exiles, or seizes property thinking it's in his interest when it's actually not, he may be doing what seems best to him, but —

Polus Yes.

Socrates But is he doing what he wills, if what he's doing is actually bad for him? Why don't you answer?

Polus Well... I suppose not.

Socrates Then if great power is a good — as you agree — will such a person really have great power in his city?

Polus He won't.

Socrates Then I was right when I said a person can do what seems best to him in a city and still not have real power — and still not be doing what he truly wills.

Polus As if you, Socrates, wouldn't love to have the power to do whatever you pleased in the city! As if you wouldn't be jealous when you saw someone killing, robbing, or imprisoning anyone he wanted. Oh, no!

Socrates Justly or unjustly — which do you mean?

Polus Either way — isn't a person with that kind of power equally to be envied?

Socrates Watch what you're saying, Polus.

Polus Why "watch what I'm saying"?

Socrates Because you shouldn't envy people who deserve pity, not envy.

Polus Is that what you think the people I'm describing deserve? Pity?

Socrates Yes, absolutely.

Polus So a man who kills whoever he wants — and kills them justly — is pitiable and miserable?

Socrates I didn't say that. But he's not to be envied, either.

Polus Didn't you just call him miserable?

Socrates The one who kills unjustly — yes, he is miserable, and pitiable too. And the one who kills justly is not to be envied.

Polus But surely the person who is unjustly put to death is the real object of pity?

Socrates Less so than the one who kills him, Polus. And less so than someone who is justly executed.

Polus How can that be, Socrates?

Socrates Because doing injustice is the greatest of evils.

Polus The greatest? Isn't suffering injustice worse?

Socrates Absolutely not.

Polus So you'd rather suffer injustice than commit it?

Socrates I'd rather do neither. But if I had to choose, I'd rather suffer it than commit it.

Polus Then you wouldn't want to be a tyrant?

Socrates Not if by "tyrant" you mean what I think you mean.

Polus I mean exactly what I said before — the power to do whatever you think best in the city: killing, banishing, doing whatever you please.

Socrates All right then, let me give you a scenario, and then you respond. Suppose I walk into a crowded marketplace with a dagger hidden under my cloak. "Polus," I say, "I've just gained incredible power. I've become a tyrant. See that man over there? If I decide he should die, he's as good as dead. If I want to smash his head in or rip his clothes off, consider it done. That's how much power I have in this city." And if you didn't believe me and I showed you the dagger, you'd probably say: "Socrates, by that logic anyone could have great power — he could burn down any house he wants, torch the dockyards and the whole Athenian fleet, public and private — but do you really think this 'doing whatever you please' amounts to great power?"

Polus No, certainly not that kind of doing.

Socrates Can you tell me why you disapprove of that kind of power?

Polus Yes.

Socrates Why?

Polus Because someone who did those things would certainly be punished.

Socrates And punishment is a bad thing?

Polus Certainly.

Socrates So once again, you'd agree that great power is only beneficial if your actions turn out to be genuinely good for you. That's what real power means. If not, it's an evil and no power at all. But let's look at it another way. Don't we agree that the actions we've been discussing — killing, exiling, seizing property — are sometimes good and sometimes not?

Polus Certainly.

Socrates So we agree on that?

Polus Yes.

Socrates Then tell me: when are these actions good, and when are they evil? What's the principle?

Polus I'd rather you answered that question yourself, Socrates.

Socrates Fine, Polus, since you'd prefer to hear it from me: they're good when they're done justly, and evil when done unjustly.

Polus Hard to refute, aren't you, Socrates? But a child could knock that argument down.

Socrates Then I'll be very grateful to that child — and equally grateful to you if you'll refute me and free me from my foolishness. Don't hold back. Doing good for a friend is never wasted effort.

Polus All right, Socrates, I don't need to dig into ancient history. Events from just the other day are enough to refute you and prove that plenty of wrongdoers are perfectly happy.

Socrates What events?

Polus You know that Archelaus, the son of Perdiccas, is currently the ruler of Macedonia?

Socrates I've heard as much.

Polus Do you think he's happy or miserable?

Socrates I don't know, Polus. I've never met the man.

Polus You can't tell whether a man is happy without meeting him?

Socrates Most certainly not.

Polus Then I suppose you'd say you can't even tell whether the Great King of Persia is happy?

Socrates I'd be telling the truth, because I don't know where he stands when it comes to education and justice.

Polus What! Does happiness really depend on that?

Socrates Yes, Polus, that's exactly my view. People who are decent and good — men and women alike — are happy. The unjust and wicked are miserable.

Polus So by your theory, this Archelaus is miserable?

Socrates If he's wicked, yes.

Polus Of course he's wicked! He had absolutely no legitimate claim to the throne. He was the son of a slave woman who belonged to Alcetas, the brother of Perdiccas. By rights, Archelaus himself was Alcetas' slave. If he'd wanted to do the right thing, he would have stayed a slave — and then, by your theory, he would have been happy!

Instead, he's committed the most appalling crimes. First, he invited his uncle and rightful master, Alcetas, to visit — promising to restore the throne that Perdiccas had taken from him. He entertained Alcetas and his son Alexander — Archelaus' own cousin, about the same age — got them drunk, threw them into a wagon at night, drove them off, and butchered them both. After committing these atrocities, he never noticed he'd become the most miserable man alive. He felt no remorse at all. Want to hear what he did next? He had a younger half-brother, a seven-year-old boy — the legitimate son of Perdiccas, the rightful heir to the throne. Did Archelaus raise the boy properly and give him back the kingdom? That wasn't his idea of happiness. Instead, not long after, he threw the boy down a well and drowned him, then told the boy's mother Cleopatra that he'd fallen in while chasing a goose.

And now, since Archelaus is the greatest criminal in all of Macedonia, he must be the most miserable man there — not the happiest. And I'd bet plenty of Athenians — you included, probably — would rather be any other Macedonian in the world than Archelaus.

Socrates I complimented you at the start of this conversation, Polus, for being better trained as a speechmaker than as a careful thinker. And this is exactly the kind of argument you think a child could use to refute me. But, my friend, where is the refutation? I don't accept a single word of what you've said.

Polus That's because you won't accept it — but you must think the way I do, deep down.

Socrates No, Polus. The problem is that you're trying to refute me the way lawyers do in court. In court, one side thinks they've won when they parade a bunch of respectable witnesses before the jury, while the other side has only one witness, or none. But this kind of proof is worthless when the truth is what we're after. A person can be sworn down by a mob of impressive-sounding false witnesses. And in this argument, nearly everyone — Athenians and foreigners alike — would take your side. If you want, you can call Nicias, son of Niceratus, and his brothers, the ones who donated that row of tripods in the precinct of Dionysus. Or call Aristocrates, son of Scellius, who made that famous offering at Delphi. Or summon the whole house of Pericles, or any other great Athenian family you like. They'll all agree with you.

But I stand alone. I disagree with all of you. You don't convince me. You just produce a crowd of false witnesses, hoping to rob me of my inheritance — which is the truth.

But here's what I think: nothing worthwhile has been accomplished unless I make you — you, Polus, personally — into my one witness. And nothing worthwhile has been accomplished by you unless you make me your one witness. Forget about everyone else.

There are two ways of arguing. One is yours and the world's. The other is mine. Let's compare them and see which holds up. Because the stakes here are about the most important knowledge there is — what it means to be happy and what it means to be miserable. Nothing is more important to know, and nothing more disgraceful to be ignorant about.

So let me get to the core. You believe that an unjust man who commits injustice can be happy — since you think Archelaus is unjust and happy. Is that a fair statement of your view?

Polus Certainly.

Socrates And I say that's impossible. That's one point where we disagree. Good. Now, a second question: would you say the unjust man is still happy even if he gets caught and punished?

Polus Certainly not. In that case he'd be most miserable.

Socrates But if the unjust man escapes punishment, then you'd say he's happy?

Polus Yes.

Socrates Well, in my view, Polus, the unjust person is miserable no matter what — but more miserable if he escapes punishment and isn't held accountable, and less miserable if he is punished and pays the penalty, whether at the hands of gods or men.

Polus That's a bizarre thing to say, Socrates.

Socrates I'll try to bring you around to my way of thinking, though, because I consider you a friend. So let me lay out our points of disagreement. I was saying it's worse to do injustice than to suffer it?

Polus Exactly.

Socrates And you said the opposite?

Polus Yes.

Socrates And I said the wicked are miserable, and you said I was wrong?

Polus By Zeus, I did.

Socrates In your own opinion, anyway.

Polus Yes, and I'm fairly confident I was right.

Socrates You also said that a wrongdoer is happy if he goes unpunished?

Polus Certainly.

Socrates And I say he's the most miserable of all — and that those who are punished are less miserable. Are you going to refute that too?

Polus Now that's an even harder proposition to refute, Socrates.

Socrates Not just hard, Polus — impossible. Because who can refute the truth?

Polus What are you talking about? Suppose a man is caught trying to make himself tyrant by unjust means. He's arrested, tortured on the rack, mutilated, has his eyes burned out, suffers every kind of terrible abuse — and then watches his wife and children suffer the same — and finally he's impaled or burned alive. You're saying this man is happier than if he'd gotten away with it and become a tyrant, spending the rest of his life doing whatever he pleases, envied and admired by everyone? That's the unrefutable claim?

Socrates Now you're trying to scare me with horror stories instead of refuting me, Polus — just like before when you called witnesses. But let me ask you to think back to one detail. Did you say "trying to make himself tyrant by unjust means"?

Polus Yes, I did.

Socrates Then neither of them will be happier than the other, because neither the man who unjustly seizes a tyranny nor the man who gets caught and tortured is happy. Of two miserable people, you can't say one is "happier." But the one who escapes and becomes a tyrant is the more miserable of the two.

Are you laughing, Polus? Well, that's a novel form of refutation — laughing at what someone says instead of arguing against it.

Polus Don't you think you've been sufficiently refuted, Socrates, when you're saying things no human being would agree with? Just ask anyone here!

Socrates I'm not a politician, Polus. Just last year, when my tribe held the presidency of the council and it was my turn to call the vote, I made a fool of myself because I didn't know how. So don't ask me to count votes now either. If you can't offer anything better than a head count, let me try a different approach to making my case. I'll produce just one witness for what I'm saying — and that witness is you, the person I'm arguing with. I know how to collect your vote. But I have nothing to do with the crowd, and I'm not even speaking to them.

So let me ask: will you answer my questions and let your views be tested? Because I truly believe that you and I and everyone deep down believes that doing injustice is a greater evil than suffering it, and that escaping punishment is worse than being punished.

Polus And I say that neither I, nor anyone else, believes that. Would you really choose to suffer injustice rather than commit it?

Socrates Yes — and so would you. So would anyone.

Polus Absolutely not! Not you, not me, not anyone.

Socrates But will you answer my questions?

Polus Sure — I'm dying to hear what you've got.

Socrates Then you'll find out. Let's start from the beginning: which of the two, Polus, do you think is worse — doing injustice or suffering it?

Polus I'd say suffering it is worse.

Socrates And which is more disgraceful? Answer me.

Polus Doing it.

Socrates And if it's more disgraceful, isn't it also worse?

Polus Absolutely not.

Socrates I see — so you're separating the honorable from the good, and the disgraceful from the bad?

Polus Yes.

Socrates Let me ask you this. When you call things beautiful — bodies, colors, shapes, sounds, customs — don't you call them beautiful by some standard? Beautiful bodies, for example, are called beautiful either because they're useful or because the sight of them gives pleasure. Can you point to any other reason for calling a body beautiful?

Polus I can't.

Socrates And you'd say the same about shapes and colors generally — that they're beautiful either because they give pleasure, or because they're useful, or both?

Polus Yes, I would.

Socrates The same with sounds and music?

Polus Yes.

Socrates And laws and customs — aren't they beautiful only insofar as they're useful, or pleasant, or both?

Polus I'd agree with that.

Socrates And the beauty of knowledge works the same way?

Polus Absolutely, Socrates. I really like your way of defining beauty in terms of pleasure and usefulness.

Socrates And ugliness or disgrace can be measured by the opposite standard — by pain and harm?

Polus Certainly.

Socrates So when one of two beautiful things is more beautiful than the other, it's because it surpasses in one or both of these — pleasure, usefulness, or both?

Polus Very true.

Socrates And when one of two ugly or disgraceful things is more disgraceful than the other, it must surpass in either pain or harm — right?

Polus Yes.

Socrates Now, what did you just say about doing and suffering injustice? Didn't you say that suffering injustice is the greater evil, but doing injustice is the greater disgrace?

Polus I did.

Socrates Then if doing injustice is more disgraceful than suffering it, it must be either more painful or more harmful, or both. Doesn't that follow?

Polus Of course.

Socrates Let's check. First, does doing injustice involve more pain than suffering it? Does the person who commits injustice suffer more than the victim?

Polus No, Socrates — certainly not.

Socrates So doing injustice doesn't exceed in pain?

Polus No.

Socrates And if not in pain, then not in both pain and harm?

Polus Apparently not.

Socrates Then it can only exceed in the other one?

Polus Yes.

Socrates That is — in harm?

Polus True.

Socrates So if doing injustice exceeds in harm, doing injustice is a greater evil than suffering injustice?

Polus Clearly.

Socrates Now, didn't you — and didn't everyone — already agree that doing injustice is more disgraceful than suffering it?

Polus Yes.

Socrates And now it's been shown to be a greater evil, too?

Polus True.

Socrates So would you choose the greater evil and the greater disgrace over the lesser one? Answer, Polus, and don't be afraid. Trust yourself to the argument the way you'd trust yourself to a doctor — and just answer "yes" or "no."

Polus I'd say no.

Socrates Would anyone choose a greater evil over a lesser one?

Polus No — not when you put it that way, Socrates.

Socrates Then I was right all along, Polus: neither you, nor I, nor anyone would rather do injustice than suffer it, because doing injustice is the greater evil.

Polus That is the conclusion.

Socrates You see, Polus, how different our two methods of argument are? Everyone else agrees with you. But your agreement alone — your single vote — is enough for me. I don't need anyone else. I take your vote and leave the rest.

But let's move on to the next question: whether it's the greatest evil for a guilty person to be punished, as you maintained, or whether escaping punishment is actually the greater evil, as I maintained. Consider: you'd say that being punished is the same as being justly corrected when you've done wrong?

Polus I would.

Socrates And would you agree that everything just is honorable, insofar as it's just? Think carefully before you answer.

Polus Yes, Socrates, I think so.

Socrates Now consider this: whenever there's someone who acts, there must also be something that's acted upon?

Polus I'd say so.

Socrates And the thing acted upon receives the same quality as the action. For example: if someone strikes hard, something is struck hard?

Polus Yes.

Socrates And if the strike is fast or violent, the thing struck receives a fast or violent impact?

Polus True.

Socrates The effect on the thing struck matches the nature of the action?

Polus Yes.

Socrates And if someone burns something, the thing burned experiences burning?

Polus Certainly.

Socrates And if the burning is intense or painful, the thing burned is burned intensely or painfully?

Polus Truly.

Socrates And the same with cutting — if there's a cut, something is cut?

Polus Yes.

Socrates And if the cut is deep or large or painful, the effect on the thing cut matches?

Polus That's clear.

Socrates So you'd agree with the general principle: the effect on the thing acted upon matches the nature of the action?

Polus I agree.

Socrates Then let me ask: is being punished a matter of acting or being acted upon?

Polus Being acted upon, Socrates — obviously.

Socrates And being acted upon implies someone doing the acting?

Polus Of course — the punisher.

Socrates And someone who punishes rightly punishes justly?

Polus Yes.

Socrates And therefore acts justly?

Polus Justly.

Socrates And the person being punished suffers something just?

Polus That's clear.

Socrates And we agreed that what's just is honorable?

Polus Certainly.

Socrates So the punisher does something honorable, and the punished person experiences something honorable?

Polus True.

Socrates And if it's honorable, it's good — since we said the honorable is either pleasant or useful?

Polus Certainly.

Socrates Then the person being punished experiences something good?

Polus That's true.

Socrates And so he benefits?

Polus Yes.

Socrates Do we mean the same thing by "benefit"? I mean that if he's justly punished, his soul is improved.

Polus Surely.

Socrates Then the person who's punished is freed from the evil in his soul?

Polus Yes.

Socrates And isn't he freed from the greatest evil? Think about it this way. When it comes to money, is there a worse evil than poverty?

Polus No.

Socrates And when it comes to the body, you'd say the evils are weakness, disease, and deformity?

Polus Yes.

Socrates And you'd agree the soul has its own evils too?

Polus Of course.

Socrates And those would be injustice, ignorance, cowardice, and the like?

Polus Certainly.

Socrates So for these three domains — wealth, body, and soul — you've identified three corresponding evils: poverty, disease, and injustice?

Polus True.

Socrates And which of these evils is the most disgraceful? Isn't it injustice — the evil of the soul, taken as a whole?

Polus By far the most.

Socrates And if the most disgraceful, then also the worst?

Polus What do you mean, Socrates?

Socrates I mean we've already agreed that whatever is most disgraceful must be either most painful, or most harmful, or both.

Polus Certainly.

Socrates And we've agreed that injustice and all evil of the soul is the most disgraceful?

Polus We have.

Socrates And it's the most disgraceful either because it's the most painful and causes the most pain, or because it's the most harmful, or both?

Polus Certainly.

Socrates So is being unjust, undisciplined, cowardly, and ignorant more painful than being poor and sick?

Polus No, Socrates — I don't think the painfulness follows from our argument.

Socrates Then if the evil of the soul isn't the most painful of evils, but it is the most disgraceful, the excess of disgrace must come from an extraordinary degree of harm.

Polus Clearly.

Socrates And what exceeds most in harm is the greatest of evils?

Polus Yes.

Socrates Then injustice, self-indulgence, and corruption of the soul in general are the greatest of evils?

Polus That's clear.

Socrates Now, what skill frees us from poverty? Isn't it making money?

Polus Yes.

Socrates And what frees us from disease? Isn't it medicine?

Polus Very true.

Socrates And what frees us from vice and injustice? If the answer doesn't come to you right away, think about it this way: where do we take sick people?

Polus To physicians, Socrates.

Socrates And where do we take the unjust and undisciplined?

Polus To the judges, you mean.

Socrates Who will punish them?

Polus Yes.

Socrates And those who punish rightly do so in accordance with justice?

Polus Clearly.

Socrates So moneymaking frees us from poverty; medicine frees us from disease; and justice frees us from corruption and injustice?

Polus That's clear.

Socrates Which of these three is best?

Polus Can you list them again?

Socrates Moneymaking, medicine, and justice.

Polus Justice, Socrates — by far.

Socrates And if it's the best, it produces the most pleasure or the most benefit, or both?

Polus Yes.

Socrates But is being healed actually pleasant? Do people enjoy the process of medical treatment?

Polus I'd say not.

Socrates But it's useful?

Polus Yes.

Socrates Because the patient is freed from a great evil. That's the benefit of enduring the pain — you get well.

Polus Certainly.

Socrates But who's happier in terms of bodily health — the person who gets healed, or the person who never got sick in the first place?

Polus Obviously, the person who never got sick.

Socrates Right. Because happiness isn't a matter of being rescued from evils — it's a matter of never having had them.

Polus True.

Socrates And suppose two people are both afflicted with the same illness. One gets treated and cured; the other doesn't. Which is more miserable?

Polus Obviously the one who isn't healed.

Socrates And didn't we say that punishment is the cure for the greatest of evils — namely, the corruption of the soul?

Polus True.

Socrates And justice punishes us, makes us more just, and serves as medicine for our corruption?

Polus True.

Socrates Then the happiest person is the one who has no corruption in his soul at all — since we've shown that to be the greatest of evils.

Polus Clearly.

Socrates And second happiest is the person who is freed from corruption?

Polus True.

Socrates That is — the person who is admonished, corrected, and punished?

Polus Yes.

Socrates Then the person who lives worst is the one who has corruption in his soul and is never freed from it?

Polus Certainly.

Socrates And that's the person who commits the greatest crimes and who, being the most unjust of all, manages to escape correction, punishment, and accountability. Which is exactly what you said Archelaus and other tyrants and rhetoricians and men of power have accomplished?

Polus True.

Socrates Their situation, my friend, is like that of a person with a terrible disease who manages to avoid going to the doctor and paying the price for his unhealthy habits — won't submit to treatment because, like a child, he's afraid of the pain of being cauterized or cut. Isn't that a fair comparison?

Polus Yes, truly.

Socrates It's as if he didn't understand what health and physical strength really are. And if our earlier conclusions are right, the people who try to escape justice are in exactly the same situation. They see that justice is painful and flinch from it, but they're blind to the benefit — they don't realize how much more miserable it is to live with a sick soul than a sick body. A soul that's corrupt, unjust, and unholy. And so they do everything they can to avoid punishment and avoid being cured of the greatest of evils. They spend their money, cultivate their connections, and sharpen their powers of persuasion — all to dodge the cure.

But if we're right, Polus, can you see what follows? Or shall I spell out the consequences step by step?

Polus If you please.

Socrates Injustice and the doing of injustice is the greatest of evils?

Polus That's quite clear.

Socrates And punishment is the way to be freed from this evil?

Polus True.

Socrates And avoiding punishment means the evil persists?

Polus Yes.

Socrates So doing injustice is the second-greatest evil. But doing injustice and not being punished for it — that is the first and greatest of all evils?

Polus That is true.

Socrates And wasn't this exactly our point of disagreement, my friend? You considered Archelaus happy because he committed terrible crimes without being punished. I maintained that he — or anyone like him who does wrong without being held accountable — is and deserves to be the most miserable of all people. That the person who commits injustice is more miserable than the one who suffers it. And that the one who escapes punishment is more miserable than the one who is punished. Isn't that what I said?

Polus Yes.

Socrates And hasn't it been proven true?

Polus Certainly.

Socrates Well then, Polus — if all this is true, what's the great use of rhetoric? If we accept what's just been demonstrated, every person should above all guard against doing wrong, because that means suffering great evil.

Polus True.

Socrates And if he or anyone he cares about does wrong, he should go voluntarily to face punishment as quickly as possible. He should run to the judge the way he'd run to the doctor — so that the disease of injustice doesn't fester and become an incurable cancer of the soul. Isn't that the conclusion, Polus, if our earlier agreements hold? Is there any other interpretation that's consistent?

Polus There can be only one answer to that, Socrates.

Socrates Then rhetoric is useless when it comes to helping a person excuse his own injustice — or the injustice of his parents, friends, children, or country. But rhetoric could be useful for someone who believes the right thing to do is accuse rather than excuse — to accuse himself first and foremost, and then his family and anyone else he cares about who is doing wrong. He should bring the injustice to light, not conceal it, so the wrongdoer can pay the penalty and be made whole. He should force himself and others not to flinch, but to submit bravely, with eyes closed, to the surgeon's knife and cautery — ignoring the pain, pursuing what's good and honorable. If he's committed offenses that deserve a beating, he should let himself be beaten. If imprisonment — imprisoned. If a fine — fined. If exile — exiled. If death — let him die. Let him be the first to accuse himself and his own family, using rhetoric for this purpose alone: to expose their unjust acts so they may be freed from injustice, the greatest of evils. That, Polus, is how rhetoric would truly be useful. Do you agree or not?

Polus What you're saying sounds very strange to me, Socrates — though I suppose it follows from your premises.

Socrates And if the premises aren't disproven, the conclusion stands?

Polus Yes, it certainly does.

Socrates And looking at it from the other side: if it's ever our duty to harm someone — an enemy, say, though never in self-defense — but if my enemy wrongs a third person, then by every means, through words and actions, I should try to prevent my enemy from being punished or appearing before a judge. And if he does appear, I should make sure he escapes without punishment. If he's stolen money, let him keep it and spend it on himself and his family, with no regard for justice or morality. If he's committed crimes worthy of death, let him not die — better yet, let him live forever in his wickedness. Or if that's not possible, let him live as long as he can.

That's the kind of thing rhetoric might be useful for, Polus. But for someone who isn't planning to commit injustice? It's of little use, if any — at least, we didn't discover any in our discussion.

Callicles Tell me, Chaerephon — is Socrates serious, or is he joking?

Chaerephon I'd say he's in dead earnest, Callicles. But you're welcome to ask him yourself.

Callicles By the gods, I think I will. Tell me, Socrates — are you serious or just playing around? Because if you're serious, and what you're saying is true, then human life is completely upside down. We're all doing the exact opposite of what we should be doing.

Socrates Callicles, if people didn't share some common feelings — even though they differ from person to person — we'd never be able to communicate with each other at all. I bring this up because I think you and I actually have something in common. We're both lovers, and we each have two loves. I'm in love with Alcibiades, son of Cleinias — and with philosophy. You're in love with the Athenian People — and with Demus, son of Pyrilampes.

Now, I've noticed that no matter how clever you are, you never dare contradict either of your darlings. Whatever they say, you go along with. They shift, you shift. When the Athenian People rejects something you've said in the assembly, you cave and agree with them. You do the same with young Demus — you can't resist whatever your loves say.

So if someone expressed surprise at the strange things you sometimes say under their influence, you'd probably tell them — if you were honest — that you can't help it, that you'll keep saying these things unless your loves are somehow stopped.

Well, understand that what I'm saying works exactly the same way. Don't be surprised by me — go silence philosophy, my love, because she's the one who keeps telling me what I'm telling you right now. Unlike my other love — the son of Cleinias, who says one thing today and another tomorrow — philosophy always says the same thing. She's the teacher whose words are currently baffling you, and you've heard her speak for yourself.

So either refute her — show that doing injustice and escaping punishment isn't the worst of all evils — or, if you leave her words standing, then by the dog, the god of Egypt, Callicles will never be at peace with himself. His whole life will be a discord.

And yet, my friend, I'd rather have my lyre out of tune. I'd rather have the chorus I sponsor singing off-key. I'd rather have the whole world disagreeing with me and opposing me — than be at odds with myself, a single person contradicting himself.

Callicles Socrates, you're speechifying, running wild with the argument. And the reason you can do it is that Polus fell into the same trap he accused Gorgias of. Remember — Polus said that when you asked Gorgias whether he'd teach justice to a student who came to him without knowing it, Gorgias was too polite to say no, because he thought people would be shocked by a "no." That polite admission led to the contradiction, and you pounced on it — which is exactly your favorite move. Then Polus rightly laughed at you. But now he's fallen into the same hole himself. I have to say, I don't think much of his reasoning when he conceded that doing injustice is more disgraceful than suffering it — because that single concession is what let you tangle him up. He was too polite to say what he really thought, so you shut him up.

Here's the truth, Socrates. You claim to be pursuing truth, but what you're really doing is appealing to popular, conventional morality — which isn't natural at all. Nature and convention are usually opposites. If a person is too polite to say what he really thinks, he ends up contradicting himself. And you, clever as you are, exploit this ruthlessly — when someone argues based on convention, you hit him with nature, and when he argues from nature, you slide back to convention.

That's exactly what you did in this discussion about doing and suffering injustice. When Polus was talking about what's conventionally disgraceful, you attacked him from the perspective of nature. Because by nature, suffering injustice is the greater disgrace — because it's the greater evil. But by convention, doing injustice is considered more disgraceful.

Suffering injustice isn't something a real man does. It's what a slave does — someone who'd be better off dead, since he can't defend himself or protect anyone he cares about.

Here's what I think. The people who make the laws are the majority — the weak. They make their laws and distribute praise and blame to suit themselves and protect their own interests. They try to frighten stronger men — the ones capable of taking more — by saying that taking more than your share is "shameful" and "unjust." They call it "injustice" when someone tries to have more than everyone else. They're happy with equality because they know they're inferior.

That's why, by convention, it's called "shameful" and "unjust" to seek more than the many. But nature herself tells a very different story. Nature shows — among human beings, among animals, among whole cities and nations — that justice means the superior ruling over the inferior and having more than them. On what principle of justice did Xerxes invade Greece, or his father invade Scythia? I could give countless examples. These men acted according to nature — according to the law of nature, if not the artificial law that we invent and impose on people.

We take the best and strongest from their youth upward, and we tame them like young lions. We charm them with speeches and lullabies, telling them that equality is the way, that the equal is the honorable and the just. But if a man with enough strength ever appeared, he'd shake off all these chains, break through and escape. He'd trample our rules and spells and charms and all our laws that go against nature. The slave would rise up and become master, and the light of natural justice would blaze forth.

This, I believe, is what Pindar means when he says:

"Law is king of all, mortals and immortals alike" —

and, as he says, it

"Makes might into right, doing violence with the highest hand; as I infer from the deeds of Heracles, who without buying them —"

I don't remember the exact words, but the point is that Heracles drove off the cattle of Geryon without paying for them and without anyone giving them to him, because by natural right the possessions of the weaker and inferior belong to the stronger and superior.

And this is the truth. You can verify it if you'll stop playing with philosophy and move on to more important things. Philosophy, Socrates, is a fine thing if you study it in moderation at the right age. It's an elegant accomplishment for a young person. But too much of it is the ruin of a man. Even someone with natural talent, if he keeps at philosophy into later life, will inevitably be ignorant of everything a respectable person ought to know — the laws of the city, the language of business and politics, the pleasures and desires and character of real human beings. And when people like this venture into politics or business, they make fools of themselves — just as, I imagine, politicians make fools of themselves when they wander into philosophical discussions. As Euripides says:

"Every man shines in what he's best at, devoting the greatest part of his day to it" —

but anything he's inferior at, he avoids and disparages, praising its opposite only to flatter himself. The real wisdom is to combine both.

Philosophy as part of education? Excellent. Nothing wrong with a young man pursuing it. But when an older man is still at it, still hasn't put it down — I find it ridiculous, Socrates. I feel about older philosophers the way I feel about adults who lisp and play like children. When a little child lisps, it's charming — there's something graceful and natural about it. But when I hear a grown person carefully articulating baby talk, it grates. It sounds slavish. And when I see someone lisping and playing childish games at their age, their behavior strikes me as absurd, unmanly, and deserving of a slap.

I have exactly the same reaction to students of philosophy. When I see a young person engaged in philosophy, I think it suits them beautifully — it marks a free and liberal mind. A young man who neglects philosophy seems inferior to me, someone who'll never aspire to anything great or noble. But when I see someone continuing these studies in later life, refusing to give them up — I want to beat him, Socrates. A person like that, no matter how talented, becomes soft. He hides from the center of the city and the marketplace where, as the poet says, men make their names. He skulks in a corner for the rest of his life whispering with three or four admiring young men, never speaking out like a free citizen in a way that matters.

Now, Socrates, I'm genuinely fond of you. And I feel toward you the way Zethus felt toward Amphion in that play of Euripides I was just mentioning. I'm inclined to say to you what Zethus said to his brother — that you, Socrates, are neglecting the things you ought to care about, that you —

"Who have a soul so noble, wear a ridiculously boyish disguise. You couldn't make a proper argument in court, or give compelling reasons or proof, or offer bold advice for someone else."

Please don't be offended, Socrates — I'm saying this out of goodwill. But aren't you ashamed of being so defenseless? And this isn't just about you — it's about everyone who pushes philosophy too far. Suppose someone hauled you off to prison, claiming you'd done something wrong when you hadn't — you'd have no idea what to do. You'd stand there dizzy and gaping, without a word to say. And if your accuser decided to seek the death penalty — even if he were a nobody, a complete mediocrity — you'd die. How is that wise? What's the value of

"A skill that turns a man of sense into a fool" —

helpless, unable to save himself or anyone else when he's in the greatest danger, about to be stripped of everything by his enemies, living as a man with no rights? Someone who, to put it bluntly, could be slapped in the face with impunity?

So take my advice, my friend. Stop all this refuting, and instead:

"Learn the practical skills that will earn you a reputation for good sense. Leave these subtleties to others" —

call them follies or absurdities, it doesn't matter:

"They'll only make poverty the permanent guest in your house."

Stop trying to imitate these hair-splitting philosophers, Socrates. Imitate the man of substance and reputation, the man who's doing well.

Socrates Callicles, if my soul were made of gold, wouldn't I be thrilled to find one of those touchstones they use to test gold — the very best one — so I could test my soul against it? And if the stone and I agreed my soul was genuine, I'd know I was in good shape and wouldn't need any further test.

Callicles What are you getting at, Socrates?

Socrates I'll tell you. I think I've found the perfect touchstone — in you.

Callicles Why me?

Socrates Because I'm confident that if you agree with any opinion my soul holds, it must be true. To properly test whether a soul is living well or badly, a person needs three qualities: knowledge, goodwill, and candor. You have all three.

Many people I meet can't test me properly because they're not knowledgeable enough — unlike you. Others are wise but won't tell me the truth because they don't care about me the way you do. And these two visitors — Gorgias and Polus — are undoubtedly wise men and friends of mine, but they're not candid enough. They're too polite. Their politeness is so extreme that it drove them to contradict themselves, one after the other, in front of a large audience, on matters of the highest importance.

But you have all the qualities they lack. You received an excellent education — many Athenians can confirm that. And you're my friend. How do I know? I know that you, Callicles, along with Tisander of Aphidnae, Andron son of Androtion, and Nausicydes of the deme of Cholarges, studied together — the four of you. I once overheard you all discussing how far philosophy should be pursued, and you agreed among yourselves not to push it too far. You warned each other not to get too wise for your own good, worried that too much wisdom might inadvertently ruin you. And now that I hear you giving me the same advice you gave your closest friends, I have solid evidence of your genuine goodwill toward me. And your candor — your freedom from excessive politeness — you've just demonstrated to my complete satisfaction.

So here's where we stand: if you agree with me about any point in this argument, that point has been thoroughly tested. Neither of us could have agreed from ignorance or excessive politeness or from wanting to deceive the other, since you're my friend, as you yourself say. So when you and I reach agreement, we will have arrived at the truth.

And there's no more important question, Callicles, than the one you just criticized me for pursuing — what should a person's character be? What should he devote himself to? How far should he go, in youth and in later life? If I'm making mistakes in the way I live, believe me — it's not on purpose. It's from ignorance. So don't give up advising me, now that you've started, until I've learned clearly what this thing is that I should practice and how to acquire it. And if you ever catch me agreeing with you now and then not following through later, call me a hopeless case and don't bother teaching me anymore.

But first, go back to the beginning for me. What do you and Pindar mean by natural justice? That the superior should take what belongs to the inferior by force? That the better should rule the worse and the noble have more than the common? Am I remembering your position correctly?

Callicles Yes, that's what I said, and I stand by it.

Socrates But do you mean the same person by "better" and "superior"? I couldn't quite follow you before. Do you mean that the stronger are the superior, and the weaker must obey the stronger? That seemed to be your point when you said great nations attack small ones in accordance with natural right — because they're superior and stronger, as though superior, stronger, and better were all the same thing? Or could the better person also be the weaker and inferior, and the superior person also be worse? Or do you define "better" as meaning the same thing as "superior"? That's the point I want you to clarify. Are "superior," "better," and "stronger" the same, or different?

Callicles I'm telling you clearly: they're the same.

Socrates But aren't the many naturally superior to the one — the many against whom, as you were saying, they make the laws?

Callicles Certainly.

Socrates Then the laws of the many are the laws of the superior?

Callicles Very true.

Socrates And therefore the laws of the better? Since the superior are far better, by your account?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates And since they're superior, their laws are by nature good?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates And don't the many believe — as you yourself were just saying — that justice means equality, and that doing injustice is more disgraceful than suffering it? Is that so or not? Answer me, Callicles, and don't let politeness get in the way. Do the many believe this or not? I need your answer, because if you agree with me, I want to be able to say my position has the backing of a truly competent authority.

Callicles Fine — yes, the many do think that.

Socrates Then it's not just convention but nature that says doing injustice is more disgraceful than suffering it, and that justice is equality. So it seems you were wrong earlier when you accused me of dishonestly playing nature against convention and convention against nature — slipping between them depending on which suited my argument.

Callicles This man will never stop with his nonsense. At your age, Socrates, aren't you embarrassed to be playing gotcha games and pouncing on slips of the tongue? Don't you see — haven't I already told you? — that by "superior" I mean better? Do you seriously think I'm saying that if a mob of useless slaves and nobodies with nothing going for them but brute strength get together, their pronouncements count as laws?

Socrates Well, well! Is that your position, my wise friend?

Callicles It certainly is.

Socrates I had a feeling something like that was on your mind, and that's exactly why I pressed the question about what you mean by "superior." I wanted to be clear. So you don't think that two people are necessarily better than one, or that your slaves are better than you just because they're stronger. Start over, then, and tell me: who are the better, if not the stronger? And I'd appreciate it if you'd tone down the lecture a bit, my good sir, or I might have to run away.

Callicles You're being ironic.

Socrates No, by the hero Zethus — the very one you just invoked to throw irony at me — I'm not. Just tell me: who do you mean by "the better"?

Callicles I mean the more excellent.

Socrates Can you see that you're just using words that don't mean anything yet — that you haven't explained a thing? Will you tell me whether by "the better" and "the superior" you mean the wiser? Or something else?

Callicles Yes, absolutely — I mean the wiser.

Socrates So according to you, one wise man can be superior to ten thousand fools, and he should rule over them, and they should be his subjects, and he should have more than they do. That's what I believe you're saying — and don't think I'm just playing word games — if you grant that the one is superior to the ten thousand?

Callicles Yes, that's what I mean. And that's what I take natural justice to be — that the better and wiser should rule and have more than the inferior.

Socrates Hold on. Let me ask you about this case: Suppose we're all gathered together, just as we are now. There are several of us, and we have a big shared supply of food and drink. Our group contains people of all different degrees of strength and weakness. Now, one of us happens to be a doctor and knows more about food than the rest. He's probably stronger than some of us and weaker than others. Wouldn't he, being wiser, also be better than us and our superior in matters of food?

Callicles Certainly.

Socrates So either he'll get a larger share of the food and drink because he's the better man, or he'll be in charge of distributing it all by virtue of his expertise — but he won't actually consume or use more of it himself. If he does, he'll suffer for it. His share will be more than some people's and less than others', and if he happens to be the weakest person in the group, then he — the best of us all — will get the smallest portion. Isn't that right, my friend?

Callicles You're talking about food and drink and doctors and other nonsense. That's not what I'm talking about.

Socrates Well, do you at least admit that the wiser person is the better one? Just answer yes or no.

Callicles Yes.

Socrates And shouldn't the better person have a larger share?

Callicles Not of food and drink.

Socrates I see. Then maybe you mean coats? The most skilled weaver should have the biggest coat and the most of them, and walk around dressed in the finest fabrics?

Callicles Oh, please — coats!

Socrates Then what about the most skilled shoemaker? Should the best cobbler walk around in the biggest shoes and own the most pairs?

Callicles Shoes! What nonsense are you going on about?

Socrates Or maybe you mean farming? The wisest and best farmer should have a bigger share of seeds and use as much as possible on his own land?

Callicles There you go again, Socrates, always saying the same thing!

Socrates Yes, Callicles — and about the same subjects, too.

Callicles Yes, by the gods, you're literally always going on about cobblers and laundrymen and cooks and doctors, as if any of that had anything to do with our discussion.

Socrates Then won't you tell me in what way a man must be superior and wiser to deserve a bigger share? You won't accept my suggestions and you won't offer your own.

Callicles I've already told you! First of all, when I say "superiors" I don't mean cobblers or cooks. I mean wise politicians who understand how to run a state — and who are not only wise but also brave enough to carry out their plans, men who won't faint from lack of nerve.

Socrates You see, my excellent Callicles, how different my complaint about you is from yours about me? You accuse me of always saying the same thing. But I accuse you of never saying the same thing about the same topic. At one point you defined "the better and superior" as the stronger. Then you switched to the wiser. And now you're introducing yet another idea — the superior and the better are now the more courageous. I really wish you'd just tell me, once and for all, who you mean by "the better and superior," and in what way they're better.

Callicles I've already told you — I mean those who are wise and courageous in governing the state. They should be the rulers, and justice consists in their having more than those they rule.

Socrates But whether they're rulers or subjects — will they or won't they have more than themselves, my friend?

Callicles What do you mean?

Socrates I mean that every man is his own ruler. Or maybe you think there's no need for a man to rule himself — he only needs to rule others?

Callicles What do you mean by "ruling himself"?

Socrates Nothing complicated. Just what everyone says: that a man should be self-controlled, master of himself, ruling over his own pleasures and desires.

Callicles Ha! How charming. You mean those fools — the self-controlled types?

Socrates Obviously. Anyone would know that's what I mean.

Callicles Exactly, Socrates, and they really are fools. How can a man be happy if he's a slave to anything? No — I'll tell you plainly. The man who wants to truly live should let his desires grow as large as possible and never hold them back. And when they've reached their peak, he should have the courage and the intelligence to satisfy every one of them. That, I say, is natural justice and genuine nobility.

But most people can't achieve this. So they attack the strong out of shame at their own weakness, and that's why they say excess is disgraceful. As I said before, they try to enslave the naturally superior, and since they can't satisfy their own desires, they praise self-control and justice — out of pure cowardice.

Think about it. If a man were born the son of a king, or had a nature capable of seizing an empire or a tyranny — for a man like that, what could be more pathetic and harmful than self-control? Here he is, free to enjoy every good thing, with nobody standing in his way — and he voluntarily submits to the customs, the opinions, the judgment of ordinary people as his masters? How could the "glory" of justice and self-control do anything but make him miserable, when it stops him from giving more to his friends than to his enemies, even though he's the one running the city?

Here's the truth, Socrates, since you claim to be pursuing truth: luxury and excess and freedom, when backed by power — that's virtue, that's happiness. Everything else is just pretty-sounding nonsense — man-made agreements that go against nature, worthless talk, nothing at all.

Socrates Well, there's a bold honesty in the way you approach this argument, Callicles. You're saying out loud what everyone else thinks but is afraid to say. So please, I'm begging you — don't hold back. We need to get to the bottom of how human life should really be lived.

So tell me: you're saying that in a properly developed man, the desires shouldn't be restrained, but we should let them grow to the maximum and find some way to satisfy them, and that this is virtue?

Callicles Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying.

Socrates Then people who want for nothing can't rightly be called happy?

Callicles Of course not — if that were the case, stones and dead men would be the happiest of all.

Socrates But the life you're describing is a frightening one. You know, I wouldn't be surprised if Euripides was right when he said:

"Who knows if life is really death, and death is life?"

Maybe we're already dead. I once heard a philosopher say that right now, in this moment, we're actually dead — that the body is our tomb, and the part of the soul where desires live is tossed around and buffeted by every impulse. And there was some clever thinker — probably Sicilian or Italian — who played with words and called the soul a "vessel," and called the foolish "the uninitiated" or "the leaky ones." He compared the place in their souls where desires live — the uncontrolled, insatiable part — to a container full of holes, because it can never be filled.

Now this thinker completely disagrees with you, Callicles. He says that among all the souls in Hades — meaning the unseen world — these "leaky" souls are the most wretched of all. They spend eternity pouring water into a container full of holes using a sieve that's just as full of holes. That sieve, my source tells me, represents the soul — and the soul he's comparing to a sieve is the soul of the foolish person, which is likewise full of holes and can hold nothing, because of bad memory and lack of conviction.

Now, these ideas are pretty strange, I admit. But they illustrate the principle I'd love to prove to you: that you should change your mind and choose a life that's orderly and sufficient, with enough for your daily needs, instead of the insatiable, uncontrolled life you're praising.

Am I making any impression on you? Are you coming around to the idea that the disciplined life is happier than the undisciplined one? Or am I failing to persuade you, and no matter how many stories I tell, you'll stick to your position?

Callicles That last one, Socrates, is closer to the truth.

Socrates All right, let me try another image from the same school of thought. Consider this as a picture of the two lives — the self-controlled and the uncontrolled.

Imagine two men, each with a large number of storage jars. The first man's jars are sound and full — one of wine, another of honey, a third of milk, and so on. The streams that fill them are scarce and hard to come by, requiring enormous effort. But once his jars are filled, he doesn't need to worry about them. He's done. He can relax.

The second man can also find streams to fill his jars, though not without difficulty. But his jars are cracked and leaky. Day and night he's forced to keep refilling them, and if he stops even for a moment, he's in agony.

Those are the two lives. Now would you say the uncontrolled life is happier than the disciplined one? Does this convince you at all that the opposite of what you believe is true?

Callicles You don't convince me, Socrates. The man who's already filled up has no pleasure left. That's the life of a stone, like I said — no joy, no pain, once you're full. Real pleasure comes from the constant flow of more pouring in.

Socrates But the more you pour in, the more waste there is. The holes have to be pretty big for that much to leak out.

Callicles Certainly.

Socrates So the life you're actually describing isn't the life of a dead man or a stone — it's the life of a cormorant. Always hungry, always eating.

Callicles Yes.

Socrates And always thirsty, always drinking?

Callicles Yes, exactly. A man should have all his desires alive and active, and live happily by gratifying them.

Socrates Wonderful, excellent! Keep going as you've begun, and don't hold back out of embarrassment. And I shouldn't hold back either. So first, tell me: does the life of someone who itches and scratches count? If you could spend your whole life itching and scratching to your heart's content, would that be a happy life?

Callicles What a bizarre person you are, Socrates! A total demagogue.

Socrates That's exactly why I managed to shock Polus and Gorgias into being too embarrassed to say what they really thought. But you — you won't be embarrassed, and you won't back down. You're a brave man. So answer my question.

Callicles Fine. I'll say that even the scratcher would live pleasantly.

Socrates And if pleasantly, then happily?

Callicles Sure.

Socrates But what if the itching isn't limited to the head? Shall I keep pushing this? Think about how you'd answer, Callicles, if the consequences are pressed to their conclusion — especially if I end up asking whether the life of a catamite is a terrible, foul, wretched thing. Or would you dare to say that even they're happy, as long as they get enough of what they want?

Callicles Aren't you ashamed, Socrates, to drag the conversation to places like that?

Socrates Excuse me, my fine friend, but am I the one who dragged us here? Or is it the man who says, without any qualification, that everyone who feels pleasure in whatever way is happy, and draws no distinction between good and bad pleasures? I'm still asking: do you say that pleasure and good are the same thing, or is there some pleasure that isn't good?

Callicles Well, for the sake of consistency, I'll say they're the same.

Socrates You're breaking our original agreement, Callicles. You won't be a satisfactory partner in the search for truth if you start saying things you don't actually believe.

Callicles But that's exactly what you do too, Socrates.

Socrates Then we're both in the wrong. Still, my dear friend, please consider whether pleasure, from whatever source, really is the good. Because if that's true, then all the unpleasant consequences I just hinted at will follow, along with many others.

Callicles That's just your opinion, Socrates.

Socrates And do you, Callicles, seriously stand by what you're saying?

Callicles I absolutely do.

Socrates All right then, since you're in earnest — shall we proceed with the argument?

Callicles By all means.

Socrates Good. If you're willing, settle this question for me: there's something you'd call knowledge, isn't there?

Callicles There is.

Socrates And weren't you saying just now that some courage involves knowledge?

Callicles I was.

Socrates And you spoke of courage and knowledge as two different things?

Callicles I certainly did.

Socrates And would you say that pleasure and knowledge are the same, or not the same?

Callicles Not the same, oh wise one.

Socrates And would you say courage is different from pleasure?

Callicles Obviously.

Socrates Good. Let's make a note: Callicles of Acharnae says that pleasure and good are the same thing, but that knowledge and courage are not the same as each other, nor the same as the good.

Callicles And what does our friend Socrates of Alopece say? Does he agree, or not?

Socrates He does not. And neither will Callicles, once he sees himself clearly. Tell me — you'd agree that good fortune and bad fortune are opposites?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates And if they're opposites, then they must exclude each other, the way health and sickness do? A man can't be both healthy and sick at the same time, and he can't lose both at the same time?

Callicles What do you mean?

Socrates Take any part of the body. A man might have an eye disease — say, ophthalmia.

Callicles Sure.

Socrates But he can't have healthy eyes and diseased eyes at the same time, can he?

Callicles Certainly not.

Socrates And when the disease goes away, he doesn't lose the health of his eyes along with it? He doesn't lose both at once?

Callicles Certainly not.

Socrates That would be absurd, wouldn't it?

Callicles Very.

Socrates Rather, he has them and loses them in alternation?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates And the same goes for strength and weakness — they come and go in turns?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates Speed and slowness too?

Callicles Certainly.

Socrates And does a person have good fortune and happiness, and their opposites — misfortune and misery — in the same alternating way?

Callicles Certainly.

Socrates So if we find something that a person has and doesn't have at the same time, that thing clearly can't be the good and the bad. Do we agree? Think carefully before you answer.

Callicles I entirely agree.

Socrates Good. Now go back to what we agreed on earlier. Did you say that hunger — the mere state of being hungry — is pleasant or painful?

Callicles I said it's painful. But eating when you're hungry is pleasant.

Socrates I know. But the actual hunger itself is painful, right?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates And thirst is painful too?

Callicles Yes, very.

Socrates Do I need to bring up more examples, or would you agree that all wants and desires are painful?

Callicles I agree. No need for more examples.

Socrates Good. And you'd agree that drinking when you're thirsty is pleasant?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates And in the sentence you just said, the word "thirsty" implies pain?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates And "drinking" expresses pleasure — the satisfaction of a want?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates There's pleasure in drinking?

Callicles Certainly.

Socrates When you're thirsty?

Socrates And in pain?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates Do you see the point? Pleasure and pain are happening simultaneously. When you say "being thirsty, you drink," those two things are occurring at the same time, affecting the same part of you — whether body or soul doesn't matter. Isn't that right?

Callicles It is.

Socrates But you also said that no one can have good fortune and bad fortune at the same time?

Callicles Yes, I did.

Socrates Yet you've just admitted that someone in pain can also be feeling pleasure?

Callicles Clearly.

Socrates Then pleasure isn't the same as good fortune, and pain isn't the same as bad fortune. Therefore, the good is not the same as the pleasant.

Callicles I wish I knew what all your quibbling is getting at, Socrates.

Socrates Oh, you know perfectly well, Callicles. You're just pretending you don't.

Callicles Fine, keep going, and stop fooling around. Then you'll see what a brilliant advisor you are.

Socrates Doesn't a man stop being thirsty and stop feeling the pleasure of drinking at the same moment?

Callicles I have no idea what you're talking about.

Gorgias Come now, Callicles — answer, if only for our sake. We'd like to hear the argument through.

Callicles Yes, Gorgias, but this is Socrates all over — always arguing about petty, trivial questions.

Gorgias What does it matter? Your reputation isn't at stake. Just let Socrates argue in his own way.

Callicles Fine then, Socrates, go ahead with your petty little questions, since Gorgias wants to hear them.

Socrates I envy you, Callicles — you've been initiated into the great mysteries before the lesser ones. I didn't think that was permitted! But back to the argument: doesn't a man stop being thirsty and stop feeling the pleasure of drinking at the same moment?

Callicles True.

Socrates And if he's hungry or has any other desire, doesn't the desire and the pleasure of satisfying it cease at the same moment?

Callicles Very true.

Socrates So he stops feeling pain and pleasure at the same moment?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates But he doesn't stop having good and bad at the same moment — you already agreed to that. Do you still hold to it?

Callicles Yes, I do. But what's the inference?

Socrates The inference, my friend, is this: the good is not the same as the pleasant, and the bad is not the same as the painful. Pleasure and pain cease together, at the same moment. But good and bad don't, because they're different things.

How, then, can pleasure be identical with the good, or pain with the bad?

And here's another way to look at it, one I don't think you've considered: aren't people good because good is present in them, the way people are beautiful because beauty is present in them?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates And would you call fools and cowards good people? You said earlier that the courageous and the wise are the good. That's still your view?

Callicles Certainly.

Socrates Now, have you ever seen a foolish child feeling happy?

Callicles Yes, I have.

Socrates And a foolish adult too?

Callicles Yes, certainly. But where are you going with this?

Socrates Nowhere in particular — just answer.

Callicles Yes, I have.

Socrates And have you ever seen a wise person happy or unhappy?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates Which group feels more joy and sorrow — the wise or the foolish?

Callicles I'd say they're pretty much the same in that regard.

Socrates Fine. And have you ever seen a coward in battle?

Callicles Of course.

Socrates And when the enemy retreated, who felt more joy — the coward or the brave man?

Callicles I'd say both felt a lot of joy. Or at least roughly equal amounts.

Socrates Doesn't matter. The point is that cowards, not just brave men, feel joy?

Callicles Very much so.

Socrates And fools feel it too, it seems?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates And when the enemy approaches — are only the cowards pained, or are the brave also pained?

Callicles Both.

Socrates Equally?

Callicles I'd imagine the cowards are pained more.

Socrates And they're probably more pleased when the enemy leaves?

Callicles I suppose so.

Socrates So the foolish and the wise, the cowardly and the brave, all feel pleasure and pain in roughly equal measure — but the cowards feel them even more intensely?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates But surely the wise and brave are the good, and the foolish and cowardly are the bad?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates Then the good and the bad feel pleasure and pain in roughly equal degree?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates So then — are the good and bad equally good and bad? Or do the bad perhaps have the advantage, since they experience more of both pleasure and pain?

Callicles I really don't know what you're getting at.

Socrates Don't you remember? You said people are good because good is present in them, and bad because bad is present in them. And you said pleasures are goods and pains are bads.

Callicles Yes, I remember.

Socrates And aren't these pleasures — these goods — present in people who feel joy?

Callicles Certainly.

Socrates Then people who feel joy are good, since goods are present in them?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates And people in pain have bad — sorrow — present in them?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates And you'd still say the bad are bad because of the presence of bad in them?

Callicles I would.

Socrates Then whoever feels joy is good, and whoever feels pain is bad?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates And the degree of good and bad varies with the degree of pleasure and pain?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates And the wise man and the fool, the brave man and the coward — they all feel joy and pain in roughly equal measure? Or did you say the coward feels even more?

Callicles I said he does.

Socrates Then help me draw out the conclusion that follows from what we've agreed. As they say, good things are worth saying twice or even three times. We agreed that the wise and the brave are good?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates And the foolish and the cowardly are bad?

Callicles Certainly.

Socrates And whoever feels joy is good?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates And whoever is in pain is bad?

Callicles Certainly.

Socrates And the good and the bad both feel joy and pain — but perhaps the bad feel more of both?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates Then we're forced to conclude that the bad man is just as good and bad as the good man — or maybe even more so? Isn't that a further consequence that follows inevitably from saying the good and the pleasant are the same? Can this be denied, Callicles?

Callicles I've been sitting here listening and agreeing with you, Socrates, and I notice that when someone gives you something in play, you grab hold of it like a child and won't give it back. But do you really believe that I — or anyone else — denies that some pleasures are good and others bad?

Socrates Oh, Callicles, how unfair you are! You're treating me like a child — saying one thing one moment and something different the next, as if you're deliberately trying to mislead me. I thought at first you were my friend and wouldn't deceive me if you could help it. But I see I was wrong. So I suppose I'll have to make the best of a bad situation, as the old saying goes, and take what I can get.

Well then, let me make sure I understand you: I may now assume that some pleasures are good and others are bad?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates The beneficial ones are good, and the harmful ones are bad?

Callicles Of course.

Socrates And the beneficial ones are those that produce some good result, and the harmful ones produce some bad result?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates Take, for example, the bodily pleasures of eating and drinking we were just discussing. You'd say the ones that promote health or some other physical excellence are good, and their opposites are bad?

Callicles Certainly.

Socrates And in the same way, there are good pains and bad pains?

Callicles Of course.

Socrates And shouldn't we choose and pursue the good pleasures and pains?

Callicles Certainly.

Socrates But not the bad ones?

Callicles Clearly.

Socrates Because — if you remember — Polus and I agreed that everything we do should be done for the sake of the good. Will you join us in saying that the good is the goal of all our actions, and that we should do everything for the sake of the good, not pursue the good for the sake of something else? Will you add your vote to our two?

Callicles I will.

Socrates Then pleasure, like everything else, should be pursued for the sake of the good — not the good for the sake of pleasure?

Callicles Certainly.

Socrates But can just anyone tell which pleasures are good and which are bad? Or does that require skill and knowledge?

Callicles It requires skill.

Socrates Now let me remind you of what I was saying to Gorgias and Polus. I argued that there are some activities that aim only at pleasure and know nothing about what's better or worse, and other activities that know about good and bad. I put cooking — which I don't call a real craft but just a knack — in the first category, the one concerned only with pleasure. And I put medicine in the category concerned with the good.

Now, I'm begging you, Callicles, by the god of friendship — don't joke around, and don't think I'm joking with you. Don't just answer randomly or contrary to what you really believe. Because consider: we're arguing about how a human life should be lived. And for any person with sense, what question could possibly be more serious than this? Whether a man should follow the path you're urging on me — doing what you call "the manly thing," speaking in the assembly, practicing rhetoric, going into politics as it's currently done — or whether he should pursue the life of philosophy? And what the difference is between those two ways of living.

Maybe we should first try to distinguish them clearly, as I did before. Once we agree they're distinct, we can consider how they differ and which one we should choose.

But perhaps you don't understand what I mean?

Callicles No, I don't.

Socrates Then let me spell it out. You and I have agreed that there's such a thing as the good, and such a thing as pleasure, and that pleasure isn't the same as the good, and that the pursuit of one is different from the pursuit of the other. I just want to confirm — do you agree with me on this?

Callicles I do.

Socrates Good. Now tell me if you also agree with what I said next to Gorgias and Polus: that cooking, in my view, is not a true craft but only a knack. It goes after pleasure without ever considering the nature or cause of that pleasure. It never reflects or calculates — it just works by routine and experience, remembering what it usually does to produce pleasure.

Medicine, on the other hand, is a genuine craft. It studies the nature and constitution of its patient, understands the principles behind its actions, and can give a reasoned account of everything it does.

Now here's my question: aren't there similar processes that deal with the soul? Some that are genuine crafts, providing for the soul's highest interest — and others that ignore the soul's real welfare and care only about how to give it pleasure, without ever asking whether that pleasure is good or bad, aiming at nothing except gratification?

In my view, Callicles, this is what I call flattery — whether it's directed at the body or the soul, whenever it aims at pleasure with no concern for good and bad.

Do you agree with this, or do you disagree?

Callicles I don't disagree. I agree — so that I can bring this argument to an end sooner and do my friend Gorgias a favor.

Socrates And is this true of one soul, or of two or more?

Callicles Equally true of two or more.

Socrates Then a man could delight a whole crowd while having no concern whatsoever for their real interests?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates Can you tell me which pursuits delight people? Or rather, let me ask and you answer. Which of them belong to the purely pleasurable category, and which don't? Take flute-playing, for instance. Doesn't that seem like a craft that aims only at pleasure, Callicles, with no thought for anything else?

Callicles I'd say so.

Socrates And isn't the same true of all similar arts — like playing the lyre at festivals?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates And what about choral performances and dithyrambic poetry? Aren't they the same? Do you think Cinesias the son of Meles cares about the moral improvement of his audience, or just about pleasing the crowd?

Callicles Obviously the latter, with Cinesias.

Socrates And what about his father, Meles the harpist? Did he ever perform with any concern for his audience's good? Could you even say he cared about their pleasure? His singing was a punishment for anyone listening! And what about harp-playing and dithyrambic poetry in general? Haven't they been invented purely for the sake of pleasure?

Callicles That's how I see it.

Socrates And what about that solemn and majestic lady — the Muse of Tragedy? What are her aspirations? Does she only try to please the audience? Or does she fight against them, refusing to cater to their pleasant vices, and willingly speak truths that are welcome and unwelcome alike? Which is it, in your view?

Callicles There's no question, Socrates — Tragedy is all about pleasure and gratifying the audience.

Socrates And isn't that exactly the kind of thing we were calling flattery?

Callicles Quite right.

Socrates Well now, suppose we strip away the melody and rhythm and meter from poetry. What's left? Just speech, isn't it?

Callicles Of course.

Socrates And this speech is addressed to a crowd?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates So poetry is a kind of rhetoric?

Callicles True.

Socrates And don't the poets in the theaters strike you as rhetoricians?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates So we've discovered a form of rhetoric aimed at a crowd of men, women, and children, free and slave. And it's not a form we think much of, since we've identified it as a kind of flattery.

Callicles Right.

Socrates Very well. And what about the other kind of rhetoric — the kind that addresses the Athenian assembly and the assemblies of other free cities? Do the orators always aim at what's best? Do they try to improve the citizens through their speeches? Or are they just like everyone else — bent on pleasing people, forgetting the public good for the sake of their own interests, playing with the people like children, trying to amuse them, never caring whether the people end up better or worse for it?

Callicles I'd have to make a distinction. Some orators genuinely care about the public good in what they say. Others are exactly as you describe.

Socrates Fair enough. I'm satisfied with the admission that rhetoric comes in two kinds: one that's pure flattery and shameful pandering, and another that's noble and aims to train and improve the citizens' souls, striving to say what's best whether or not people want to hear it. But have you ever encountered this noble kind of rhetoric? If you have, tell me — who practices it?

Callicles Well, to be honest, I can't name anyone among the orators currently alive.

Socrates What about past generations? Can you name anyone who actually improved the Athenians — who found them worse and left them better from the day he started speaking?

Callicles What! Didn't you ever hear that Themistocles was a great man? And Cimon and Miltiades and Pericles — who just recently died, and whom you yourself heard speak?

Socrates Yes, Callicles, they were good men — if, as you originally said, true virtue consists in satisfying your own desires and those of others. But if that's not virtue — if, as we were later forced to acknowledge, satisfying some desires makes us better while satisfying others makes us worse, and there's a real skill in telling the difference — can you tell me which of these statesmen knew how to make that distinction?

Callicles No, I honestly can't.

Socrates But if you look carefully, you'll find such a person. Let's just calmly consider whether any of them fits the description. Won't a good man, when he speaks, always speak with reference to some standard, and not at random? Just as every craftsman — the painter, the builder, the shipwright — looks to his own work and doesn't apply materials randomly, but strives to give his creation a definite form. Each craftsman arranges everything in order and makes every part harmonize with every other part, until he's constructed a regular, organized whole.

This is true of all craftsmen, and it's equally true of the trainers and doctors we were talking about — they bring order and structure to the body. You don't deny this?

Callicles No, I'll admit it.

Socrates Then a house where order and structure prevail is a good house, and one where disorder reigns is a bad house?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates And the same goes for a ship?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates And the same for the human body?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates And what about the soul? Is the good soul one where disorder prevails, or one where there's harmony and order?

Callicles From what we've already agreed, it has to be the latter.

Socrates What's the name we give to the effect of harmony and order in the body?

Callicles I suppose you mean health and strength?

Socrates Exactly. And what name would you give to the effect of harmony and order in the soul? Try to come up with one, just as you did for the body.

Callicles Why don't you just say it yourself, Socrates?

Socrates Fine. If you'd prefer, I'll say it, and you can tell me whether you agree. I'd say that the orderly arrangement of the body produces what we call "health" and all the other physical excellences. Sound right?

Callicles Right.

Socrates And the orderly arrangement of the soul produces what we call "lawfulness" and "law" — and these are what make people lawful and orderly. And these amount to self-control and justice. Agreed?

Callicles Granted.

Socrates And won't the true rhetorician — the honest one who understands his craft — keep his eye on these qualities in every word he speaks and every action he takes? Whatever he gives and whatever he takes away, his aim will be to plant justice in the souls of his citizens and root out injustice, to plant self-control and root out excess, to plant every virtue and root out every vice. Don't you agree?

Callicles I agree.

Socrates Because what's the point, Callicles, of giving a sick person with a broken-down body the most delicious food and drink and every pleasant thing, when it may be doing him as much harm as giving him nothing at all — or even more harm, if we calculate correctly? Isn't that true?

Callicles I won't argue with that.

Socrates Because in my view, there's no profit in life if the body is in a ruined state — a life like that is just living badly. Am I right?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates When someone is healthy, doctors generally let them eat when they're hungry and drink when they're thirsty and satisfy their desires as they please. But when they're sick, doctors barely let them indulge any of their desires. You'd agree with that?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates And doesn't the same reasoning apply to the soul, my good friend? While it's in a bad state — senseless, undisciplined, unjust, unholy — its desires should be restrained. It should be prevented from doing anything that doesn't lead to its improvement.

Callicles Yes.

Socrates Because that's what's best for the soul itself?

Callicles Of course.

Socrates And isn't restraining the soul from its appetites a form of discipline?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates Then discipline is better for the soul than the lack of restraint — the very thing you were just praising?

Callicles I don't understand what you're saying, Socrates. Why don't you go ask someone who does.

Socrates Look at this, everyone! Here's a man who can't stand to be improved, who refuses to undergo the very discipline we're talking about!

Callicles I couldn't care less about a word you're saying. I've only been answering this whole time to be polite to Gorgias.

Socrates Well, what do we do? Just break off in the middle?

Callicles That's your call.

Socrates You know what they say — a story ought to have a head and not break off in the middle. I'd hate for the argument to go wandering around headless. So please, just go a little longer and help me finish it.

Callicles You are a tyrant, Socrates! I wish you and your arguments would give it a rest, or find someone else to argue with.

Socrates But who else is willing? I want to finish the argument.

Callicles Can't you finish it on your own? Just talk straight through, or ask and answer your own questions?

Socrates So I'll have to do what Epicharmus described — "Two men spoke before, but now one will have to be enough"? I suppose there's no help for it.

But if I'm going to carry on by myself, let me first say this: not only I, but all of us should want to discover what's true and what's false in these matters, because finding the truth is a common good.

So I'll proceed according to my own understanding. But if any of you think I'm reaching a false conclusion, you must jump in and refute me. I'm not speaking from some special knowledge — I'm searching, just like you. And if my opponent says something that's sound, I'll be the first to agree with him.

I'm going on the assumption that we should finish the argument. But if you'd all rather stop, let's stop and go home.

Gorgias I don't think we should stop, Socrates. Not until you've finished the argument. I suspect the others feel the same way. I personally very much want to hear what you have to say.

Socrates Well, I too would have liked to continue with Callicles, Gorgias — then I could have given him an "Amphion" in return for his "Zethus." But since you're unwilling to continue, Callicles, at least listen and interrupt me if I seem to be wrong. And if you refute me, I won't be angry the way you've been with me. Instead, I'll engrave your name on the tablets of my soul as my greatest benefactor.

Callicles Just get on with it, old friend. Don't worry about me.

Socrates Listen, then, as I summarize the argument.

Is the pleasant the same as the good? No, it isn't. Callicles and I agreed on that. Should the pleasant be pursued for the sake of the good, or the good for the sake of the pleasant? The pleasant for the sake of the good. And the pleasant is what makes us feel pleased, while the good is what makes us genuinely good? Right. And we're good — and all good things are good — when some excellence is present in us? That's my conviction.

But the excellence of anything — body, soul, tool, or creature — doesn't come about by accident. It comes through order and truth and the proper skill applied to it. Right? And isn't the excellence of each thing determined by its proper arrangement and order? Yes. And what makes anything good is having the right order inherent in it? That's my view. And isn't a soul with proper order better than one without it? Certainly. And the soul with order is an orderly soul? Of course. And the orderly soul is self-controlled? Absolutely. And the self-controlled soul is good?

I can give no other answer, dear Callicles. Can you?

Callicles Go on, go on.

Socrates Then I'll add this: if the self-controlled soul is the good soul, then the soul in the opposite condition — the foolish and undisciplined soul — is the bad soul. True enough.

And the self-controlled person will do what's right in relation to both gods and other people — because he wouldn't be self-controlled if he didn't. Certainly. In his dealings with other people, he'll do what's just. And in his dealings with the gods, he'll do what's holy. And the person who does what's just and holy must be a just and holy person. Absolutely true.

And he must also be courageous. Because the self-controlled person's duty is not to pursue or avoid what he shouldn't, but to pursue and avoid what he should — whether things, people, pleasures, or pains — and to endure patiently when endurance is called for.

Therefore, Callicles, the self-controlled person — being, as we've described, also just, courageous, and holy — must be a perfectly good person. And the good person must do well and excellently in whatever he does. And whoever does well must be happy and blessed. And the bad person, who does badly, must be miserable.

Now this miserable person is exactly the one you were applauding — the undisciplined person, the opposite of the self-controlled one.

That's my position, and I maintain these things are true. And if they're true, then anyone who wants to be happy must pursue and practice self-control and run away from lack of discipline as fast as his legs will carry him. The best plan is to arrange your life so you never need punishment. But if you or anyone you care about — whether an individual or a whole city — does need punishment, then justice must be done and the punishment must be accepted, if there's to be any happiness.

This, I believe, is the goal a person should aim at, directing all their energy — both personal and political — toward having self-control and justice present in their life, so they can be happy. Not letting their desires run wild, not trying to fill them up in an endless chase, living like a bandit. A person like that is no friend to gods or humans, because he's incapable of fellowship. And whoever is incapable of fellowship is incapable of friendship.

The philosophers tell us, Callicles, that fellowship, friendship, order, self-control, and justice hold together heaven and earth, gods and humans. That's why they call this universe "Cosmos" — that is, "Order" — and not "Chaos" or "Disorder." But despite your philosophical pretensions, you seem never to have noticed that proportional equality is a mighty force among gods and humans alike. You think you should cultivate excess and inequality, because you have no use for proportion.

Well then, either we must refute the principle that the happy are made happy by possessing justice and self-control, and the miserable made miserable by possessing vice — or, if we grant it, we must accept all the consequences. And all those consequences I drew earlier, Callicles — the ones you asked whether I was serious about, when I said a man should accuse himself, his son, and his friend if any of them does wrong, and use his rhetoric to that end — all those consequences are true.

And what you thought Polus only admitted out of embarrassment is actually true: doing injustice is worse than suffering it, in exact proportion to how much more shameful it is. And the other point that you said Gorgias admitted only out of embarrassment — that a true rhetorician must be just and understand justice — that turns out to be true as well.

Now, with all of this established, let's consider whether you were right to reproach me for being unable to help myself or any of my friends or family, or to save them from danger — whether I'm really at the mercy of others, like an outlaw anyone can do with as they please: box my ears (that was your bold expression), take my property, exile me, or at the worst — kill me. And you said being in that position is the ultimate disgrace.

My answer — and I've given it before, but it bears repeating — is this: to be boxed on the ears unjustly is not the worst evil that can happen to a person, nor to have my body or my wallet cut open. Rather, to strike and harm me and mine unjustly is far more shameful and evil — for the one who does the harm than for me who suffers it. To rob and enslave and plunder, or to wrong me or mine in any way — all of this is far more shameful and evil for the wrongdoer than for the victim.

These truths, established in our earlier discussion, are now, if I may put it boldly, fastened and locked down with arguments that are like chains of iron and diamond. And unless you or some even bolder hero can break them, there's no way to deny what I'm saying.

My position has always been this: I myself don't fully know how these things are, but I've never met anyone who could say otherwise without looking ridiculous. And that's still my position.

If what I'm saying is true — if injustice is the greatest evil for the person who commits it, and if there's something even worse than that, namely committing injustice and never being punished for it — then what kind of protection would it be truly ridiculous to lack? Wouldn't it be the protection that guards us against the greatest of human evils? And the very worst helplessness would be the inability to protect yourself or your family from that greatest evil. The second worst would be the inability to protect against the second greatest evil. And so on.

The greater the evil, the greater the honor of being able to prevent it, and the greater the shame of being unable to. Am I right, Callicles?

Callicles Yes, quite right.

Socrates So given these two evils — doing injustice and suffering injustice — and given that doing injustice is the greater evil and suffering it is the lesser — what resources does a man need to protect himself against both? Does he need only the will, or must he have the power? What I mean is: can a man avoid suffering injustice by merely wanting to avoid it, or must he have actually equipped himself with the power to avoid it?

Callicles Obviously he must have equipped himself with the power.

Socrates And what about doing injustice? Is the will alone enough to prevent him from committing injustice? Or must he have acquired some power and skill? Let me put it this way: if he hasn't studied and practiced, will he still commit injustice? Surely you might at least confirm, Callicles, whether Polus and I were right to conclude that no one does wrong willingly — that everyone who does wrong does so against their true will?

Callicles Fine, granted, Socrates — if you'll just finish up.

Socrates So it seems that power and skill must be acquired to prevent us from committing injustice?

Callicles Certainly.

Socrates And what skill protects us from suffering injustice — not perfectly, perhaps, but as much as possible? I want to know if you agree with me. I think such a skill belongs to someone who is either a ruler or tyrant himself, or who is an equal and intimate of the ruling power.

Callicles Well said, Socrates. Notice how quick I am to praise you when you talk sense.

Socrates Good. Then consider whether you'd also approve of this: it seems to me that each person is most friendly toward whoever is most like himself — "like to like," as the ancient saying goes. Would you agree?

Callicles I would.

Socrates But when the tyrant is crude and uneducated, he'll probably fear anyone who surpasses him in virtue, and he'll never be able to become truly close to such a person.

Callicles That's true.

Socrates And he won't befriend anyone far beneath him either, because he'll despise such a person and never take him seriously as a friend.

Callicles True again.

Socrates So the only friend worth mentioning that a tyrant can have is someone of the same character, who likes and dislikes the same things, and is willing to submit and be subservient to him. That's the person who'll have power in the state, and no one will harm him with impunity. Right?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates So if a young man in this city starts asking how he can become powerful and untouchable, this would seem to be the path: from his youth onward, he should train himself to feel the same joys and sorrows as his master, and work to become as much like him as possible?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates And in this way, according to you and your friends, he'll have achieved the goal of becoming a great man who suffers no harm?

Callicles Very true.

Socrates But will he also avoid doing harm? Won't the opposite be true? If he's going to be like the tyrant in his injustice and have influence with him, won't he instead try to commit as much injustice as he can — and get away with it?

Callicles True.

Socrates And through imitating his master and through the power he gains, won't his soul become corrupt and rotten — and won't that be the greatest evil that can happen to him?

Callicles You always manage to turn everything upside down, Socrates. Don't you realize that the man who imitates the tyrant can simply kill the man who doesn't, and take everything he has?

Socrates I know that perfectly well, my excellent Callicles. I'm not deaf. I've heard it a dozen times — from you, from Polus, from practically everyone in Athens. But I wish you'd hear me too. Yes, I'm sure he can kill him if he wants to — the bad man can kill the good and honest man.

Callicles And isn't that exactly the infuriating part?

Socrates Not to anyone with sense, as the argument shows. Do you really think our whole purpose in life should be to survive as long as possible, studying every trick to keep ourselves safe? Like that rhetoric of yours that saves people in court, which you're urging me to practice?

Callicles Yes, and it's excellent advice, too.

Socrates Well, my friend, what do you think of swimming? Is that an art of great distinction?

Callicles Not really, no.

Socrates But swimming certainly saves lives, and there are times when a person absolutely must know how to swim. And if you look down on swimmers, let me point you to an even greater art: the art of the ship's pilot, who saves not only lives but bodies and property from the most extreme danger — exactly like rhetoric. And yet his craft is modest and unpretentious. It doesn't strut around claiming to do anything extraordinary.

In exchange for delivering the very same salvation that the courtroom orator provides, the pilot charges only two obols for the trip from Aegina to Athens, or at most two drachmas for a longer voyage from the Black Sea or Egypt — after he's saved the passenger, his wife, his children, and all their belongings, and landed them safely at the Piraeus. And then the master pilot, who's done all this, just steps off the ship and strolls along the waterfront without any fanfare.

And here's why: he's wise enough to reflect that he has no way of knowing which of his passengers he's actually benefited and which he's harmed by not letting them drown. He knows they're exactly the same when they step off the ship as when they stepped on — not one bit better, either in body or in soul. He reasons that if someone afflicted with severe, incurable physical diseases has merely been saved from drowning, that person is to be pitied, not congratulated. And much more so for someone with severe, incurable diseases not of the body but of the soul — which is the more important part. Life isn't worth living and holds no profit for the bad person, whether they're rescued from the sea, from the courtroom, or from any other devourer. Such a person would be better off not living, since they cannot live well.

That's why the pilot, though he saves lives, isn't usually conceited — any more than the military engineer, who sometimes saves entire cities and is every bit as effective as any general, pilot, or anyone else. Would you compare him to the courtroom pleader? And yet, Callicles, if the engineer were to talk in your high-flown style, he could bury you under a mountain of words, insisting that we should all become engineers and that no other profession is worth a second thought — he'd have plenty of material. But you despise him and his craft. You call him "engineer" as a put-down. You wouldn't let your daughters marry his son, or your son marry his daughter.

Yet on your own principles, what reason could you have for looking down on him? What right do you have to despise the engineer, or the pilot, or the others I mentioned? I know you'll say, "I'm a better man, from a better family." But if "better" isn't what I say it is — if virtue is nothing more than saving yourself and your property, regardless of your character — then your contempt for the engineer, the doctor, and every other lifesaving craft is absurd.

My friend, I want you to consider the possibility that what's noble and good might be something quite different from merely saving yourself and being saved. Maybe a true person should stop worrying about how long they'll live. They should leave that to God, trusting what the women say — that "no one escapes fate" — and instead focus on how best to spend whatever time they're given.

Should they conform to the character of whatever government they live under? Right now, for instance, you have to consider how to become as much like the Athenian people as possible if you want their favor and power in the state. But I want you to ask yourself whether that's truly good for either of us.

I wouldn't want us to risk what matters most — our souls — for the sake of acquiring this power. That would be like those Thessalian sorceresses who, they say, can drag the moon down from the sky but destroy themselves in the process.

And if you think someone can teach you to become powerful in this city without becoming like the city for better or worse, then I'm afraid you're mistaken, Callicles. You can't just imitate them — you have to actually become like them by nature. The person who will make you most like the Athenian people will give you what you want: political power. Because everyone likes to be addressed in their own spirit and language, and dislikes anything foreign to them.

Unless you, sweet Callicles, think otherwise? What do you say?

Callicles Somehow your words always strike me as true, Socrates. And yet — like most people — I'm not quite convinced.

Socrates That's because the love of the People that lives in your soul is fighting against me. But I suspect that if we return to these same questions and examine them more thoroughly, you might be convinced yet.

Just remember: we said there are two approaches to caring for anything, body or soul. One aims at pleasure, the other at the highest good. The second doesn't indulge but resists. That was our distinction, wasn't it?

Callicles Very true.

Socrates And the one aimed at pleasure was just a kind of vulgar flattery — that was another of our conclusions?

Callicles Fine, if you insist.

Socrates And the other aimed at the greatest improvement of whatever it was caring for, whether body or soul?

Callicles Quite true.

Socrates And shouldn't we approach the care of our city and its citizens the same way? Shouldn't we try to make the citizens as good as possible? Because, as we've already established, there's no use in giving people any other good — money, office, or any kind of power — unless the minds of those receiving it are decent and good. Shall we agree on that?

Callicles Sure, if you like.

Socrates Well then, if you and I, Callicles, were planning to take on some public building project — walls, docks, temples on the largest scale — shouldn't we first examine whether we know the art of building, and who taught it to us? Wouldn't that be necessary?

Callicles True.

Socrates And second, we should ask whether we've ever built anything, either for ourselves or for our friends, and whether those buildings turned out well. If we'd had good, distinguished teachers and had successfully completed many fine buildings — not only with their help but also on our own — then it would be reasonable for us to move on to public projects. But if we couldn't point to any teacher, and had only a collection of worthless buildings to our name — or none at all — then it would be absurd for us to attempt public works or encourage each other to try. Isn't that fair?

Callicles Certainly.

Socrates And doesn't the same principle hold everywhere? If you and I were doctors and wanted to set ourselves up as public physicians, wouldn't I need to examine your credentials and you mine? "So, how about Socrates himself — is he in good health? Has he ever cured anyone, free or slave?" And I'd ask the same about you. And if we discovered that nobody — citizen or foreigner, man or woman — had ever gotten better through our medical skill, then, by heaven, Callicles, wouldn't it be absurd to set ourselves up as public physicians and advise others to do the same, without having first practiced in private and gained real experience? That would be like what they say about starting with the big jar when you're learning the potter's art — a foolish way to begin.

Callicles True.

Socrates And now, my friend — since you're already beginning your public career and are lecturing me for not starting mine — suppose we examine each other. Tell me: has Callicles ever made anyone a better person? Was there ever someone who was vicious, unjust, undisciplined, or foolish, and who became good and noble through Callicles' influence? Was there ever such a person — citizen or foreigner, slave or free? Tell me, Callicles. If someone asked you this question, what would you say? Who would you claim to have improved through your conversation? There may be good deeds like that from your private life, before you entered politics. Why won't you answer?

Callicles You just love to argue, Socrates.

Socrates No, I'm not asking this out of argumentativeness. I really want to know how you think the city ought to be governed — whether you have any aim other than improving the citizens when you go into public life. Haven't we already agreed, several times over, that this is the duty of a public man? We have, haven't we? For if you won't answer for yourself, I'll have to answer for you.

But if this is what a good man should accomplish for his own state, then let me bring back the names you just mentioned: Pericles, Cimon, Miltiades, Themistocles. Do you still think they were good citizens?

Callicles I do.

Socrates But if they were good, then each of them must have made the citizens better rather than worse?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates So when Pericles first started speaking before the assembly, the Athenians should have been worse than when he gave his last speech?

Callicles I suppose so.

Socrates Not "I suppose so," my friend — it follows necessarily, if he was a good citizen.

Callicles And what difference does that make?

Socrates None at all. But tell me this: are the Athenians generally thought to have been improved by Pericles, or corrupted? Because what I hear is that Pericles was the first to give the people a state salary, and that he made them idle and cowardly and encouraged their love of talk and money.

Callicles You heard that from the pro-Spartan crowd, Socrates — the ones who bash their ears up wrestling.

Socrates But what I'm about to tell you isn't hearsay. It's something both you and I know perfectly well. At first, Pericles was brilliant and no Athenian charged him with any crime — that was when the Athenians were supposedly not yet "improved." But later, after he'd supposedly made them good and gentle, at the very end of his life, they convicted him of theft and nearly sentenced him to death, clearly on the belief that he was a criminal.

Callicles Well, how does that prove Pericles was bad?

Socrates Think about it this way. Wouldn't you say that a man who received donkeys or horses or cattle that didn't kick or butt or bite, and then returned them with all these savage tendencies, was a bad handler of those animals? Wouldn't any manager of animals who received them tame and made them wilder be a bad manager? What do you say?

Callicles I'll do you the favor of saying yes.

Socrates And will you also do me the favor of saying whether a human being is an animal?

Callicles Obviously.

Socrates And Pericles was a shepherd of human beings?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates Then if he was a good political shepherd, his flock should have become more just, not more unjust — as we just agreed?

Callicles Quite true.

Socrates And just people are gentle, as Homer says — or do you disagree?

Callicles I agree.

Socrates But in fact, Pericles made them more savage than he found them, and their savageness was turned against him personally — which is the last thing he would have wanted.

Callicles Do you want me to agree with you?

Socrates If you think I'm telling the truth, yes.

Callicles Granted, then.

Socrates And if they became more savage, they must have become more unjust and worse?

Callicles Granted again.

Socrates Then, by this reasoning, Pericles was not a good statesman.

Callicles At least that's your view.

Socrates No, it's your view too, based on what you've admitted. Now take Cimon. Didn't the very people he served ostracize him, so they wouldn't have to hear his voice for ten years? They did the same to Themistocles — and added exile on top of it. And Miltiades, the hero of Marathon — they voted to throw him into the execution pit, and he was only saved by the chief magistrate's intervention.

If these men had really been good, as you claim, none of this would have happened. Good charioteers don't start out keeping their place, break in their horses, become better drivers, and then get thrown out. That doesn't happen in chariot-driving or any other profession. Does it?

Callicles I'd think not.

Socrates So the truth is what I said earlier: no one in Athenian history has ever shown himself to be a truly good statesman. You admitted this was true of current statesmen but insisted the earlier ones were better. But they've turned out to be no better. If they were rhetoricians, they used neither true rhetoric nor flattery effectively — otherwise they wouldn't have fallen from favor.

Callicles But surely, Socrates, no one alive today has come anywhere near their achievements.

Socrates Oh, my friend, I'm not criticizing them as servants of the state. In fact, I think they were considerably more effective servants than today's politicians — better at gratifying the people's wishes. But when it comes to transforming those wishes, not just indulging them — using their powers of persuasion or authority to actually improve their fellow citizens, which is the whole point of being a truly good citizen — I don't see that they were one bit superior to today's politicians, even though I agree they were better at building ships and walls and docks and accumulating revenue.

You and I keep going around and around in circles, Callicles, constantly misunderstanding each other. If I'm not mistaken, you've admitted several times that there are two kinds of processes that deal with the body and two that deal with the soul. One serves their immediate wants — feeding the hungry, giving drink to the thirsty, warming the cold, providing clothes and shoes and blankets and everything they crave. I'm deliberately using the same examples as before, so you'll follow me.

The person who supplies these things — whether wholesale or retail or as the actual maker, whether baker, cook, weaver, shoemaker, or leather-worker — is naturally assumed by himself and everyone else to be a proper caretaker of the body. None of them realize there's another art — the art of physical training and medicine — that is the true caretaker of the body and that should be the master of all these other trades, directing their products according to genuine knowledge of what's really good or bad for the body. All these other body-related trades are subordinate and servile, while physical training and medicine are rightfully their masters.

Now, when I say the exact same thing about the soul, you seem at first to understand and agree. But then, a little while later, you come back and say "What about Athens' great and noble citizens?" — and when I ask who they are, you answer as though I'd asked "Who are the great physical trainers?" and you'd replied, "Well, Thearion the baker, Mithoecus who wrote the Sicilian cookbook, and Sarambus the wine merchant — these are magnificent servants of the body, first-rate in their craft! The first bakes brilliant bread, the second cooks exquisite dishes, and the third blends superb wine."

You'd be pretty annoyed if I said, "My friend, you know nothing about physical training. You're naming servants and suppliers of luxury, people with no real understanding of health, who may well be stuffing and fattening people's bodies, winning their praise even as they destroy their original flesh, so that people actually end up thinner than when they started. And the people, in their ignorance, won't blame their feeders for their illness and weight loss. Instead, when years of unhealthy excess finally bring the inevitable disease, they'll turn on whoever happens to be near them at the time and blame that person. But the ones who actually caused the damage? They'll be praised to the skies."

That, Callicles, is exactly what you're doing. You praise the men who feasted the citizens and gave them whatever they wanted, and people say these leaders "made the city great." But they don't notice that the city is swollen and festering because of these earlier statesmen. They stuffed it full of harbors, dockyards, walls, and tribute money — all without justice or self-control. And when the crisis finally comes, the people will blame their advisors of the moment while praising Themistocles and Cimon and Pericles — the ones who actually caused the catastrophe. And if you're not careful, they'll come after you and my friend Alcibiades, when they start losing not just their recent gains but their original possessions too. Not that you're the primary authors of these disasters — but you may be accessories.

I see it happening now, just as it always has, and I hear it discussed constantly. Whenever the state turns on one of its statesmen as a criminal, there's a great uproar and outrage at the supposed injustice — "After all his years of service to the state, they unjustly destroy him!" That's the story. But it's a lie. No statesman has ever been unjustly ruined by the city he leads.

The case of the politician is actually a lot like the case of the Sophist. The Sophists, for all their supposed wisdom, are guilty of the strangest contradiction. They claim to be teachers of virtue — and then turn around and accuse their students of cheating them, not paying their fees, and showing no gratitude for their services! But what could be more absurd than this? Men who've been made just and good, who've had their injustice removed and justice planted in them by their teachers — and then they supposedly act unjustly because of an injustice that no longer exists in them? Can anything be more irrational, my friends?

See, Callicles — you're forcing me to be a demagogue, speechifying at length, because you refuse to answer.

Callicles And you're the man who can't say a word unless someone answers you?

Socrates Apparently I can manage. As you can see, right now my speeches are long enough, since you refuse to respond. But please, my good friend, by the god of friendship — tell me: don't you see a glaring inconsistency in saying that you've made someone good and then blaming them for being bad?

Callicles Yes, I do see that.

Socrates Don't you ever hear our professional educators making exactly this kind of inconsistent claim?

Callicles Yes, but why even bother talking about such worthless people?

Socrates Good question. Then why bother talking about men who claim to be leaders, who declare they're devoted to improving the city, and then at the first opportunity complain about the city's total degeneracy? Do you really think there's any difference between the one and the other?

My good friend, the Sophist and the orator are the same thing, or close to it. That's what I was telling Polus. But in your ignorance, you fancy that rhetoric is something wonderful while sophistry is something contemptible. The truth is, sophistry is as much superior to rhetoric as legislation is to courtroom practice, or physical training is to medicine.

The orators and Sophists are the only class of people who can't complain about the harm done to them by their students without simultaneously admitting that they themselves did no good to the very people they claim to benefit. Isn't that a fact?

Callicles It certainly is.

Socrates And if it were really true that they make people better, they're the only ones who could safely leave their fees to the honor of their students. If you've been taught to run by a trainer, you might cheat him of his pay if he left it up to you and didn't make you pay at the time of the lesson — because it's not a lack of speed that makes people act unjustly, but a lack of justice.

Callicles Very true.

Socrates But the person who removes injustice is in no danger of being treated unjustly. They're the only ones who can safely trust their students to pay voluntarily — if they've really made those students good. Am I right?

Callicles Yes.

Socrates So we've found the reason why there's no dishonor in accepting pay for advice about building or any other craft?

Callicles Yes, we have.

Socrates But when the question is how to become the best possible person and how best to govern your household and your state — then saying "I won't give advice unless you pay me" is considered dishonorable?

Callicles True.

Socrates And that's because this is the only kind of service that creates in the beneficiary a genuine desire to repay the favor. It's a sign that the benefit is real when the benefactor receives something in return. Otherwise, no benefit was actually given. Is this right?

Callicles It is.

Socrates Then to which kind of service to the state are you inviting me? Be precise. Am I to be the physician of the state, struggling to make the Athenians as good as possible? Or am I to be their servant and flatterer? Speak freely and honestly, Callicles, as you did at the start and as you ought to now. Tell me exactly what you think.

Callicles I say you should be the servant of the state.

Socrates The flatterer, in other words. What a noble invitation.

Callicles Call yourself a Mysian peasant if you prefer, Socrates. But if you refuse — the consequences will be —

Socrates Don't trot out the same old story again — that someone will kill me and take my money. Because then I'll have to trot out my same old answer: that a bad man will kill a good one, and the money will do him no good. He'll use what he stole unjustly, and what's used unjustly is used shamefully, and what's used shamefully is used harmfully.

Callicles How confident you are, Socrates, that nothing bad will ever happen to you! As if you're living in some other country and could never be dragged into court — which you very well may be, by some miserable, worthless person.

Socrates Then I really would be a fool, Callicles, if I didn't know that in Athens anything can happen to anyone. But I'll tell you this: if I'm brought to trial, it will be by a villain — of that I'm sure, because no good person would prosecute an innocent man. And I wouldn't be surprised if I'm put to death. Shall I tell you why I expect this?

Callicles By all means.

Socrates I believe I'm one of the only Athenians alive — maybe the only one — who practices the true art of politics. I'm the only real politician of my time.

And here's why: when I speak, my words aren't aimed at winning popularity. I look to what's best, not to what's most pleasant. I have no interest in those fine arts and graces you recommend. So I'll have nothing to say for myself in court.

And the analogy I used with Polus applies perfectly to me: I'll be like a doctor tried before a jury of little children, with the cook as prosecutor. "Children," the cook would say, "this man has done terrible things to you! He's practically killing you — especially the littlest ones — with cutting and burning and starving and suffocating. He gives you the bitterest medicines and forces you to go hungry and thirsty. How different from all the delicious treats and sweets I used to give you!"

What do you think the doctor could say in his defense, standing in that predicament? If he told the truth, he could only say, "Children, everything I did, I did for your health." Can you imagine the outcry from a jury like that? They'd lose their minds.

Callicles I'd imagine so.

Socrates He'd be completely at a loss for a defense, wouldn't he?

Callicles He certainly would.

Socrates And I know the same thing will happen to me if I'm brought to trial. I won't be able to recite for the people all the pleasures I've provided them — the kinds of things they consider real benefits, though I don't envy either the providers or the enjoyers. And if someone accuses me of corrupting the youth and confusing their minds, or of speaking harshly about the older generation in public or private, I won't be able to give the true answer — which is: "Everything I do, I do for the sake of justice, with an eye to your real interest, and nothing else."

So there's no telling what might happen to me.

Callicles And do you think, Socrates, that a man who can't defend himself like that is in a good position?

Socrates Yes, Callicles — if he has the one defense that you yourself have acknowledged again and again: if he has defended himself by never having said or done anything wrong toward gods or humans. We've agreed many times that this is the best defense of all.

If anyone could prove I lack this defense, I'd be ashamed — whether I was refuted before a crowd or privately or all alone. And if I died because of this inability, that would truly grieve me. But if I died simply because I lack the tricks of flattery and rhetoric? I'm quite sure you wouldn't find me complaining.

No one who isn't a complete fool and coward is afraid of death itself. What we should fear is doing wrong. Because going to the underworld with a soul full of injustice — that is the last and worst of all evils.

And if you'd like proof of what I'm saying — if you have no objection — I'd like to tell you a story.

Callicles Fine, go ahead. Let's get this finished.

Socrates Listen, then, as the storytellers say, to a very remarkable tale. You may be inclined to dismiss it as just a fable. But I believe it's true — every word of it.

Homer tells us how Zeus, Poseidon, and Pluto divided the empire they inherited from their father. Now, in the age of Cronus, there was a law about the fate of human beings, which has always been in force and still holds in heaven: whoever has lived a just and holy life goes, after death, to the Islands of the Blessed, to dwell there in perfect happiness, beyond the reach of evil. And whoever has lived an unjust and godless life goes to the house of punishment — the place called Tartarus.

In those days under Cronus, and still quite recently under Zeus, the judgment was given on the very day the person was going to die. The judges were living, and the people being judged were living. And the result was that the judgments were bad.

So Pluto and the guardians of the Islands of the Blessed went to Zeus and said that souls were ending up in the wrong places. And Zeus said:

"I'll put a stop to this. The judgments are going wrong because the people being judged still have their clothes on — they're still alive. And many people who have corrupt souls are wrapped up in beautiful bodies, or covered in wealth and high rank. When their day of judgment comes, crowds of witnesses show up and testify that they lived righteous lives. The judges are impressed. And on top of that, the judges themselves are clothed too — their eyes and ears and entire bodies are a veil over their own souls. Everything gets in the way: the clothes of the judges and the clothes of the judged.

"Here's what must be done. First, I'll take away people's foreknowledge of their death. Right now they know it's coming; Prometheus has already received my orders to strip them of that knowledge. Second, they must be judged completely naked — meaning dead. The judge must be naked too, meaning dead himself. With his bare soul he'll look into the other bare souls. They'll die suddenly, stripped of all their family and friends, leaving all their finery behind on the earth. Only then will the judgment be just.

"I've known this was the problem all along — longer than any of you — which is why I've already appointed my own sons as judges. Two from Asia: Minos and Rhadamanthus. And one from Europe: Aeacus. When they die, they'll hold court in the meadow at the crossroads, where two paths diverge — one leading to the Islands of the Blessed, the other to Tartarus. Rhadamanthus will judge those from Asia, Aeacus those from Europe. And Minos will serve as the court of final appeal, in case either of the other two is unsure. That way, the judgment on humanity's final journey will be as fair as it can possibly be."

This, Callicles, is the tale I've heard, and I believe it. And here's what I take from it.

Death, as I see it, is simply the separation of two things — soul and body. Nothing more. And after they've separated, each one retains pretty much the same character it had in life. The body keeps its distinctive appearance, and the traces of how it was treated or what happened to it are clearly visible. If a man was tall in life, whether by nature or training or both, he remains tall in death. If he was fat, he stays fat. If he wore his hair long, his hair stays long. If he'd been whipped and bore the scars and marks of the lash — or wounds — you'd see them on his dead body. If his limbs were broken or twisted in life, the same would show in death. In short, whatever the condition of the body during life would still be recognizable after death, either completely or to a great extent for some period of time.

And I believe the exact same thing is true of the soul, Callicles. When a person is stripped of the body, all the natural and acquired qualities of the soul are laid bare.

So when the dead arrive before the judge — the ones from Asia come before Rhadamanthus — he places them before him and examines them with perfect impartiality. He doesn't know who any of them are; he doesn't know their family or their name. Perhaps he'll come upon the soul of a great king or potentate. And he'll find no soundness in it. He'll see it scarred with the lash-marks of perjury and crime, branded by every wrongful act, all twisted with dishonesty and deceit, nothing straight in it — because it was raised without truth. He'll see it deformed and ugly, misshapen by arrogance and luxury and cruelty and self-indulgence. And seeing all this, Rhadamanthus will send it straight to prison in disgrace, to suffer the punishment it deserves.

Now, punishment properly applied has two purposes. Either the person being punished improves and benefits from it, or they serve as an example to others, who see the suffering and are afraid and become better themselves.

Those who improve through punishment — whether by gods or humans — are the ones whose crimes are curable. They're improved through pain and suffering, both in this world and the next, because there's no other way to be freed from evil. But those who've committed the worst crimes and are beyond cure — they're turned into examples. They themselves gain nothing from it, since they're past helping. But others benefit by seeing them endure the most terrible, painful, and fearful sufferings for all eternity, hanging there in the prison house of the underworld as a spectacle and warning to every unjust soul that passes through.

And among these, I firmly believe, will be Archelaus — if Polus was right about him — and every other tyrant like him. In fact, I think most of these eternal examples are drawn from the ranks of tyrants, kings, rulers, and politicians, because they're the ones who commit the greatest and most impious crimes — they have the power to do so.

Homer backs this up. The ones he describes suffering everlasting punishment in the underworld are always kings and potentates — Tantalus, Sisyphus, Tityus. But no one ever described Thersites, or any ordinary private person who happened to be wicked, as suffering eternal punishment. He didn't have the power to commit crimes on that scale, and that very weakness made him luckier than those who did have power.

No, Callicles — the truly terrible souls come from the class that has power. And yet even in that class, good people can emerge, and when they do, they deserve the highest admiration. Where there's enormous power to do wrong, to live and die justly is profoundly difficult and profoundly praiseworthy, and only a few achieve it. But such people have existed and will exist again, both in Athens and elsewhere. There's one who became famous across all of Greece: Aristeides, the son of Lysimachus. But in general, my friend, the great and the powerful are also the wicked.

As I was saying, when Rhadamanthus gets hold of a wicked soul, he knows nothing about who it is — not the name, not the family. He knows only that he's looking at a villain. Having seen this, he stamps the soul as curable or incurable and sends it to Tartarus, where it receives what it deserves.

Or sometimes he looks with wonder at the soul of someone who lived in holiness and truth — perhaps a private citizen, perhaps not. And I'd say, Callicles, that this is most likely to be the soul of a philosopher who minded his own business and didn't meddle in the affairs of others during his lifetime. Rhadamanthus sends this soul to the Islands of the Blessed.

Aeacus does the same. Both of them hold scepters and judge. But Minos alone holds a golden scepter and sits in oversight, as Odysseus describes in Homer:

"Holding a scepter of gold, and giving laws to the dead."

Now, Callicles, I am persuaded that these things are true. And I'm thinking about how to present my soul to the judge as whole and healthy as possible.

I'm giving up the honors the world chases after. I want only to know the truth and to live as well as I can. And when the time comes to die, I want to die as well as I can. And I urge every other person, with all the strength I have, to do the same.

And in answer to your advice, I offer you mine in return: I urge you to join in the great contest — the contest of life, which is greater than any other earthly struggle. And I throw your reproach back at you and say: you're the one who won't be able to help yourself when the day of trial and judgment I've been describing finally comes. You'll stand before the judge, the son of Aegina, and when he seizes you and starts to drag you away, you'll gape and your head will spin — just as mine might in the courts of this world. And quite possibly someone will slap your face in the most humiliating way and heap every kind of insult on you.

Perhaps all this seems to you like nothing more than an old wives' tale, something to be dismissed. And there might be some reason for dismissing it — if by searching we could find something better and truer. But as things stand, you can see that the three of you — you, Polus, and Gorgias, the three wisest Greeks of our time — are unable to show that we should live any other life than one that also serves us in the next world.

Of everything that's been said, only this remains standing: that doing injustice is more to be avoided than suffering injustice; that the reality of virtue, not its appearance, should be pursued above all things, in public life and private; that when anyone has done wrong, they should be corrected — the next best thing to being just is becoming just through discipline and punishment; that all flattery should be avoided, whether of oneself or others, of the few or the many; and that rhetoric and every other skill should always be used in the service of justice.

Follow me, then, and I'll lead you to where you'll be happy in life and after death, as the argument has shown. Don't worry if someone calls you a fool and treats you with contempt. Let them strike you, by Zeus — and take heart. You'll come to no real harm in the practice of virtue, if you're a genuinely good and honest person.

And once we've practiced virtue together, then we'll turn to politics, if that seems right — or to whatever else seems good to us. We'll be better judges then. In our present state, we shouldn't be putting on airs. We keep changing our minds on the most important questions — that's how confused we still are.

So let's take the argument as our guide. It has shown us that the best way of life is to practice justice and every virtue, in life and in death. Let's follow this path, and let's call on all others to follow it too — not the path you trust and urge me to take. Because that path, Callicles, is worth nothing at all.

Symposium

On Love

Persons of the dialogue: Apollodorus, who repeats to his companion the dialogue which he had heard from Aristodemus, and had already once narrated to Glaucon Phaedrus Pausanias Eryximachus Aristophanes Agathon Socrates Alcibiades A troop of revelers

Scene: The House of Agathon

As for what you're asking about, I think I'm pretty well prepared to tell you. Just the day before yesterday, I was walking from my home in Phalerum into the city when someone I know spotted me from behind and called out in a joking voice: "Hey! Apollodorus! You Phalerian man! Wait up!"

So I stopped, as requested. And he said, "I've been looking for you, Apollodorus. I wanted to ask you about those speeches on love -- the ones given by Socrates, Alcibiades, and the others at Agathon's dinner party. A man named Phoenix, Philip's son, told someone who told me about them, but his account was pretty vague. He did say you'd know the whole story, so would you fill me in? And who better to report the words of your dear friend Socrates? But first tell me -- were you actually at this dinner?"

Your source, Glaucon, must have been very vague indeed if you think the party was recent, or that I could possibly have been there.

"Why, yes," he said. "I thought it was."

Not a chance, I said. Don't you know that Agathon hasn't lived in Athens for years? And it hasn't even been three years since I started spending time with Socrates and made it my daily mission to follow everything he says and does. Before that, I used to run around thinking I was doing something important with my life, when really I was the most miserable person alive -- no better than you are right now. I thought anything was better than being a philosopher.

"Okay, okay, cut the philosophy," he said. "Just tell me when this party took place."

When we were still boys, I said. It was the day after Agathon won the prize with his first tragedy -- the day after he and his chorus made their victory offering.

"Then it must have been a very long time ago," he said. "Who told you about it? Was it Socrates himself?"

No, no -- the same person who told Phoenix. It was a little fellow named Aristodemus, from the deme of Cydathenaeum. Never wore shoes. He'd been at Agathon's party, and back in those days there was nobody more devoted to Socrates than he was. I've also checked some parts of his story with Socrates directly, and he confirmed them.

"Well then," said Glaucon, "let's hear it! Isn't the road to Athens practically made for conversation?"

And so we walked and talked about the speeches on love. That's why I said I'm pretty well prepared -- I've been through this before, and I'm happy to go through it again. To be honest, talking about philosophy or hearing others talk about it is one of the great pleasures of my life, not to mention the good it does me. But other kinds of conversation -- especially the kind you rich businessmen go in for -- bore me to death. I feel sorry for you, my friends, because you think you're accomplishing something when you're really accomplishing nothing. And I'm sure you feel sorry for me right back, thinking I'm some poor wretch. You're probably right. But the difference between us is this: I know what you are, while you only think you know what I am.

Companion I see that you're your usual self, Apollodorus -- always tearing into yourself and everyone else. You seem to think the entire human race is miserable, with the sole exception of Socrates, starting with yourself. How you earned that nickname "Apollodorus the madman" I have no idea -- though it does seem to fit. You're forever raging against yourself and everyone who isn't Socrates.

Apollodorus And you think that proves I'm mad? That having these opinions about myself and about you makes me crazy? No other evidence needed, apparently.

Companion Enough, enough. Please, Apollodorus, just tell us about the speeches.

Apollodorus All right. The speeches on love went like this -- but I'd better start from the beginning and try to give you the story in Aristodemus' own words.

He said he ran into Socrates freshly bathed and wearing sandals -- which was remarkable, since Socrates almost never wore sandals. So he asked where he was going, all dressed up.

"To dinner at Agathon's," Socrates said. "I turned down his invitation to the victory celebration yesterday because I was worried about the crowd. But I promised to come today instead, so I've made myself presentable -- he's such a fine man, after all. How about coming with me? You're not invited, but who cares?"

"I'll do whatever you say," Aristodemus replied.

"Then follow me," said Socrates. "Let's demolish that old proverb. You know the one: 'To the feasts of lesser men, the good go uninvited.' Let's improve it to: 'To the feasts of the good, the good go uninvited.' We've even got Homer on our side. He pictures Agamemnon as the greatest warrior alive, but then has Menelaus -- who's frankly a mediocre fighter -- show up uninvited to Agamemnon's feast. So there you go: the lesser coming to the feast of the greater."

"I'm a little worried, Socrates," said Aristodemus, "that it's the other proverb that applies to me -- the one where the nobody goes uninvited to the feast of the wise. I'm the Menelaus in this scenario. But I'll say you dragged me along, so you'll have to think up the excuse."

"Two heads are better than one," Socrates replied, quoting Homer. "We'll figure something out on the way."

So off they went, talking like this. But along the way Socrates fell into one of his trances and started lagging behind. Aristodemus waited for him, but Socrates waved him on ahead. When Aristodemus arrived at Agathon's house, he found the doors wide open, and then something awkward happened. A servant came out, saw him, and immediately led him to the dining room where the guests were already reclining on their couches -- dinner was about to begin.

The moment Agathon spotted him, he called out: "Aristodemus! Perfect timing -- you're just in time to eat with us. If you've come about anything else, put it aside. Join the party! I was actually looking for you yesterday to invite you, but I couldn't find you. But wait -- where's Socrates?"

I turned around, but Socrates was nowhere in sight. So I had to explain that he'd been with me just a moment before, and that I'd come at his invitation.

"Well, you did the right thing coming," said Agathon. "But where on earth is he?"

"He was right behind me when I came in," said Aristodemus. "I have no idea what happened to him."

"Boy!" Agathon said to a servant. "Go look for Socrates and bring him in." And to Aristodemus: "Take the couch next to Eryximachus."

A servant helped him wash up, and he settled in. Then another servant came back and reported: "That Socrates you sent me for -- he's standing in the neighbor's portico. Just standing there. I called out to him, but he won't budge."

"How odd," said Agathon. "Go call him again. Keep trying."

"Leave him alone," Aristodemus said. "He does this. He just stops somewhere and goes completely still, lost in his thoughts, for no apparent reason. He'll turn up soon enough. Don't disturb him."

"Well, if you say so," said Agathon. Then he turned to the servants: "All right, let's eat without waiting for him. Serve whatever you like -- tonight nobody's giving you orders. I've never let you fend for yourselves before, but tonight, imagine that I and my guests are your guests. Treat us well, and we'll sing your praises."

Dinner was served, but still no Socrates. Several times during the meal Agathon wanted to send someone to fetch him, but Aristodemus talked him out of it. Eventually, when dinner was about halfway over -- Socrates' trances were never that long -- in he walked. Agathon, who was reclining by himself at the far end of the table, called out: "Come, Socrates! Lie down next to me, so I can touch you and soak up whatever brilliant insight came to you out there in the portico. I'm sure you must have found what you were looking for -- you wouldn't have come in otherwise."

"Wouldn't it be wonderful," said Socrates, taking his place, "if wisdom worked like that? If it could flow from a full mind into an empty one, the way water flows through a string of wool from a full cup into an empty one? If that were true, I'd count it a huge privilege to recline next to you. Your wisdom would fill me up -- it's rich and beautiful, blazing with promise. It burst into splendor just the day before yesterday when more than thirty thousand Greeks witnessed it. My own wisdom, by contrast, is a shabby, questionable thing -- no more real than a dream."

"You're mocking me, Socrates," said Agathon. "But we'll settle this contest of wisdom later. Dionysus will be our judge. For now, eat your dinner."

Socrates settled in and ate with the rest of them. After the meal, they poured the traditional libations, sang a hymn to the god, and went through the usual rituals. Then it was time for drinking, and Pausanias spoke up.

"So, gentlemen -- how do we manage the drinking tonight without destroying ourselves? I'll be honest: I'm still suffering from yesterday's party. I need recovery time. And I suspect most of you are in the same shape, since you were there too. So how can we make the evening easy on ourselves?"

"I couldn't agree more," said Aristophanes. "We absolutely need to go easy tonight. I was one of the people who completely drowned in wine yesterday."

"I'm glad to hear that," said Eryximachus, the son of Acumenus. "But let me check one more person: Agathon, are you up for heavy drinking?"

"Definitely not," said Agathon.

"Well then," said Eryximachus, "it seems like a stroke of luck for us lightweights -- myself, Aristodemus, Phaedrus, and the rest of us who can never hold our wine -- that even the heavy drinkers aren't in the mood tonight." He paused. "I'm not counting Socrates, of course. He can drink or not drink -- it makes no difference to him. He'll be fine either way. So, since nobody here seems keen on getting smashed, I hope you'll forgive me for pointing out -- as a doctor -- that heavy drinking is genuinely bad for you. I never do it if I can help it, and I certainly don't recommend it, especially to anyone still feeling yesterday's damage."

"I always follow your advice," said Phaedrus, "especially your medical advice. And the rest of the company will too, if they're smart."

So it was agreed: tonight wouldn't be about drinking. Everyone would drink only as much as they wanted, with no pressure.

"Good," said Eryximachus. "Now that we've settled that, I have another proposal. Let's send the flute-girl away. She can go play for herself or for the women inside. But tonight, let's have conversation instead. And if you'll let me, I'll suggest what kind of conversation."

Everyone agreed, so Eryximachus continued.

"I'll begin," he said, "in the words of Euripides' Melanippe: 'The idea is not mine' -- it's Phaedrus'. He's always saying to me, with genuine indignation: 'Isn't it incredible, Eryximachus, that every other god has had poems and hymns composed in their honor, but Love -- this great and glorious god -- has never had a single poet step up to praise him properly? Think about it. We've got respectable intellectuals -- take Prodicus, for example -- who've written whole essays celebrating the virtues of Heracles and other heroes. I've even come across a philosophical treatise that eloquently praises the usefulness of salt. Salt! And there are plenty more like it. People have worked themselves into a frenzy over the most trivial topics, and yet to this day, no one has dared to give Love the praise he deserves. This great god has been completely neglected!'"

"I think Phaedrus is absolutely right," Eryximachus went on, "and I'd like to do something about it. What better time than now? Here we are, all gathered together -- this is the perfect occasion to honor the god of Love. Here's my proposal: each of us takes a turn, going from left to right around the room, and gives a speech praising Love. Give us the best you've got. And Phaedrus should go first, since he's sitting at the far left and since this whole thing was his idea."

"Nobody's going to vote against you, Eryximachus," said Socrates. "How could I possibly object? Love is the only subject I claim to know anything about. I'm sure Agathon and Pausanias won't object either. And Aristophanes certainly won't -- his whole life revolves around Dionysus and Aphrodite. No one here will disagree. It is a little tough on those of us at the end of the line, but if the earlier speeches are good enough, we'll be satisfied. So let Phaedrus begin the praise of Love, and good luck to him!"

Everyone expressed their agreement and urged Phaedrus to start.

Now, Aristodemus didn't remember every word that was said, and I don't remember every word he told me. But I'll give you what I thought was most worth remembering, and what the main speakers said.

---

PHAEDRUS' SPEECH

Phaedrus opened by declaring that Love is a great god, worthy of wonder among both gods and mortals -- but especially wonderful in his origin. He's the eldest of the gods, and that's a high honor. The proof? Love has no parents that anyone can name. No poet, no historian has ever said who his mother and father were. As Hesiod puts it:

"First came Chaos, then broad-breasted Earth, the eternal foundation of all things, and Love."

So after Chaos, it was Earth and Love -- these two came into being. Parmenides agrees, saying:

"First among the gods, he created Love."

And Acusilaus backs Hesiod up too. So there's a whole chorus of witnesses testifying that Love is the eldest of the gods.

And being the eldest, he's also the source of our greatest blessings. I can think of nothing better for a young man starting out in life than a worthy lover, and nothing better for a lover than a worthy beloved. The guiding principle of a noble life -- that sense of shame at doing wrong and love of honor in doing right -- no family ties, no wealth, no social standing can instill it the way love can.

Here's what I mean. A man caught in a dishonorable act will feel more pain at being seen by the person he loves than by his own father, his companions, or anyone else in the world. And the same goes for the beloved: getting caught doing something shameful in front of his lover is the worst humiliation imaginable.

If there were some way to build a city -- or an army -- made up entirely of lovers and their beloveds, they'd be the best possible citizens. They'd never do anything shameful, because they'd be competing with each other in honor. And in battle, fighting side by side, even a small band of them could conquer the world. What man would throw down his shield or abandon his post if the person he loves were watching? He'd rather die a thousand deaths than face that kind of shame. And who would ever desert his beloved in the hour of danger? The biggest coward on earth would become a hero with Love breathing courage into him. What Homer says about divine inspiration -- that the gods breathe courage into certain warriors -- Love does this naturally to everyone he touches.

And Love will make people die for their beloved -- not just men, but women too. The Greeks have a perfect example in Alcestis, the daughter of Pelias. She was willing to lay down her life for her husband when no one else would -- not even his own father and mother. Her love so far surpassed theirs that she made his own parents look like strangers to their son, related in name only. Her sacrifice struck the gods as so beautiful that they gave her one of the rarest gifts imaginable: they let her come back from the dead. That's how much the gods honor the devotion and courage of love.

But Orpheus, the son of Oeagrus -- the singer -- they sent away empty-handed. They showed him a phantom of his dead wife, but the real woman? They wouldn't hand her over. Because he was a coward. He was just a musician. He didn't have the guts to die for love the way Alcestis did. Instead, he tried to figure out a way to sneak into Hades alive. And for his cowardice, the gods later arranged for him to be torn apart by women.

How different the reward of Achilles, who showed true love for Patroclus! And let me set the record straight: Patroclus was the lover and Achilles the beloved -- Aeschylus got it backward. Achilles was clearly the more beautiful of the two, more beautiful than all the other heroes, and Homer tells us he was still beardless and much younger than Patroclus. Now, the gods do deeply honor courage inspired by love. But what they honor even more is when the beloved returns the lover's devotion. The lover, after all, is divinely inspired -- but when the beloved loves back? That's even more extraordinary, and the gods reward it most generously. Achilles knew full well -- his mother had told him -- that if he killed Hector, he himself would die, and that if he held back, he could go home and live to old age. But he chose to avenge his dead friend. He didn't just die defending Patroclus -- he chose death after Patroclus was already gone. The gods were so moved that they honored him above even Alcestis and sent him to the Islands of the Blessed.

That's why I say Love is the eldest of the gods, the noblest, and the most powerful -- and the greatest giver of courage, excellence, and happiness, both in life and after death.

---

That, more or less, was Phaedrus' speech. Some other speeches followed that Aristodemus couldn't remember. The next one he recalled was Pausanias'.

---

PAUSANIAS' SPEECH

"Phaedrus," Pausanias began, "I don't think the question has been framed quite right. We've been asked to praise Love as if there's only one kind. But there isn't. If there were only one Love, your approach would be fine. But since there's more than one, we should first figure out which Love deserves our praise. Let me try to fix this. First I'll tell you which Love is praiseworthy, and then I'll try to praise him in a way he deserves.

"We all know that Love is inseparable from Aphrodite. If there were only one Aphrodite, there would be only one Love. But there are two Aphrodites, so there must be two Loves. And there are two Aphrodites, aren't there? The elder one, who has no mother, is the daughter of Uranus -- we call her Heavenly Aphrodite. The younger is the daughter of Zeus and Dione -- we call her Common Aphrodite. It follows that the Love who works alongside Common Aphrodite is Common Love, and the other is Heavenly Love. All the gods deserve praise, of course, but we need to distinguish between their natures.

"Here's the principle: no action is inherently good or evil. Take what we're doing right now -- drinking, singing, talking. None of these are good or evil in themselves. It all depends on how you do them. Done well, they're good. Done badly, they're evil. And love works the same way: not all love is noble or worthy of praise, only the kind that inspires us to love nobly.

"Common Love -- the kind that comes from Common Aphrodite -- is exactly what you'd expect from common people. It's indiscriminate. People under its influence are just as likely to fall for women as for young men. They're attracted to bodies, not souls, and they go for the least intelligent partners they can find, because all they care about is getting what they want. Whether they get it honorably or not doesn't concern them. That's because their patron goddess is younger, and her birth involved both male and female.

"But Heavenly Love comes from a goddess whose birth involved no female at all -- only the male. This is a love that turns toward what is stronger and more intelligent. You can recognize people inspired by this love by the very character of their attachments. They don't fall for boys who are too young to think for themselves. They're drawn to young men whose minds are developing -- roughly the age when they start growing beards. And choosing a companion at that age, they intend to stay faithful and spend their whole lives together. They don't want to take advantage of someone's inexperience, make a fool of them, and then move on to the next. In fact, there ought to be a law against pursuing very young boys, since their futures are so uncertain -- they might turn out well or badly in body or soul, and a great deal of noble passion could be wasted on them. The best people regulate themselves on this point, but the cruder sort of lover needs restraining by law -- just as we try to restrain them from pursuing freeborn women. These are the people who give love a bad name, and some have even been led to declare that all such attachments are shameful. But surely nothing done with propriety and lawfulness can justly be condemned.

"Now, the customs around love are simple in most places but confusing in Athens. In Elis and Boeotia, where people aren't much for speeches, the rule is straightforward: these relationships are fine, and nobody -- young or old -- says a word against them. I suppose it's because people there are no good at arguing, so lovers don't want the trouble of making their case with words. In Ionia and other places under foreign rule, the custom is the opposite -- these relationships are considered dishonorable. And that makes sense for the rulers. Tyrants don't want their subjects to have big ideas, strong friendships, or powerful bonds -- exactly the things love tends to create. Our own Athenian tyrants learned that lesson the hard way, when the love between Aristogeiton and the steadfast courage of Harmodius destroyed their power.

"So wherever the custom condemns these relationships, it's the fault of the rulers -- their lust for power -- and the cowardice of the ruled. And wherever the custom approves indiscriminately, that's just intellectual laziness. Athens does it better than anywhere else, but our custom is admittedly hard to explain.

"Look at it this way. In Athens, pursuing someone openly is considered more honorable than doing it in secret. The love of someone noble and excellent -- even if they're not the best-looking person around -- is especially honored. Think about the extraordinary encouragement the whole world gives to a lover. Nobody thinks he's doing anything shameful. If he succeeds, he's praised. If he fails, he's pitied. And in the pursuit of love, society lets him do the most outrageous things -- things that would be condemned in any other context. He can beg, plead, make extravagant promises, swear oaths, sleep on a doorstep, and endure a kind of slavery no actual slave would put up with. If someone did any of this for money or political power, his friends would stage an intervention and his enemies would call him a pathetic sycophant. But a lover? Everyone finds it charming. He gets a free pass. There's even a saying that lovers' oaths don't count -- the gods themselves will forgive a broken oath made in the name of love. So by Athenian custom, gods and men alike give the lover total freedom.

"From this angle, you'd conclude that Athens considers love entirely honorable. But then consider the other side. Fathers hire tutors to keep their sons away from lovers. Boys' friends mock them if they're caught in any such relationship. And the older generation does nothing to stop this mockery. If you look at all of this, you'd conclude the exact opposite -- that Athens considers these things deeply shameful.

"Here's the truth, I think. It's not a simple question. It goes back to what I said at the start: no action is good or bad in itself -- only in how it's performed. Pursuing love honorably is honorable. Pursuing it dishonorably is disgraceful. Dishonorable means yielding to a bad person or yielding for bad reasons. Honorable means yielding to a good person for good reasons.

"The Common lover is the bad kind. He loves the body rather than the soul, and since bodies don't last, his love doesn't last either. Once the bloom of youth fades, he flies away -- all his promises and pretty words forgotten. But the lover of noble character is faithful for life, because he's bonded to something that endures.

"Athenian custom is designed to test both kinds. That's why we encourage pursuit and also encourage flight -- so each can be tested and sorted into the right category. That's why a hasty attachment is considered shameful: time is the true test. It's also shameful to be won over by money or political power. Whether someone caves out of fear of losing these things, or simply can't resist the seductions of wealth and influence -- either way, it's degrading. None of these things are stable or lasting, and no genuine friendship was ever built on them.

"There's only one honorable path for the beloved, according to our custom. Just as the lover can do all manner of voluntary service without it being called flattery, the beloved has one kind of voluntary service that brings no dishonor: service in pursuit of virtue. Our custom holds that if someone devotes himself to another in the belief that this person will make him better -- wiser, more excellent in some way -- such voluntary service is never dishonorable.

"So when these two principles come together -- the lover's devotion and the beloved's desire for wisdom and excellence -- when the lover can genuinely make his beloved wiser and better, and the beloved genuinely seeks to learn and grow, then and only then is it honorable for the beloved to give himself to the lover. In this kind of relationship, there's no disgrace even in being deceived. In every other kind, there is.

"Think about it. If someone gives himself to a lover because he thinks the man is rich, and then the lover turns out to be poor -- that's humiliating. The beloved has revealed that he'd sell himself for money, and there's nothing honorable in that. But if someone gives himself to a lover because he believes the man is good, hoping to become better through the relationship, and then it turns out the lover was worthless and had no virtue at all -- even then, the beloved has committed a noble error. He's proved that, for his part, he'd do anything for anyone if it meant growing in virtue. And there's nothing nobler than that.

"So it's always noble to accept love for the sake of virtue. This is the love of Heavenly Aphrodite -- heavenly itself, and of immense value to both individuals and cities, because it drives both the lover and the beloved to care passionately about their own excellence. All other loves belong to Common Aphrodite.

"That, Phaedrus, is the best I can do off the cuff in praise of Love."

---

Pausanias came to a pause -- this kind of balanced phrasing is how the intellectuals taught me to speak. (Apollodorus' little joke.)

And now it was Aristophanes' turn. But whether he'd eaten too much or for some other reason, Aristophanes had come down with a case of the hiccups and couldn't speak. So he turned to Eryximachus, the doctor, who was reclining on the couch just below him.

"Eryximachus," he said between hiccups, "you need to either cure my hiccups or take my turn until they stop."

"I'll do both," said Eryximachus. "I'll speak in your place, and you speak in mine. While I'm talking, here's what you should do: hold your breath for as long as you can. If that doesn't work, gargle with a little water. And if they still won't quit, find something to tickle your nose with and make yourself sneeze. Sneeze once or twice, and even the most stubborn hiccups will give up."

"Get on with your speech," said Aristophanes. "I'll try your remedies."

---

ERYXIMACHUS' SPEECH

Eryximachus spoke as follows:

"Since Pausanias started off well but ended rather weakly, I feel I should supply what he left out. He was right that there are two kinds of Love. But my medical expertise tells me that this double Love isn't only found in human souls attracted to beauty. It exists in the bodies of all animals, in the things that grow from the earth -- in practically everything that exists. My profession has taught me how vast and universal the dominion of Love really is, extending over all things human and divine alike. Let me begin with medicine, to do honor to my craft.

"The human body contains both kinds of love, and they are fundamentally different. The healthy part of the body desires one thing; the diseased part desires something else. As Pausanias was saying, it's honorable to gratify the good and dishonorable to gratify the bad. The same applies to the body: the good, healthy elements should be encouraged, while the bad, diseased elements should be discouraged. That, in essence, is what medicine is -- the science of understanding the body's loves and desires, knowing when to satisfy them and when to deny them. The best doctor is the one who can tell healthy desire from unhealthy desire, who can transform one into the other, who knows when to create desire and when to eliminate it, and who can make the body's warring elements into loving friends.

"And the most hostile elements are the most opposite: hot and cold, bitter and sweet, wet and dry, and so on. My ancestor Asclepius understood how to create friendship and harmony among these warring opposites, and that's how he founded the art of medicine -- so the poets tell us, and I believe them. Medicine, gymnastics, farming -- they're all under Love's rule.

"Anyone paying attention will see that music works the same way -- reconciling opposites. I think that's what Heraclitus meant, though he put it badly. He said, 'The One is united by being pulled apart, like the harmony of the bow and the lyre.' Now, it's absurd to say harmony is discord, or that it's made of things still disagreeing. What he probably meant is this: harmony is made of notes that were once different -- higher and lower -- but have been brought into agreement by the art of music. If the notes were still disagreeing, there could be no harmony. Obviously. Because harmony is a kind of agreement, and you can't have agreement between things that still disagree.

"In the same way, rhythm is made of fast and slow elements, once different, now brought into accord. And just as medicine creates harmony in the body, music creates harmony in sound. Music, too, is a science of Love -- Love applied to harmony and rhythm.

"Now, in the pure theory of harmony and rhythm, there's only one kind of Love to deal with. But when you try to use harmony and rhythm in actual practice -- composing songs or performing them correctly, which is what we call education -- that's where it gets complicated, and that's where you need a skilled practitioner. The old story comes back: we must follow Heavenly Love -- the love of the Heavenly Muse, Urania -- and accept what is harmonious and temperate, making the undisciplined more disciplined through love. And Common Love -- the love of Polyhymnia -- must be handled carefully, so people can enjoy its pleasures without sliding into excess. It's just like my own craft: the key is to regulate the desires of the appetite so a person can enjoy food without making himself sick.

"So in music, in medicine, in everything human and divine, both kinds of Love must be recognized, because both are always present.

"Even the seasons of the year follow this principle. When the elements of hot and cold, wet and dry achieve the harmonious love of one another and blend in proper proportion, they bring health and abundance to people, animals, and plants. But when the excessive, unruly kind of Love takes over the seasons, it's catastrophic -- bringing plagues, diseases, frost, hail, and blight. All these come from the disorder and excess of these elemental loves. The science that studies Love's influence on the movements of the heavenly bodies and the seasons is called astronomy.

"And there's more: all sacrifices and everything in the realm of prophecy -- which is really the art of communion between gods and mortals -- these too are entirely concerned with protecting healthy Love and curing unhealthy Love. Every kind of impiety follows from honoring excessive, disordered Love over harmonious Love, whether in our feelings toward the gods, toward our parents, toward the living, or toward the dead. The business of prophecy is to watch over these loves and to heal them. Prophecy is the peacemaker between gods and mortals, working through its knowledge of which human loves tend toward reverence and which toward impiety.

"Such is the vast and mighty -- really, the all-encompassing -- power of Love in general. But the Love that works through goodness, that aims at what is just and temperate, among both gods and mortals -- this Love has the supreme power. It's the source of all our happiness and harmony, and it makes us friends with the gods above and with one another. I've probably left out some things that could be said in praise of Love, but not on purpose.

"And now, Aristophanes, it's your turn -- either fill in what I've missed or take some other approach. I see that you've finally gotten rid of those hiccups."

---

"Yes," said Aristophanes, "the hiccups are gone. But not before I had to resort to the sneezing cure. Which makes me wonder: does the body's so-called 'harmony' really have a thing for all that tickling and snorting? Because the hiccups stopped the instant I sneezed."

"Careful, Aristophanes," said Eryximachus. "You haven't even started and you're already making fun of me. Now I'll have to sit here watching for something to mock in your speech, when I could have just let you talk in peace."

"You're right, you're right," said Aristophanes, laughing. "Forget I said anything. But please don't watch me like a hawk. I'm nervous enough as it is. I'm not worried about saying something funny -- that's what I do, that's what my Muse expects of me -- I'm worried about saying something ridiculous."

"You think you can take a shot at me and just walk away?" said Eryximachus. "All right, all right. If you're very careful and remember that I'll hold you accountable, I might let you off."

---

ARISTOPHANES' SPEECH

Aristophanes said he intended to take a completely different approach from Pausanias and Eryximachus.

"The way I see it," he said, "human beings have completely failed to grasp the power of Love. If they understood it, they'd have built him the grandest temples and altars and offered the most magnificent sacrifices. But none of that has happened, and it absolutely should have, because of all the gods, Love is the one who loves humanity most. He's our helper. He's our healer. He cures the condition that, more than anything else, keeps the human race from being happy.

"I'm going to try to explain his power to you, and then you can spread the word.

"First, you need to understand what human nature was like originally and what happened to it. Because we weren't always the way we are now. Originally, there were three sexes, not two. There was male, female, and a third kind that was a combination of both. This third kind had a name that's survived as an insult -- 'androgynous' -- but it was once a real thing, a genuine third sex combining male and female.

"Second, the shape of each person was completely round -- back and sides forming a circle. Each person had four arms and four legs, one head with two faces looking in opposite directions, set on a circular neck, both faces exactly alike. They had four ears, two sets of genitals, and everything else you'd expect to go with all that. They could walk upright in either direction, forward or backward. And when they wanted to go fast, they'd tuck their limbs and roll -- like cartwheeling gymnasts, spinning over and over on all eight limbs. They were fast."

At this point we should imagine the party guests staring at Aristophanes, half delighted and half incredulous. He pressed on:

"Now, the reason there were three sexes is that each one came from a different heavenly body. The male was the child of the Sun, the female was the child of the Earth, and the combined sex was the child of the Moon -- because the Moon partakes of both Sun and Earth. They were round, and they moved in circles, just like their parents.

"And they were terrifyingly powerful. Their strength was enormous, and their ambitions were even bigger. They actually attacked the gods. That story Homer tells about Otus and Ephialtes, who tried to scale heaven and assault the gods? That was them.

"So the gods had a crisis on their hands. They held a council. They couldn't just blast these creatures with thunderbolts and wipe out the race, the way they'd done with the giants -- because then who would worship them? Who would offer sacrifices? But they also couldn't let these beings keep running around thinking they were as powerful as the gods.

"Finally, after a lot of deliberation, Zeus had a brainstorm. 'I've got it,' he said. 'I've found a way to humble them and improve their behavior. I'm going to cut each one of them in half. This solves everything. First, they'll be weaker. Second, they'll be more numerous, which means more worshippers for us. They'll walk upright on two legs. And if they still give us trouble and won't settle down -- well, I'll cut them in half again, and they can hop around on one leg.'

"And he did it. He sliced humans in two the way you'd slice an apple for preserving, or the way you'd cut an egg with a hair. And as he cut each one, he told Apollo to turn the face and half the neck around toward the cut side, so the person would have to look at where they'd been sliced -- as a reminder, to teach them some humility. Then he told Apollo to heal the wounds and tidy things up.

"So Apollo went to work. He swung the face around, pulled the skin from the sides over what we now call the belly -- like pulling a drawstring purse closed -- and tied it all off in a single knot at the center. That's the navel. Then he smoothed out most of the wrinkles, shaping the chest the way a cobbler smooths leather over a form. He left a few wrinkles around the belly and the navel, though, as a reminder of what had happened.

"After the division, each half desperately missed its other half. They'd find each other, throw their arms around one another, and cling together, desperate to merge back into one body. They started dying -- of hunger, of sheer neglect -- because they refused to do anything apart. And when one half died, the surviving half would wander around looking for another match, clinging to whatever half it found, whether from a person who'd been originally all-male, all-female, or the combined kind. They were wasting away.

"Zeus took pity on them and came up with a second plan. He moved their genitals around to the front. Until then, their genitals had been on the outside -- on the back, really -- and they'd reproduced not by joining with each other but by sowing seed in the ground, like grasshoppers. Zeus repositioned everything so that reproduction could happen through the embrace of man and woman, and the race could continue. And if a man found a man, well, at least they'd have the satisfaction of physical closeness, and then they could pull themselves together, get back to work, and go about their daily lives.

"So this is where it all comes from -- this ancient longing we have for one another. Love is just the name for our pursuit of wholeness, our desire to be complete again.

"Originally, as I said, we were one. But because of our arrogance, god split us in two. And if we don't behave, there's a real danger he'll split us again, and we'll go around like those profile figures carved on tombstones -- flat, sliced right down the middle, with half a nose. So let's all be on our best behavior and show reverence to the gods, both to avoid that fate and to have Love guide us toward finding our other half, which is a rare enough gift in this world.

"Now here's the key. Each of us, cut in half as we are, is always searching for our matching half. Men who are a section of the original combined sex -- the one that was male and female -- are attracted to women. Most men who love women come from this stock, as do most women who love men. Women who are a section of what was originally all-female aren't particularly interested in men -- they're drawn to women. And men who are a section of the original all-male are drawn to men. When they're young, being chips off the old male block, they love men and enjoy being close to men, and they're the best of boys and young men because they're the most naturally courageous. Some people call them shameless, but that's wrong. It's not shamelessness that drives them. It's boldness, bravery, and manliness -- they're drawn to what resembles themselves. And here's the proof: when they grow up, these are the only ones who go into politics."

A laugh from the party. Aristophanes grinned and continued:

"When they're older, they're lovers of young men. They're not naturally inclined toward marriage and having children -- they do it only because the law demands it. They'd be perfectly content to live with one another, unmarried. A nature like this is always ready to love and to be loved, always drawn to what is kindred.

"And when one of these people -- whether a lover of men or any other kind -- meets their actual other half, the real one, something incredible happens. They're overwhelmed by affection, by intimacy, by a connection so intense that they don't want to be separated for even a moment. These are the people who spend their entire lives together -- and yet, if you asked them what they actually want from each other, they couldn't tell you. It's clearly not just physical intimacy, even though that's part of it. No -- the soul of each of them is longing for something deeper, something it can't quite name, something it has only a dim, uncertain intuition about.

"Imagine that Hephaestus -- the blacksmith god -- came to visit this pair while they lay together, tools in hand, and asked them: 'What is it you people really want from each other?' And when they couldn't answer, imagine he pressed further: 'Is this what you want -- to be so completely joined that you're never separated, day or night? Because if that's what you want, I can weld you together, melt you into one being. You'll live as one person instead of two, and when you die, you'll go down to Hades as one soul instead of two. Tell me: is this what you want? Would this make you happy?'

"Not a single one of them would say no. Not one. Every person would recognize that this is exactly what they've always yearned for: to merge with their beloved into one, to become whole again. The reason is simple. This is our original nature. We were once complete, and the desire and pursuit of that completeness is what we call Love.

"Once upon a time, we were whole. Now, because of our transgressions, we've been split apart by god -- scattered the way the Spartans scattered the Arcadians into separate villages. And there's always the threat that if we offend the gods again, we'll be divided once more, going around like figures in a relief carving, sawed in half down the profile, with one eye and half a nose each.

"So let everyone practice reverence toward the gods, so that we can avoid that fate and win the good things that Love offers as our guide and commander. Let no one work against Love -- and whoever opposes Love is an enemy of the gods. If we befriend the god and make our peace with him, we'll find our own true loves -- our real other halves -- which almost never happens as things stand now.

"And I'm being serious here, so Eryximachus, please don't make fun of what I'm saying or assume I'm talking about Pausanias and Agathon specifically. Maybe they are both sections of the original male, and maybe they have found each other -- who knows? But what I'm saying applies to everyone, men and women alike. The human race would be happy if everyone could find their way back to their original nature and discover their true love. If that's the ideal, then the best we can do in the world as it is now is to get as close to it as possible -- and that means finding a love who is truly kindred to our nature.

"So if we want to praise the god who makes this possible, we should praise Love. He's our greatest benefactor, right here and now -- guiding us back toward what we once were. And he gives us our highest hope for the future: that if we show reverence to the gods, Love will restore us to our original wholeness, heal us, and make us truly happy.

"That, Eryximachus, is my speech on Love. And I know it's different from yours, but please -- leave it alone. Don't tear it to pieces. Let everyone have their say. Or rather, let the last two have theirs -- Agathon and Socrates are still to come."

---

"I wouldn't dream of attacking it," said Eryximachus. "I thought your speech was delightful. And if I didn't know that Agathon and Socrates are absolute experts on the subject of love, I'd be worried they'd have nothing left to say, after all that's been said already. But as it is, I'm not worried in the least."

"You played your part beautifully, Eryximachus," said Socrates. "But if you were standing where I'm standing now -- or rather, where I'll be standing after Agathon speaks -- you'd be in real trouble."

"You're trying to jinx me, Socrates," said Agathon. "You want me to panic, thinking the audience expects something spectacular."

"I'd have to have a terrible memory, Agathon," Socrates replied, "to think that anything could rattle you. I saw the courage and confidence you showed when you walked out on that stage with your actors and faced a theater of thirty thousand people, completely unfazed. You think a handful of friends would make you nervous?"

"But Socrates," said Agathon, "you don't think I'm so stage-struck that I don't realize a few intelligent people are far more intimidating than a whole crowd of fools?"

"No," said Socrates, "I wouldn't dream of being that rude to you. I know perfectly well that when you meet people you consider truly wise, you care far more about their opinion than the mob's. But we were sitting in that crowd of fools at the theater, so you can't count us among the wise. If you were in the presence of someone truly wise, though -- you'd be embarrassed to say anything unworthy in front of them. Wouldn't you?"

"True," said Agathon.

"But in front of a crowd? You wouldn't feel ashamed, even if you thought you were saying something unworthy?"

At this point Phaedrus cut in: "Agathon, my friend, don't answer him. If Socrates gets a conversation partner -- especially a good-looking one -- he'll forget all about our plan. I love listening to Socrates talk, but right now I need him to stay focused. Everyone owes Love a speech, and I intend to collect. Once you've both paid your tribute to the god, you can debate to your heart's content."

"You're absolutely right, Phaedrus," said Agathon. "I have no problem starting my speech. I'll have plenty of other chances to talk with Socrates.

"Let me begin by explaining how I intend to speak, and then I'll speak.

---

AGATHON'S SPEECH

"The previous speakers all seem to have been congratulating humanity on the benefits Love provides, rather than praising the god himself. Nobody has described what Love actually is -- what his nature is like. Well, the correct way to praise anything is to first describe the thing itself, and then talk about what it causes. So let me begin with Love's nature, and then turn to his gifts.

"I say -- and I hope the gods won't be offended -- that of all the blessed gods, Love is the most blessed, because he is the most beautiful and the best. Here is why he is the most beautiful:

"First, Phaedrus, he is the youngest of the gods. And Love himself provides the proof -- he runs from old age, which, fast as it is, catches up with most of us faster than we'd like. Love despises old age and won't go near it. Youth and Love are constant companions. Like attracts like, as the proverb says. I agreed with much of what Phaedrus said, but I can't agree that Love is older than Kronos and Iapetus. No! I say Love is the youngest of the gods, and forever young. Those ancient acts among the gods that Hesiod and Parmenides describe -- the castrations, the chains, all that violence -- those happened under the rule of Necessity, not Love. If Love had been reigning back then, there would have been no mutilation, no binding, no brutality. There would have been peace and tenderness, as there has been ever since Love took charge.

"And Love is not just young -- he's tender. He deserves a poet like Homer to express his delicacy. Homer says of the goddess Ate that she is tender:

'Her feet are tender, for she sets her steps not on the ground but on the heads of men.'

"That's a lovely proof of tenderness -- she doesn't walk on anything hard, only on what's soft. I offer the same kind of proof for Love. He doesn't walk on the ground. He doesn't even walk on the skulls of men -- which aren't all that soft. No, Love makes his home in the hearts and souls of gods and men, and these are the softest things in existence. He dwells there, nestled in the softest of the soft. Not in every soul, though -- when he encounters a hard heart, he leaves. He only stays where it's soft. And if he's always touching and treading on the very softest of soft things, with his feet and his whole body -- how can he be anything but the softest and most tender being there is?

"So Love is the youngest and the most tender. And he's also graceful and supple in form. If he were rigid, he couldn't wrap himself around everything the way he does, couldn't wind his way into and out of every soul undetected. His grace proves his flexibility, and grace is something everyone agrees Love possesses in abundance. Gracelessness and Love are perpetual enemies.

"And Love's beauty! The god lives among flowers. He doesn't settle where things have stopped blooming or are fading -- whether bodies, souls, or anything else. But wherever things are blossoming and fragrant, there he sits and stays.

"Enough about his beauty, though there's much more I could say. Now let me speak of his virtue.

"Love's greatest glory is this: he can neither commit injustice nor suffer it, from god or from man. He doesn't suffer by force -- force can't touch him. And he doesn't act by force -- everyone serves Love willingly. Where there's mutual consent, there is justice. So says the law, and the law is right.

"Love is not only just but supremely temperate. Everyone agrees that temperance means mastering your pleasures and desires. And no pleasure has ever mastered Love. He masters them all. He's their ruler, and they're his subjects. If he conquers every pleasure and desire, that's temperance of the highest order.

"As for courage: even the god of war is no match for Love. Ares didn't capture Love -- Love captured Ares. The love of Aphrodite mastered him, as the old story tells us. And the captor is always stronger than the captive. If Love conquers the bravest of all the gods, he must be the bravest of all.

"I've spoken of his justice, temperance, and courage. Now for his wisdom -- and here I'll do the best I can.

"First of all -- and here, like Eryximachus, I'll give special honor to my own craft -- Love is a poet. And a magnificent one. He also turns everyone he touches into a poet, even someone who had no music in them before. Surely this proves that Love is a master of all the creative arts, since you can't give what you don't have, and you can't teach what you don't know.

"Consider the creation of every living thing. Isn't it Love's work? All creatures are born and brought into being through him. And look at the arts and crafts: is there any artist touched by Love who doesn't achieve fame? The ones Love ignores walk in obscurity. Apollo discovered medicine, archery, and prophecy under the guidance of desire and love -- even he is a disciple of Love! The Muses discovered music through Love, Hephaestus discovered metalwork, Athena discovered weaving, and Zeus discovered how to govern gods and men. All through Love! And it was Love who put the house of the gods in order -- the love of beauty, naturally, because Love has nothing to do with ugliness.

"Before Love, as I said, terrible things happened among the gods, because Necessity ruled. But since Love's birth, the love of beautiful things has produced every good thing in heaven and earth.

"And so, Phaedrus, I say this: Love is himself the most beautiful and the best of all beings, and the cause of beauty and goodness in all other things. And a line of poetry comes to mind -- it is Love who

'Gives peace on earth and calms the stormy deep, who stills the winds and bids the sufferer sleep.'

"It is Love who empties us of alienation and fills us with kinship. He brings us together at gatherings like this one -- at feasts, at dances, at sacrifices. He is our master of ceremonies. He gives us courtesy and takes away hostility. He is generous with kindness and stingy with cruelty. He's the friend of the good, the marvel of the wise, the wonder of the gods. He's longed for by those who don't have him and treasured by those who do. He's the father of elegance, luxury, desire, grace, longing, and tenderness. He watches over the good and ignores the wicked.

"In every word, every work, every wish, every fear -- he is our savior, our pilot, our comrade, our champion. He is the glory of gods and men, the fairest and best of guides. Let every person follow in his footsteps, singing sweetly in his praise, joining the song with which Love charms the minds of gods and mortals alike.

"That is my speech, Phaedrus -- half playful, half serious, the best I can do in honor of the god."

---

When Agathon finished, Aristodemus said there was a round of enthusiastic applause. Everyone felt the young man had spoken beautifully -- worthy of himself and worthy of the god.

Socrates looked over at Eryximachus and said: "Well, son of Acumenus? Were my fears unreasonable? Wasn't I right when I predicted that Agathon would give a dazzling speech and leave me with nothing to say?"

"You were right about one thing," said Eryximachus. "Agathon did give a dazzling speech. But I don't believe for a second that you'll have nothing to say."

"My dear friend," said Socrates, "how could anyone have something to say after a speech like that? The whole thing was magnificent, but that ending -- the beauty of those words and phrases -- who could hear it and not be awestruck? When I thought about how utterly incapable I was of saying anything even half as beautiful, I nearly got up and ran away in shame. The whole speech reminded me of Gorgias. In fact, by the end, I was convinced Agathon was wielding the Gorgonian head of the great master of rhetoric -- trying to turn me and my speech to stone, strike me dumb.

"That's when I realized what a fool I'd been to agree to take my turn praising Love. I'd said I was an expert on the subject! What a joke. I had no idea how praise was supposed to work. In my naive way, I assumed that when you praise something, you're supposed to tell the truth about it -- pick out the finest true things and present them in the best possible way. I was feeling pretty confident, thinking I knew how to give a good speech about Love, since I knew what the truth was.

"But now I see that's not how it works at all. Apparently the goal is to heap every kind of glory and greatness onto your subject, whether it's true or not. Truth doesn't matter. The whole point, it seems, was not to actually praise Love, but to make it look like you're praising him. So you pile on every beautiful quality you can think of, regardless of whether it applies, because the audience doesn't know any better. And I have to admit, it makes for a noble and impressive performance.

"But since I didn't understand the rules, I can't play this game. My tongue made a promise my mind can't keep -- as Euripides would put it. So I'm withdrawing from that kind of contest.

"However, if you'd like to hear the truth about Love -- just the plain truth, in whatever words happen to come to me, in no particular elegant order -- I'm ready to give you that. Phaedrus, would that be acceptable?"

Phaedrus and the whole company told him to speak however he thought best.

"Then let me do one more thing first," Socrates said. "Let me ask Agathon a few questions, so I can use his answers as the starting point for what I want to say."

"Go right ahead," said Phaedrus. "Ask away."

And so Socrates began:

"I think you were absolutely right, my dear Agathon, to start by describing what Love is before talking about what he does. I very much approve of that approach. So since you've spoken so beautifully about Love's nature, let me ask you this: Is Love the love of something, or of nothing? I don't mean 'Is Love the love of some mother or father' -- that would be a silly question. I mean it the way you'd answer if I asked: 'Is a father a father of something?' You'd obviously say yes -- a father is a father of a son or daughter."

"Certainly," said Agathon.

"And you'd say the same of a mother?"

"Yes."

"Let me give you one more example to make my point clear. Isn't a brother essentially a brother of something?"

"Yes," he said.

"Namely, of a brother or sister?"

"Right."

"Good. Now let me ask about Love. Is Love the love of something, or of nothing?"

"Of something, definitely."

"Hold on to that answer. Now tell me: does Love desire the thing it's the love of?"

"Yes, of course."

"And when Love desires this thing -- does Love already possess it, or not?"

"Probably not, I'd say."

"Think about it more carefully," said Socrates. "Don't just say 'probably.' Consider whether it's not necessarily the case. If you desire something, mustn't you lack it? If you don't lack it, you don't desire it. This seems to me absolutely and necessarily true, Agathon. What do you think?"

"I think you're right," said Agathon.

"Good. Now: would a person who is already tall desire to be tall? Would a person who is already strong desire to be strong?"

That would be inconsistent with what we've already agreed to.

True. Because anyone who already is something can't want to be what they already are, can they?

And yet, Socrates added, if a strong man wanted to be strong, or a fast man wanted to be fast, or a healthy man wanted to be healthy — you might think he was desiring something he already has. I bring this up so we don't get confused. Because people who have these qualities, Agathon, must already possess their advantages right now, whether they want to or not. And who can desire what they already have? So when someone says, "I'm well and I want to be well," or "I'm rich and I want to be rich" — when they say "I want what I already have" — we'd tell them: "My friend, you have wealth, health, and strength, and what you actually want is to keep having them. Right now, like it or not, you've got them. When you say 'I want what I have,' what you really mean is that you want to still have in the future what you have right now." He'd have to agree with us, wouldn't he?

He would, said Agathon.

Then, said Socrates, this person is really desiring that what he has now will be preserved for the future — which amounts to desiring something that doesn't yet exist for him, something he doesn't yet have.

Very true, he said.

So he — and everyone who desires anything — desires what he doesn't already have, what's in the future rather than the present, what he lacks, what he isn't. These are the kinds of things that love and desire go after?

Very true, he said.

Now then, said Socrates, let's sum up the argument. First: isn't love always love of something? And specifically of something that a person lacks?

Yes, he replied.

And remember what you said in your speech — or if you don't, I'll remind you. You said that the love of beauty brought order to the realm of the gods, because there's no love of ugly things. Didn't you say something like that?

Yes, said Agathon.

And that was a fair point, my friend. But if it's true, then Love is love of beauty, not of ugliness?

He agreed.

And we've already established that Love is desire for something a person lacks?

True, he said.

So Love lacks beauty — Love wants beauty and doesn't have it?

That must be so, he replied.

And would you call something beautiful if it lacks beauty and doesn't possess it?

Certainly not.

Then can you still say that Love is beautiful?

Agathon replied: I'm afraid I didn't really understand what I was saying.

You gave a very fine speech, Agathon, replied Socrates. But there's just one more small question I'd like to ask: isn't the good also the beautiful?

Then in wanting the beautiful, Love also wants the good?

I can't argue with you, Socrates, said Agathon. Let's say what you're claiming is true.

No — say rather, dear Agathon, that you can't argue with the truth. Socrates is easy enough to argue with.

And now, taking my leave of you, I'd like to retell a story about love that I once heard from Diotima of Mantineia — a woman wise in this subject and many others. She was the one who, years ago, when the Athenians were making sacrifices before the plague hit, managed to delay the disease by ten years. She was my teacher in the ways of love, and I'll repeat to you what she told me, starting from the same conclusions Agathon just agreed to — which are pretty much the same ones I agreed to when she questioned me. I think the easiest way to do this is to play both parts myself, just as well as I can. So like you suggested, Agathon, I should talk first about the nature of Love — what he is — and then about what he does.

First, I said to her in nearly the same words Agathon used with me: that Love was a mighty god, and beautiful too. And she proved to me — the same way I proved it to him — that by my own logic, Love was neither beautiful nor good.

"What do you mean, Diotima?" I said. "Is Love ugly and bad, then?"

"Careful," she said. "Does something have to be ugly just because it isn't beautiful?"

"Well, yes," I said.

"And must what isn't wise be ignorant? Don't you see there's a middle ground between wisdom and ignorance?"

"What would that be?" I asked.

"Right opinion," she said. "Which, as you know, can't give reasons for itself, so it isn't knowledge — how could knowledge exist without reasons? But it isn't ignorance either, because it does hit on the truth. It's clearly something in between ignorance and wisdom."

"That's fair," I said.

"Then don't insist," she said, "that whatever isn't beautiful must be ugly, or that whatever isn't good must be evil. And don't assume that because Love is neither beautiful nor good, he must therefore be ugly and evil. He's somewhere in between."

"Well," I said, "everyone admits Love is a great god."

"When you say 'everyone,' do you mean people who actually know, or people who don't?"

"I mean everyone."

"And how, Socrates," she said with a smile, "can Love be universally acknowledged as a great god by people who say he isn't a god at all?"

"Who says that?" I asked.

"You and I, for starters," she replied.

"How can that be?" I said.

"It's perfectly logical," she replied. "You'd agree that all the gods are happy and beautiful — wouldn't you? You wouldn't dare say any god was not?"

"Of course not," I said.

"And by 'happy,' you mean those who possess good and beautiful things?"

"Yes."

"But you've already admitted that Love, precisely because he lacks these things, desires the good and beautiful things he doesn't have?"

"Yes, I did."

"But how can someone be a god if he has no share in what's good or beautiful?"

"He can't, I suppose."

"So you see — you also deny that Love is a god."

"Then what is Love?" I asked. "A mortal?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"Like before — he's something in between mortal and immortal."

"What is he, Diotima?"

"He's a great spirit — a daimon. And like all spirits, he's an intermediary between the divine and the mortal."

"What power does he have?" I asked.

"He interprets and carries messages between gods and humans," she said. "He brings the gods our prayers and sacrifices, and brings us their commands and responses. He's the mediator who bridges the gap between them, and through him everything is connected. Through him the arts of the prophet and the priest — their sacrifices, mysteries, charms, prophecies, and incantations — all find their way. God doesn't mix directly with humanity. All communication between the divine and human worlds, whether in waking or in sleep, passes through Love. The wisdom that understands this is spiritual wisdom; all other wisdom — the practical skills and crafts — is ordinary. These spirits, these intermediary powers, are many and varied, and Love is one of them."

"Who was his father?" I asked. "And his mother?"

"That's a longer story," she said, "but I'll tell you. On the day Aphrodite was born, the gods held a feast. Among the guests was Poros — Plenty — the son of Metis, or Resourcefulness. When the feast was over, Penia — Poverty — came to the door to beg, as people do on such occasions. Now Plenty, having drunk too much nectar (there was no wine in those days), wandered into the garden of Zeus and fell into a heavy sleep. Poverty, sizing up her desperate situation, hatched a plan to have a child by him. So she lay down beside him and conceived Love. That's why Love is a follower and servant of Aphrodite — because he was conceived on the day of her birth, and because he's naturally drawn to beauty, and Aphrodite is beautiful.

"So his nature follows from his parents. First of all, he's always poor. He's nothing like the tender, beautiful figure most people imagine. He's rough and weather-beaten, barefoot, homeless. He sleeps on the bare ground under the open sky — in doorways, on the streets — always in need, just like his mother. But from his father's side, he's always scheming after beautiful and good things. He's bold, enterprising, intense — a relentless hunter, always weaving some plan or other, sharp in pursuit of understanding, endlessly resourceful. He's a philosopher through and through, a formidable enchanter, a wizard of persuasion. He's neither mortal nor immortal: on any given day he might be flourishing and full of life when things are going well, then dying — then coming back to life again, thanks to his father's nature. Whatever flows in is always flowing out, so he's never truly rich and never truly destitute. He's also right in the middle between wisdom and ignorance. Here's why: no god is a philosopher or seeker of wisdom — gods are already wise. And no one who's already wise goes seeking wisdom. But the ignorant don't seek wisdom either, and that's the real curse of ignorance: the person who is neither good nor wise is perfectly satisfied with himself. You don't desire what you don't realize you lack."

"Then who are the philosophers, Diotima," I asked, "if they're neither the wise nor the ignorant?"

"Even a child could answer that," she replied. "They're the ones in between. And Love is one of them. Wisdom is among the most beautiful things, and Love is love of the beautiful — so Love must be a philosopher, a lover of wisdom, and as such he falls between the wise and the ignorant. This too comes from his parentage: his father is wealthy and wise, his mother poor and foolish. That, my dear Socrates, is the nature of the spirit Love. Your earlier mistake was perfectly natural, and from what you've told me, I can see how it happened: you confused love with the beloved. That's why you thought Love was all beautiful. The beloved really is beautiful — delicate, perfect, blessed. But the principle of love is something else entirely, something like what I've described."

I said, "All right, Diotima — you make a persuasive case. But assuming Love is what you say he is, what use is he to people?"

"That, Socrates," she said, "is what I'll try to explain next. I've already described his nature and parentage. You've agreed that love is love of beautiful things. But someone might ask: what does that mean? When a person loves beautiful things, what do they actually want?"

I answered, "To possess them. To make the beautiful things their own."

"But that answer," she said, "just raises another question: What does possessing beauty give you?"

"I don't have a ready answer for that," I said.

"Then let me swap in 'good' for 'beautiful' and try again. When someone who loves good things loves them — what do they want?"

"To possess the good," I said.

"And what does possessing the good give them?"

"Happiness," I replied. "That one's easier."

"Yes," she said. "Happy people are made happy by having good things. And there's no need to ask why someone wants happiness — the answer is self-evident."

"You're right," I said.

"And is this wish — this desire for happiness and good things — common to everyone? Or only to some people?"

"To everyone," I said. "It's universal."

"Then why," she asked, "don't we say everyone is in love, if everyone is always desiring the same good things? Why do we say only some people are in love?"

"I've wondered that myself," I said.

"There's nothing mysterious about it," she said. "What happens is this: we take one particular form of love, give it the name that belongs to the whole category, and use other names for the rest."

"Give me an example," I said.

"Consider 'poetry,'" she said. "As you know, poetry in the broad sense is enormously wide. Every act of bringing something from non-existence into existence is 'poetry' — it's making. The products of every craft are a kind of poetry, and all craftsmen are, in a sense, poets."

"True."

"But we don't call them all poets, do we? We reserve the word 'poetry' for just one slice of the art — the part that deals with music and meter — and call only those practitioners 'poets.'"

"Exactly," I said.

"The same thing happens with love. In the broadest sense, all desire for good things and happiness is love — and it's a powerful thing. But people who pursue this desire through moneymaking, athletics, philosophy, or any other path aren't called 'lovers.' We reserve that name for people whose passion takes one particular form — and only they are said to be 'in love.'"

"You're probably right," I said.

"Now," she continued, "there's a popular theory that lovers are searching for their other half. But I say they're searching for neither the half nor the whole unless that half or whole happens to be good. People will cut off their own hands and feet if those are diseased — they don't cling to what belongs to them just because it's theirs. What people love is the good. Nothing else. Would you agree?"

"Absolutely," I said.

"Then here's the simple truth: people love the good."

"Yes," I said.

"And shouldn't we add: they love possessing the good?"

"Yes."

"And not just possessing it now — possessing it forever?"

"That too."

"Then love," she said, "can be described as the desire for the everlasting possession of the good."

"That's exactly right," I said.

"Now," she continued, "if that's what love is, what form does the pursuit take? What are people actually doing when they show all this eagerness and intensity that we call 'being in love'? What's the goal? Tell me."

"If I knew, Diotima," I said, "I wouldn't have come to you to learn about this very thing. I wouldn't have been so amazed by your wisdom."

"Then I'll teach you," she said. "The goal is giving birth in the presence of beauty — birth in both body and soul."

"That's an oracle," I said. "I need a translation."

"Let me be clearer, then. All human beings are pregnant — in their bodies and in their souls. When we reach a certain age, our nature longs to give birth. But birth can only happen in the presence of beauty, not ugliness. The union of man and woman is a kind of giving birth, and it's a divine thing. Conception and generation are the immortal element in a mortal creature. But they can't happen in what's discordant. Ugliness is discordant with the divine; beauty is in harmony with it. Beauty is the goddess who presides over birth. And that's why, when what is ready to create draws near to beauty, it opens up and overflows and conceives and brings forth. But at the approach of ugliness, it contracts, turns away, shrivels up, and refuses to conceive — and the pain of holding back what it longs to create is terrible. That's why someone who's ripe for creation feels such an intense flutter of excitement around beauty — because beauty relieves the anguish of the creative urge. Love, Socrates, isn't love of beauty."

"What is it, then?"

"It's love of giving birth — of creating — in the presence of beauty."

"Yes," I said.

"Yes, indeed," she said. "And why creation? Because for a mortal being, creation is a kind of eternity and immortality. And if love is the desire for the everlasting possession of the good, as we've agreed, then everyone must also desire immortality alongside the good. Love, therefore, is love of immortality."

All this she taught me at various times when we talked about love. And I remember her once saying to me: "What do you think drives love, Socrates — the desire and all the longing that comes with it? Haven't you noticed how all animals — birds, beasts, everything — are in agony when the mating urge takes hold? They're seized by this infection of love, starting with the desire to mate and then extending to care for their offspring. The weakest animals will fight the strongest to the death for their young. They'll starve themselves, do anything to protect them. With humans, you might say this comes from reason. But what explains it in animals? Can you tell me?"

Again I said I didn't know.

She said: "And you expect to become an expert on love without understanding this? But I've already told you, Diotima — my ignorance is exactly why I come to you. I know I need a teacher. So please, explain to me: why does this happen, and all the other mysteries of love?"

"Don't be surprised," she said, "if you believe, as we've agreed several times, that love is love of immortality. The mortal nature, by the same logic, is always striving to be everlasting and immortal. And the only way it can do that is through generation — through always leaving behind a new being in place of the old one. Even within the life of a single individual, there's constant change, not real permanence. We call a person 'the same' from youth to old age, but in the short interval between the two, they're undergoing a perpetual process of loss and renewal — hair, flesh, bones, blood, the entire body changing constantly. And this is true not just of the body but of the soul as well. Our habits, character, opinions, desires, pleasures, pains, fears — none of these stay the same. They're always arriving and departing. And here's something even more surprising: the same is true of knowledge. Individual pieces of knowledge spring up and fade away, so we're never quite the same in what we know. What we call 'recollection' is actually this: knowledge is always slipping away through forgetting, and study creates a fresh memory to replace the old one — which looks the same but is actually new. This is how everything mortal is preserved: not by staying absolutely the same, as the divine does, but by substitution — the old and worn-out leaving behind something new and similar to take its place. That, Socrates, is how mortal bodies and mortal everything else participate in immortality. The immortal does it differently — by simply remaining the same forever. So don't be surprised that every creature loves its offspring so fiercely. That universal love and devotion exists for the sake of immortality."

I was astonished at her words and said: "Is this really true, Diotima — you who are so wise?"

And she answered with the full authority of a master teacher: "You can be absolutely sure of it, Socrates. Just think about human ambition — the way people behave will seem senseless unless you understand that they're driven by the love of immortal fame. They'll take risks far greater than they'd take for their own children. They'll spend money, endure any hardship, even die — all to leave behind a name that will live forever. Do you think Alcestis would have died to save Admetus, or Achilles to avenge Patroclus, or your own Codrus to preserve the kingdom for his sons, if they hadn't imagined that the memory of their courage — which we still honor today — would be immortal? No," she said. "I'm convinced that everyone does everything they do — and the better the person, the more they do it — in hope of winning immortal glory. What they desire is immortality."

"Those who are pregnant only in body," she continued, "turn to women and have children — that's their form of love, their hope that children will preserve their memory and give them the blessing of immortality. But those who are pregnant in their souls — and there are certainly people who are more creative in their souls than their bodies — they conceive what the soul naturally conceives: wisdom and virtue. The greatest creators of this kind are poets and all the artists and inventors who truly deserve that name. But the greatest and most beautiful form of wisdom, by far, is the wisdom concerned with governing cities and households — what we call moderation and justice.

"When someone carries the seeds of these things in his soul from a young age, and when the time comes for him to create, he goes searching for beauty — for a setting in which to bring forth what he's been carrying. He'll never create in the presence of ugliness. He naturally embraces beautiful bodies over ugly ones, and when he finds a soul that is also beautiful, noble, and well-formed, he embraces the whole person completely. With such a person, he overflows with ideas about virtue — about what a good person should be and should do — and he tries to educate them. Through contact with beauty, and especially through keeping company with a beautiful person, he brings forth what he'd been carrying and conceiving for so long. Together they raise what they've created — and this bond is far closer and more enduring than the bond between parents of mortal children, because what they've created together is more beautiful and more immortal. Who wouldn't rather have Homer's children than human ones? Who wouldn't envy Hesiod and the other great poets for the offspring they left behind — works that have given them undying glory? Or think of the children Lycurgus left: the laws that saved not only Sparta but arguably all of Greece. Think of Solon, honored as the father of Athenian law. And many others, in many lands, both Greek and foreign, who produced magnificent works and became the parents of every kind of virtue. Temples have been raised in their honor because of these children of the soul. No one has ever received such honors for having ordinary human children."

"These, Socrates, are the lesser mysteries of love, and even you might manage to be initiated into them. But the greater mysteries — the ones these lead to, if you follow the path correctly — I'm not sure you can reach. But I'll do my best to explain, and you try to follow.

"The person who approaches this the right way must begin young, drawn toward beautiful bodies. First, if their guide leads them correctly, they should fall in love with one particular beautiful body and through that relationship create beautiful ideas and conversations. Then they should come to realize on their own that the beauty in one body is closely related to the beauty in another. And if beauty of form is what they're pursuing, it would be foolish not to recognize that the beauty in every body is one and the same. Once they see this, they'll relax their intense passion for the one and come to regard it as something small, becoming a lover of all beautiful bodies instead.

"Next, they'll come to see that beauty of the soul is more valuable than beauty of the body. So that even if someone has a soul of great quality but only modest physical beauty, that will be enough — they'll love that person and care for them and search together for ideas that improve the young. This will lead them to recognize the beauty in human activities and laws, and to see that all beauty is of one family — and that the beauty of the body is a small thing by comparison.

"After activities and laws, they'll move on to the sciences, and see the beauty in those. By this point they're no longer a slave to the beauty of one boy or one person or one set of laws — narrow-minded and small. Instead, they've turned toward the vast ocean of beauty and, gazing upon it, they produce many beautiful and magnificent ideas and thoughts in their boundless love of wisdom. They grow and gain strength on that shore until at last a single vision is revealed to them: the knowledge of a beauty that is everywhere. And now, Socrates, give me your closest attention."

"Whoever has been guided this far in the mysteries of love, who has contemplated beautiful things in the proper order and sequence — that person, approaching the final stage, will suddenly perceive something of astonishing beauty. And this, Socrates, is the ultimate goal of everything we've been discussing.

"This beauty is, first of all, eternal — it doesn't come into existence or pass away, it doesn't grow or diminish. Second, it isn't beautiful in one way and ugly in another, or beautiful at one time and ugly at another, or beautiful in one place and ugly in another, or beautiful to some people and ugly to others. It won't appear to them as a face, or hands, or any bodily form at all, or as any word or any piece of knowledge. It doesn't exist in any other thing — not in an animal, not in the earth, not in the sky, not anywhere else. It is beauty itself, absolute, pure, unmixed — not contaminated by human flesh or color or any mortal nonsense. It is the divine beauty itself, existing in a single form. All other beautiful things participate in this beauty in such a way that when they come into being or perish, this beauty is not increased or diminished in the slightest — it remains completely unaffected.

"When someone ascends from earthly beauty through the correct practice of love and begins to glimpse this ultimate beauty, they've nearly reached the goal. And here is the true path of love, whether one walks it alone or is led by another: beginning from the beautiful things of this world, you use them as stepping stones — ascending always for the sake of that higher beauty — from one beautiful body to two, from two to all beautiful bodies, from beautiful bodies to beautiful ways of living, from beautiful ways of living to beautiful fields of knowledge, until from these you arrive at that one special knowledge — the knowledge of beauty itself — and you finally understand what beauty really is.

"This, my dear Socrates," said the woman from Mantineia, "is the life worth living above all others — a life spent in the contemplation of beauty itself. If you ever see it, you won't measure it by the standards of gold and fancy clothes and beautiful boys and young men — the sight of whom now throws you into such ecstasy that you and plenty of others would happily live just gazing at them, without food or drink, if that were possible. But what if someone could see true beauty — divine beauty — pure and clear and uncontaminated, not weighed down by human flesh and all the colors and vanities of mortal life? What if they could behold beauty itself, simple and divine? Do you think that would be a poor life — looking there, communing with true beauty? Don't you see that only there, seeing beauty with the mind's eye, will a person be able to give birth not to images of virtue but to true virtue itself? Because they'd be in contact not with an image but with the real thing. And by giving birth to true virtue and nourishing it, they'd become dear to the gods and, as much as any mortal can, they'd become immortal themselves. Would that be an unworthy life?"

Such, Phaedrus — and I'm speaking to all of you, not just you — were the words of Diotima. And I'm persuaded she was right. And because I'm persuaded, I try to persuade others that in the pursuit of this goal, human nature won't easily find a better ally than Love. And that's why I say everyone should honor Love as I do, and walk in his ways, and encourage others to do the same. I praise the power and spirit of Love to the best of my ability — now and always.

The words I've spoken, Phaedrus, you can call a speech in praise of love, or whatever else you'd like to call it.

---

When Socrates finished speaking, the company applauded. Aristophanes was starting to respond to something Socrates had said about his own speech — when suddenly there was a tremendous pounding at the front door, the sound of partygoers, and the wail of a flute. Agathon told his servants to go see who it was. "If they're friends of ours, invite them in. If not, tell them the drinking's done."

A moment later they heard the voice of Alcibiades booming through the courtyard. He was completely hammered, shouting at the top of his lungs: "Where's Agathon? Take me to Agathon!" Eventually, propped up by the flute-girl and some of his attendants, he stumbled his way in.

"Hello, everyone!" he announced, swaying in the doorway. His head was crowned with a massive wreath of ivy and violets, trailing ribbons everywhere. "Will you accept a very drunk man as a drinking companion? Or should I just crown Agathon — which is why I came — and be on my way? I couldn't make it yesterday, so I'm here today with these ribbons on my head, ready to take them off and put them on the head of the most beautiful and wisest man alive — if I may call him that. Go ahead, laugh at me for being drunk! I know perfectly well that I'm telling the truth, even if you do laugh. But tell me first — are we agreed on terms? Will you drink with me or not?"

Everyone shouted for him to come in and take a seat, and Agathon invited him warmly. So his friends led him in, and as they did, he was pulling the ribbons off his own head, intending to crown Agathon. He held them in front of his face, which meant he didn't see Socrates — who had moved aside to make room. Alcibiades dropped into the empty spot between Agathon and Socrates, threw his arms around Agathon, and crowned him.

"Take off his sandals," said Agathon, "and let him be the third on our couch."

"Absolutely!" said Alcibiades. "But who's this third person sharing the couch with — "

He turned around and jumped as he caught sight of Socrates.

"By Heracles!" he cried. "What's this? Socrates! Lying in ambush for me again! This is so typical of you — popping up in the last place I'd expect. So what's your excuse this time? Why are you lying here? I notice you've arranged to be next to the most beautiful person in the room — not next to some comedian like Aristophanes."

Socrates turned to Agathon and said: "I need you to protect me, Agathon. My relationship with this man has become a serious problem. Ever since I became his admirer, I haven't been allowed to even look at anyone else who's attractive, let alone talk to them. He flies into jealous rages, calls me names, and can barely keep his hands off me. I'm genuinely worried he might do something right now. So please — either reconcile us, or if he gets violent, defend me. I am physically afraid of his passion."

"There can never be any reconciliation between you and me," said Alcibiades. "But I'll save your punishment for another time. Right now — Agathon, give me back some of those ribbons. I need to crown this man's extraordinary head too. I don't want him complaining that I crowned you and forgot about him — the man who defeats everyone in conversation, not just once, like you did the other day, but every single time."

And with that, he took some of the ribbons, crowned Socrates, and settled back on the couch.

Then he said: "You all seem dangerously sober, gentlemen. That won't do. The deal was I could join you if we drank. So I'm appointing myself master of ceremonies until you're all properly drunk. Agathon! Get me a big goblet. Actually — " He spotted the wine cooler. "Hand me that." It held over two quarts. He filled it, drained the whole thing, then had the servant fill it again for Socrates. "Watch closely, everyone," said Alcibiades. "This little trick of mine won't work on Socrates. He can drink any amount and it makes absolutely no difference." Socrates drank the cup the servant had poured for him.

Eryximachus spoke up: "What are we doing here, Alcibiades? Are we just going to guzzle wine like a bunch of thirsty sailors? No conversation? No songs?"

Alcibiades replied: "Greetings, worthy son of a most worthy and wise father!"

"Same to you," said Eryximachus. "But what should we do?"

"Whatever you say," said Alcibiades. "'The wise physician skilled our wounds to heal' — you prescribe, and we'll obey. What do you want?"

"Well," said Eryximachus, "before you showed up, we agreed that each of us in turn would give the best speech he could in praise of Love, going left to right around the room. Everyone else has spoken. Since you haven't spoken but have certainly drunk your share, it's only fair you take your turn — and then assign whatever task you like to Socrates, and he'll do the same with the person on his right, and so on."

"That sounds good, Eryximachus," said Alcibiades. "But it's hardly fair to compare a drunk man's speech with sober ones. And by the way, my sweet friend — did you actually believe what Socrates said just now? Because I can assure you it's the exact opposite. If I praise anyone but him in his presence — god or mortal — he'll practically attack me."

"Have some shame," said Socrates.

"Quiet, you," said Alcibiades. "By Poseidon, I will not praise another soul when you're in the room."

"Fine then," said Eryximachus. "If you want to, praise Socrates."

"What do you think, Eryximachus?" said Alcibiades. "Should I go after him? Should I take my revenge right here in front of everyone?"

"Wait — what are you planning?" said Socrates. "Are you going to make fun of me? Is that what your 'praise' is going to be?"

"I'm going to tell the truth. You'll allow that, won't you?"

"The truth? I don't just allow it — I insist on it."

"Then I'll start right now," said Alcibiades. "And here's the deal: if I say anything that isn't true, you can interrupt me and call me a liar. Though I fully intend to speak the truth. But don't be surprised if things come out a bit jumbled — it's not easy for a man in my condition to give a smooth, organized account of all the ways you're extraordinary.

"Now then, gentlemen — I'm going to praise Socrates through a comparison that may look like a joke to him, but I swear it's for the sake of truth, not comedy. I say he is exactly like those statues of Silenus you see in sculptor's shops — the ones that are carved holding flutes and pipes, and when you crack them open down the middle, there are tiny figures of gods hidden inside. I'd also say he looks like the satyr Marsyas. You won't deny that your face resembles a satyr's, Socrates — and the resemblance goes deeper than the face. You're a bully, for one thing, as I can prove with witnesses if you won't admit it. And aren't you a kind of flute-player? You absolutely are — and a far more astonishing one than Marsyas. He used actual instruments to charm people's souls with the power of his music, and the musicians who still play his melodies do the same — because the tunes attributed to Olympus were really Marsyas's, and whether performed by a master musician or a mediocre flute-girl, his melodies alone have the power to possess the soul and reveal who is ready for the gods and their mysteries, because the music itself is divine. The only difference between you and Marsyas is that you produce the same effect with words alone, no instrument needed. When we hear any other speaker, even a brilliant one, nobody really cares. But the merest fragments of your words, Socrates — even secondhand, even poorly repeated — amaze and possess every man, woman, and child who hears them.

"If I weren't afraid you'd all think I'm hopelessly drunk, I'd swear an oath to the effect your words have had — and still have — on me. When I hear him speak, my heart pounds harder than any ecstatic worshipper's. Tears stream down my face. And I've seen the same thing happen to many other people. I've heard Pericles and other great orators — they spoke well, I thought — but none of them ever affected me like this. My soul wasn't stirred. I didn't feel angry about the slavishness of my own life. But this Marsyas here has often brought me to a point where I've felt I could hardly bear to go on living the way I do — and Socrates, you won't deny this. Even now, I know that if I let myself listen to him, I couldn't resist. He'd have me sitting at his feet until I'm old. Because he makes me admit something I don't want to admit: that I'm neglecting my own soul while running around playing politics. So I force myself to stop my ears and tear myself away from him, like fleeing from the Sirens, or I'd never leave his side. He's the only person in the world who's ever made me feel ashamed. You probably think that's not in my nature — and you'd be right to think so. But he does it. Because I know I can't argue with what he tells me I should do, yet the moment I leave his presence, the roar of the crowd sweeps me away. So I run from him. And when I see him again, I'm ashamed of everything I confessed before. Many times I've wished he were dead. But I know that if he died, I'd be far more miserable than relieved. I'm completely at a loss about what to do with this man.

"That's what his music — this satyr's flute-playing — has done to me and to many others. But let me show you just how perfect the comparison is, and how extraordinary his power really is. Because let me tell you: none of you truly know him. But I will reveal him to you, now that I've started.

"You see how Socrates is always chasing after beautiful people? He's always hanging around them, always dazzled by them. And then again — he knows nothing, understands nothing. That's the front he puts on. Isn't that pure Silenus? Absolutely. That's the carved exterior. But crack him open, my fellow drinkers, and the self-control inside is beyond anything you can imagine. It doesn't matter to him in the slightest whether someone is beautiful, or rich, or famous, or possesses any of the honors the crowd values so highly. He considers all of it worthless. He considers us worthless. His whole life is spent in a kind of ironic play-acting, teasing and toying with people.

"But when I cracked him open — when I caught a glimpse of his true inner purpose — I saw golden images inside him, images of such breathtaking beauty that I was ready to do anything Socrates asked. Now, I assumed he was genuinely attracted to my looks, and I thought this was a wonderful stroke of luck — that by being generous with my beauty, I could get him to share everything he knew. Because I had a very high opinion of my own attractiveness.

"So one day, I dismissed my attendant — which I'd never done before — and went to see Socrates alone. Now I'm going to tell you the whole truth, so listen carefully. And Socrates, if I say anything false, call me out.

"So there we were, just the two of us, and I thought: This is it. Now he'll talk to me the way lovers talk when they're finally alone. I was thrilled.

"Nothing happened. He talked the way he always talks, spent the day with me, and went home.

"Next, I challenged him to work out at the wrestling ground. We exercised together, grappled several times when nobody else was around. I thought I might get somewhere that way.

"Not a chance.

"Since I'd gotten absolutely nowhere, I decided I had to go on the offensive. I'd started this pursuit and I wasn't going to quit until I knew where I stood. So I invited him to dinner — playing the role of the lover pursuing his beloved. He wasn't easy to convince, but he finally came. The first time, he tried to leave right after we ate, and I was too embarrassed to stop him. The second time, I kept the conversation going late into the night, and when he said he should go, I told him it was far too late and he'd better stay. So he lay down on the couch next to mine — the same one he'd eaten on — and there was nobody in the room but the two of us.

"Up to this point, everything I've told you is the sort of thing anyone could hear. But what comes next — well, I probably wouldn't tell you if I were sober. But as the proverb says, 'there's truth in wine' — with or without the children present — so I have to speak. Besides, I'd be wrong to hide Socrates' extraordinary behavior when I'm supposed to be praising him. And I've been bitten by a snake, as they say — and only fellow sufferers can understand the kind of agony that makes a person say and do anything. Because I've been bitten by something worse than any viper: philosophy. It's stung me in the heart — or the soul — or wherever it is, and it makes a young man say and do the wildest things. And I can see around me — Phaedrus, Agathon, Eryximachus, Pausanias, Aristodemus, Aristophanes — and Socrates himself, of course — all of you have felt the same madness and frenzy in your love of wisdom. So you'll all understand and forgive what I did then and what I'm saying now. But the servants and anyone else who's uninitiated — let them shut their ears tight.

"When the lamp was out and the servants had left, I decided there was no point in being coy. I nudged him and said: 'Socrates, are you asleep?'

"'No,' he said.

"'Do you know what I've been thinking?'

"'What?' he said.

"'I think,' I said, 'that of all the people who've ever been interested in me, you're the only one truly worthy of me — and you seem too modest to say so. Here's how I see it: I'd be a fool to refuse you this or any other favor. So I'm offering you everything I have — myself, my friends' resources, whatever — in the hope that you'll help me become the best person I can be. I believe you can help me more than anyone alive. And honestly, I'd be far more ashamed of what wise people would think if I refused someone like you, than of what the foolish majority would think if I said yes.'

"He listened to all of this and then replied in that maddening ironic way of his: 'Alcibiades, my dear friend, it sounds like you're not as foolish as you look — if what you say is true, and there really is some power in me to make you a better person. You must be seeing some extraordinary beauty in me — something infinitely beyond your own good looks. And if you're proposing to trade your beauty for mine — to exchange what's beautiful in appearance for what's truly beautiful — well, you'd be getting far the better deal. You'd be getting real gold in exchange for a gold-painted imitation. But look more carefully, my sweet friend, and make sure you're not wrong about me. The mind's eye begins to sharpen only when the body's eyes start to fail, and you've got a long way to go before that happens.'

"I said: 'I've told you exactly where I stand, and I mean every word. Now it's your turn to decide what's best for both of us.'

"'That's reasonable,' he said. 'We'll think about it another time and do whatever seems right — about this and everything else.'

"Now — after this exchange, I figured my words had hit their mark, that I'd wounded him. So without waiting for more, I got up, threw my cloak over him, crawled under his threadbare old coat — it was winter — and lay there all night long with this extraordinary creature in my arms.

"This, Socrates, you won't deny.

"And after all that — he was so completely superior to my advances, so contemptuous, so dismissive of my beauty — my beauty, which I'd thought was actually worth something — listen to this, all of you, you who sit in judgment on the towering virtue of Socrates — nothing happened. When I woke up the next morning, I might as well have been sleeping next to my father or my older brother. That's it.

"Now imagine how I felt after that rejection — humiliated by his indifference, and yet in absolute awe of his character, his self-control, his strength of will. I'd never imagined I could meet someone with that kind of wisdom and that kind of endurance in the same body. I couldn't be angry with him — how could I give up his company? But I couldn't seduce him either. I knew perfectly well that he was more invulnerable to bribery than Ajax was to steel, and the one strategy I'd thought might work — my personal attractiveness — had failed completely. I was at a total loss. No one has ever been more thoroughly enslaved by another person than I was by him.

"All of this happened before our military campaign together at Potidaea. We messed together there, and I got to witness his incredible ability to endure hardship. When our supply lines were cut and we had to go without food — something that happens a lot in wartime — nobody could touch him. He was in a league of his own. And yet when supplies were plentiful and there was a feast, he was the only one who actually knew how to enjoy it. He didn't seek out drink, but when pressured to drink, he could outdrink every single one of us — and, incredibly, no human being has ever seen Socrates drunk. You may get a demonstration of that before the night is over.

"His ability to handle cold was just as remarkable. The winters up there are brutal, genuinely terrible. Everyone else either stayed indoors or went out bundled in layers upon layers of clothing, with their feet wrapped in fleece and felt. Socrates marched through it in his usual cloak, barefoot on the ice, and he moved better than the soldiers who had boots. They shot him dirty looks because they felt he was showing them up.

"I've told you one story; now here's another worth hearing —

"'the deeds and sufferings of the enduring man' —

"while he was on that campaign. One morning, he started puzzling over some problem and couldn't solve it. He wouldn't give up. He just stood there thinking, from early dawn straight through to noon. People started to notice. Word spread through the camp: 'Socrates has been standing in the same spot, lost in thought, since sunrise.' Finally, that evening after dinner, some Ionians — out of sheer curiosity (this was summer, not winter) — brought their bedrolls outside to sleep in the open air so they could watch and see if he'd stand there all night.

"He did. He stood there until dawn. When the sun came up, he said a prayer to it and walked away.

"And if you want to hear about his courage in battle — and you should — let me tell you: he saved my life. In the engagement where I won the prize for valor, I was wounded, and Socrates refused to leave me. He rescued both me and my weapons. He deserved the prize himself, and the generals wanted to give it to me partly because of my social rank. I told them to give it to him instead — and Socrates, you won't dispute this — but he was more insistent than the generals themselves that I should have the honor, not him.

"There was another time his behavior was remarkable — during the retreat after the battle of Delium, where he served as a foot soldier. I was on horseback, so I was in less danger. He and Laches were falling back, because the army was in full flight, and I came across them and shouted that they shouldn't lose heart, that I'd stay with them. And there you could see him — Aristophanes, exactly as you've described him — stalking along like a stork, eyes rolling, calmly surveying friends and enemies alike, making it very clear to anyone, even from a distance, that whoever tried to attack this man was going to get a serious fight. That's how he and his companion got out safely. Because in war, people like that are left alone — it's the ones running in blind panic who get cut down.

"I could praise Socrates for many more things, and each would be extraordinary. Some of his qualities might be found in other people. But his absolute uniqueness — his total unlikeness to any human being who ever lived or ever will live — that is truly astonishing. You might compare Brasidas or others to Achilles. You might compare Pericles to Nestor or Antenor. And you could find similar comparisons for other famous men. But for this strange creature, you'll never find a comparison — not even a remote one — among mortals past or present. The closest you can come is the comparison I've already made: not to any human, but to Silenus and the satyrs. And that comparison applies not just to the man but to his words. I forgot to mention this at the start, but his words are just like those Silenus statues that open up. If you hear Socrates talk, his words seem completely ridiculous at first. He wraps them in language like the rough hide of a satyr — he talks about donkeys, blacksmiths, cobblers, and tanners. He says the same things in the same words over and over, so anyone ignorant or inexperienced would laugh at him. But crack open those words and look at what's inside, and you'll find they're the only words that truly make sense. They're the most divine words, overflowing with images of virtue, reaching to everything that matters — everything a person needs to understand if they want to become truly good.

"That, my friends, is my praise of Socrates. I've mixed in my complaints about the way he's treated me. And I'm not the only one — he's done the same thing to Charmides, and Euthydemus, and plenty of others. He starts out acting like their lover, then somehow turns it around until they're the ones chasing him. So let me warn you, Agathon: don't be fooled by this man. Learn from my experience, and don't make the mistake of finding out the hard way, as the proverb says — 'like a fool who has to learn by getting hurt.'"

When Alcibiades finished, everyone laughed at his candor, since he seemed to be still in love with Socrates.

"You're more sober than you let on, Alcibiades," said Socrates. "Otherwise you wouldn't have been so clever about hiding the real point of your speech behind all this elaborate satyr-praise. You slipped it in at the end, as if it were an afterthought — as if the whole thing weren't designed to drive a wedge between me and Agathon. You want me to love only you, and you want Agathon to love only you. But the plot of your little satyr-play has been detected. Agathon, don't let him get away with it — don't let him set us against each other."

"I think you're right," said Agathon. "I'll bet that's why he positioned himself between us — to keep us apart. But it won't work. I'll come lie on the couch next to you."

"Yes, yes," said Socrates. "Come here, lie below me."

"Oh, this is ridiculous!" said Alcibiades. "This man gets the better of me every time. All right then — at least let Agathon lie between us."

"Can't be done," said Socrates. "You've just praised me, and now it's my turn to praise the person on my right — that's how we've been going. If Agathon sits between us, he'd have to praise me again instead of me praising him. No — let it go, and don't be jealous, because I very much want to sing Agathon's praises."

"Ha!" cried Agathon. "I'm moving right now — I want to be praised by Socrates."

"You see?" said Alcibiades. "The usual story. Wherever Socrates is, no one else gets a chance with the beautiful people. And look how smoothly he's manufactured a reason to pull Agathon next to him."

Agathon got up to take his place beside Socrates — but just then a whole mob of partygoers came bursting in through the door (someone going out had left it open) and made themselves at home. The orderly evening fell apart completely. Everyone was forced to drink enormous amounts of wine. Aristodemus said that Eryximachus, Phaedrus, and several others left. He himself fell asleep — the nights were long — and got a good rest.

He woke near dawn to the sound of a rooster crowing. Most of the others were either asleep or gone. Only Socrates, Aristophanes, and Agathon were still awake, sharing a large cup that they passed around. Socrates was making an argument to them. Aristodemus was only half awake and missed the beginning, but the main point, as he remembered it, was this: Socrates was forcing the other two to admit that the same person who truly understands tragedy must also understand comedy — that the genius of comedy and the genius of tragedy are one and the same. They were giving in to this argument more out of drowsiness than conviction, barely able to follow him. Aristophanes nodded off first. Then, as the sky began to lighten, Agathon fell asleep too.

Socrates, having put them both to sleep, stood up and left. Aristodemus followed, as he always did. Socrates went to the Lyceum, took a bath, and spent the rest of the day the way he always spent his days. That evening, he went home to bed.

Phaedrus

On Love and Rhetoric

Persons of the dialogue: Socrates Phaedrus

Scene: Under a plane tree, by the banks of the river Ilissus.

Socrates Phaedrus! Where are you coming from, and where are you headed?

Phaedrus I'm coming from Lysias -- Cephalus' son -- and I'm going for a walk outside the city wall. I was sitting with him all morning, and our friend Acumenus tells me it's much healthier to walk in the open air than to stay cooped up indoors.

Socrates He's right about that. So Lysias was in town?

Phaedrus Yes, staying with Epicrates, at Morychus' house near the temple of Olympian Zeus.

Socrates And what did the two of you get up to? I can't be wrong in guessing that Lysias treated you to a feast of words.

Phaedrus You'll hear all about it, if you've got the time to walk with me.

Socrates Time? I'd consider your conversation with Lysias something of "higher import," as Pindar would say, "than any business." Let's go.

Phaedrus So you're coming?

Socrates If you're going to tell me about it, absolutely.

Phaedrus Well, you'll appreciate this, Socrates -- it's right up your alley. Love was the topic. But love with a twist. Lysias has written a speech about a beautiful young man who was being courted -- but not by a lover. That's the whole clever conceit: he argued that a boy should give his favors to the non-lover rather than the lover.

Socrates How noble of him! I only wish he'd argued that you should prefer the poor man over the rich, or the old man over the young. Now that would be useful to people like me, and to plenty of others. That would be a genuine public service. But as it stands, I'm so eager to hear this speech that even if you walked all the way to Megara and back -- the full Herodicus workout -- without stopping, I'd keep pace with you the whole way.

Phaedrus Oh come on, my dear Socrates. How can you expect my unpracticed memory to do justice to an elaborate composition that the finest speechwriter of our time spent ages crafting? I couldn't possibly. I'd give anything to be able to.

Socrates Phaedrus, I know you about as well as I know myself. And I'm quite sure that when you heard Lysias' speech, you didn't hear it just once. You made him read it again and again. And Lysias was only too happy to oblige. But even that wasn't enough for you. Eventually you grabbed the actual manuscript and pored over the parts you liked best -- that's what you did all morning. Then, when you finally got tired of sitting, you went out for a walk. But you hadn't just been reading. By the dog, I believe you'd memorized the entire speech -- unless it was impossibly long -- and you went outside the walls to practice reciting it. Then along came a fellow who shares your obsession with speeches -- you saw him and your heart leapt. "A partner for my revelry!" you thought. So you invited him to walk with you. But when this speech-lover begged you to recite it, you played coy. "Oh, I couldn't possibly," you said -- as if you weren't dying to perform. Because the truth is, even if nobody asked, you'd have grabbed some poor bystander and forced him to listen whether he wanted to or not. So, Phaedrus, just do now what you're going to end up doing anyway.

Phaedrus All right. I can see I won't get out of this until I speak one way or another. So I might as well do my best.

Socrates A very sensible observation.

Phaedrus Here's the plan, then. I'll admit, Socrates, I didn't memorize every single word. But I have a good general sense of the argument, and I can walk you through the main points where the lover comes off worse than the non-lover. Let me start from the beginning.

Socrates Sure, sure. But first -- show me what you've got in your left hand, under that cloak. Because I have a strong suspicion that roll you're hiding is the actual speech. And much as I love you, I'm not about to let you practice your memory exercises at my expense when you've got Lysias himself right there.

Phaedrus Fine! You've caught me -- no point pretending I was going to recite from memory. But if I'm going to read it, where should we sit?

Socrates Let's turn off here and follow the Ilissus. We'll find a quiet spot and sit down.

Phaedrus I'm lucky I'm barefoot today -- and you never wear shoes anyway. We can wade right along through the stream and cool our feet. It's the easiest way, and in this heat, at the height of summer, it'll feel wonderful.

Socrates Lead on. Find us a good spot to sit.

Phaedrus Do you see that tall plane tree in the distance?

Socrates Yes.

Phaedrus There's shade there, and a gentle breeze, and grass where we can sit or stretch out.

Socrates Let's go.

Phaedrus Tell me, Socrates -- isn't this somewhere near the place where Boreas is said to have carried off Orithyia from the banks of the Ilissus?

Socrates So the story goes.

Phaedrus Could this be the very spot? The stream is so clear and lovely here. I can picture girls playing beside it.

Socrates Actually, I think it's about a quarter mile downstream, where you cross to the temple of Artemis. There's some kind of altar to Boreas there, if I remember right.

Phaedrus I've never noticed it. But tell me, Socrates -- do you actually believe that story?

Socrates Well, the experts have their doubts, and I'd be in good company if I doubted too. I could give you a perfectly rational explanation: Orithyia was playing with her friend Pharmacia when a gust of north wind blew her off the neighboring cliffs, and since that's how she died, people said "Boreas carried her away." There's a dispute about the exact location, though -- another version says it happened at the Areopagus, not here.

But look -- I'll grant you these rationalizing explanations are very clever. But I don't envy the person who has to produce them. Once you start, there's no end to it. You'll have to explain away the centaurs, then the Chimera, then a flood of Gorgons and Pegasuses and every other impossible creature you've ever heard of. If you're the sort of skeptic who insists on reducing each one to something "probable," you'll need a lot of free time on your hands.

I don't have that kind of leisure. And here's why: I still can't follow the inscription at Delphi -- "know yourself." It seems ridiculous to go investigating other things when I'm still a mystery to myself. Am I some kind of monster, more tangled and swollen with fury than Typhon? Or am I something gentler and simpler -- a creature who shares by nature in something divine and calm? But enough of that. Tell me, friend -- haven't we reached your plane tree?

Phaedrus Yes, this is the one.

Socrates By Hera, what a beautiful spot for resting! This towering, spreading plane tree -- and the chaste tree in full bloom, tall and fragrant. And the stream beneath our feet is deliciously cool. Judging by the small statues and figurines, this must be a place sacred to Achelous and the river nymphs. Feel that breeze -- how sweet it is! And that high, shrill chorus of cicadas fills the summer air. But the best part of all is the grass -- thick and soft, sloping gently upward like a pillow. Phaedrus, you've been a perfect guide.

Phaedrus You're the strangest man, Socrates. You really do seem like some tourist who needs a local to show him around. I don't think you ever go beyond the city gates. Do you even cross the border?

Socrates Guilty as charged, my friend. And I hope you'll forgive me when I tell you why. I'm a lover of learning, and the people who live in the city are my teachers -- not the trees and the countryside. Although I have to admit, you've found the perfect way to lure me out. Just dangle a book in front of me, the way you'd wave a branch in front of a hungry cow, and you can lead me anywhere -- around all of Attica, around the whole world if you like. But now that we're here, I'm going to lie down. You find whatever position works best for reading. And begin.

Phaedrus Listen:

"You know how things stand between us, and I believe I've explained how this arrangement would benefit us both. But I want to make my case: I shouldn't lose out just because I'm not in love with you. Because lovers always end up regretting the kindnesses they've shown, once their passion burns out. But the non-lover is free from compulsion. No morning-after regrets for him. He gives what he can, when he can, in whatever way best serves his own interests.

"Consider this too: lovers are always tallying up how their love has made them neglect their own affairs and sacrifice for others. Add in all the emotional turmoil they've suffered, and they figure they've already more than paid the beloved back. But the non-lover has nothing to regret. He hasn't neglected his responsibilities or fought with his family. He's got no suffering to add up, no excuses to make. Why shouldn't he freely give what will make the beloved happy?

"You might say the lover is more devoted, because his love is so intense that he's willing to say and do things that would disgust anyone else, all to please his beloved. Fine -- but that only proves he'll do the same for the next person he falls for, and throw you over for the new one.

"And really -- how can you trust someone with something this important when he's afflicted with a condition no sensible person would try to cure? The patient himself admits he's out of his mind. He knows his thinking is disordered, but he says he can't help himself. If he ever came to his senses, would he approve of the desires he had when he was out of them?

"Besides, there are far more non-lovers than lovers. If you choose from lovers, you're picking from a small pool. Choose from non-lovers, and you've got the whole world -- a much better chance of finding someone truly worthy.

"Worried about what people will think? The lover will almost certainly brag about his conquests -- he's always convinced everyone is as competitive as he is, and he wants the world to know his efforts paid off. He needs the audience. But the non-lover is his own master. He cares about real results, not public opinion.

"Then there's the matter of appearances. People notice a lover trailing after his beloved -- that's all he does. Whenever they're seen exchanging two words, everyone assumes it's a love affair. But when non-lovers meet? Nobody asks why. It's natural to talk to people, whether out of friendship or simple pleasure.

"And if you're worried about the fragility of friendship -- think about this. In most relationships, a falling-out hurts both sides equally. But in a love affair, you've given up the thing most precious to you. You stand to lose more. And you have even more reason to be afraid, because the lover's anxieties are endless. He's always imagining that everyone is plotting against him. That's why he cuts the beloved off from society -- he doesn't want you around wealthy people who might outshine him, or educated people who might be more interesting. He's terrified of anyone with any advantage over him. If he can talk you into dropping your friends, you're left with no one. And if you have the good sense to refuse, he picks a fight.

"Meanwhile the non-lover isn't jealous of your friends. He'd actually resent anyone who refused to associate with you, since he thinks your other connections reflect well on you. Companionship with others is more likely to bring love than resentment.

"Many lovers, too, have desired a young man's body before they knew his character or his circumstances. So when the passion fades, who knows if they'll even want to be friends? But with non-lovers who were already your friends, the friendship isn't diminished by any favors granted. The memory of those favors only becomes a down payment on good things to come.

"And here's another point: I'm more likely to make you better, while the lover will spoil you. Lovers praise everything you say and do -- partly because they're afraid to offend you, and partly because passion has wrecked their judgment. Love puts on quite a show: it makes disappointments feel agonizing, and it forces the successful lover to praise what shouldn't please anyone. The beloved deserves pity, not envy. But if you listen to me, I won't just think about present enjoyment -- I'll look out for your future good. I'm not enslaved by love. I'm my own master. I won't fly into a rage over small things. Even when the provocation is serious, I'll be slow to anger. I'll forgive unintentional offenses and try to prevent intentional ones. Those are the marks of a friendship that will last.

"Do you think only a lover can be a devoted friend? Think about it: if that were true, we'd place no value on sons, fathers, or mothers. We'd never have loyal friends at all, since our love for them comes not from passion but from other bonds. And another thing -- if we should shower our favors on whoever begs the hardest, then by that logic we should always give to the neediest, not the most deserving. We should invite beggars to dinner instead of friends, since they'll be the most grateful. But obviously we shouldn't give to those who beg the loudest -- we should give to those who can return the favor. Not to the lover, but to those who deserve love. Not to those who'll enjoy your youthful beauty, but to those who'll share their wealth with you in old age. Not to those who'll brag about their conquest, but to those who'll be discreet. Not to those who care about you for a moment, but to those who'll be your friends for life. Not to those who'll pick a quarrel the moment passion fades, but to those who'll prove their character long after your looks have gone. Remember what I've said. And consider this too: everyone tells the lover his way of life is wrong. But nobody has ever scolded a non-lover for acting against his own interests.

"Perhaps you'll ask whether I'm suggesting you should indulge every non-lover. Not at all -- the lover himself wouldn't advise you to accept every lover. Indiscriminate favors are less valued by any sensible person, and harder to hide from the world's judgment. Love should benefit both parties and harm neither.

"I believe I've said enough. But if you feel anything has been left out, just ask."

Well, Socrates? What do you think? Isn't the speech brilliant, especially the language?

Socrates More than brilliant -- I'm absolutely ravished. And I have you to thank for it, Phaedrus. I was watching you as you read, and you seemed to be in ecstasy. Since you clearly know more about these things than I do, I followed your lead. And like you, my divine friend, I was swept up in the frenzy.

Phaedrus So now you're making fun of me.

Socrates What makes you think I'm not being serious?

Phaedrus Stop it, Socrates. Tell me honestly -- I swear by Zeus, the god of friendship -- do you really think any Greek could say more on this subject, or say it better?

Socrates Hold on. Are you and I supposed to praise the content of the speech, or just the style -- the polish, the rhythm, the turns of phrase? As for the content, I'll happily defer to your judgment. I'm not qualified to evaluate it. I was only paying attention to the rhetorical technique. And on that score, I wasn't sure even Lysias himself could defend it. It seemed to me -- and correct me if I'm wrong -- that he repeated himself two or three times, either because he ran out of things to say or couldn't be bothered to find new ones. He also seemed to be showing off -- practically gloating about his ability to say the same thing in two or three different ways.

Phaedrus Nonsense, Socrates! What you're calling repetition was the best part of the speech. He covered every angle the subject allows, and I don't think anyone could have been more thorough.

Socrates There I can't agree with you. If the ancient sages -- men and women who spoke and wrote about these things -- heard me agreeing with you out of politeness, they'd rise up in judgment against me.

Phaedrus Who are you talking about? Where have you heard anything better?

Socrates I'm sure I must have. But I can't remember from whom at the moment. Maybe Sappho the beautiful, or Anacreon the wise. Or maybe some prose writer. All I know is that something is welling up inside me, and I feel like I could make a speech every bit as good as Lysias' -- and different from it. Now, I'm well aware that none of this comes from me. I know I'm no original thinker. So I must have been filled up through the ears, like a pitcher, from someone else's stream. But in my foolishness, I've completely forgotten who it was.

Phaedrus Magnificent! I don't care who you heard it from -- keep that a mystery if you like. Just do what you say you can: make a speech that's just as long, entirely original, and better. And I, like the nine Archons, will promise to set up a golden statue at Delphi -- of you and of me -- life-sized.

Socrates You sweet, golden donkey. You think I'm saying Lysias completely missed the mark and that I can produce a speech that leaves out all his arguments? Even the worst writer hits on something true. Who could argue this thesis without praising the non-lover's good sense and criticizing the lover's foolishness? Those are the basic building blocks of the subject. You have to include them, and there's no credit for it. The only skill is in the arrangement. But when you go beyond the obvious -- that's where real originality lives.

Phaedrus Fair enough. I'll grant you the starting premise -- that the lover is more disordered in his wits than the non-lover. If you can build from there and make a speech that's longer and better than Lysias', using different arguments, I'll have your golden statue made and set it right next to the colossal offerings of the Cypselids at Olympia.

Socrates You really are taking this seriously, aren't you? Just because I teased your beloved speechwriter a little? You honestly think I'm going to outdo the great Lysias in an improvised speech?

Phaedrus Now I've got you the way you had me. You're going to speak -- no getting out of it. Don't make us trade threats back and forth like actors in a farce, or force me to say what you said to me: "I know Socrates as well as I know myself, and he was dying to speak but just played hard to get." Face it: we're not leaving this spot until you deliver a speech. We're alone out here. And I'm younger and stronger than you, remember. So take the hint. Don't make me use force.

Socrates But Phaedrus, it would be absurd for an amateur like me to improvise a speech in competition with a master like Lysias.

Phaedrus You see how things stand. No more games. I happen to know the one magic word that will make you do it.

Socrates Then for the love of everything, don't say it.

Phaedrus Oh, but I will. And it'll be an oath. I swear -- but by what god? By this plane tree right here. I swear that unless you give me that speech, right here, right now, in front of this very tree -- I will never share another word of another speech with you. Not ever.

Socrates You villain! You've found the one way to bend a speech-lover to your will. I surrender.

Phaedrus Then why are you still stalling?

Socrates I'm done stalling. You've sworn the oath, and I can't afford to be cut off from my supply.

Phaedrus Then go ahead.

Socrates Shall I tell you what I'm going to do?

Phaedrus What?

Socrates I'm going to cover my face and race through this as fast as I can. Because if I look at you while I'm speaking, I'll be too embarrassed to go on.

Phaedrus Just talk. Do whatever else you want.

Socrates Come, O Muses -- whether you're called "melodious" because of the beauty of your song, or because the people of Melos are a musical race -- help me with the story my good friend here insists I tell, so that his favorite speaker may seem wiser to him than ever.

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful boy -- or really, a young man on the edge of manhood. He had plenty of admirers. And among them was one particularly cunning fellow who'd managed to convince the youth that he wasn't in love with him -- when in fact he was, deeply. One day, making his case, this man used exactly the argument we've been discussing: that the youth should accept the non-lover rather than the lover. And here is what he said:

"All good advice begins the same way: you have to understand what you're actually talking about, or your advice will be worthless. Most people assume they understand the nature of things when they don't. Because they skip the step of defining their terms at the outset, they inevitably end up contradicting themselves and each other. You and I shouldn't make that mistake. So since our question is whether the lover or the non-lover makes the better choice, let's start by agreeing on a definition of love -- what it is, and what it does. Then, keeping that definition clearly in view, we can ask whether love brings benefit or harm.

"Here's what everyone can see: love is a kind of desire. But we also know that non-lovers desire what's beautiful and good. So how do we distinguish the lover from everyone else? We need to recognize that in every person there are two driving forces that pull us in different directions. One is our inborn craving for pleasure. The other is a learned commitment to what's best. Sometimes these two are in harmony. Sometimes they're at war. When the commitment to what's best wins out, guided by reason, we call that self-control. When the craving for pleasure overpowers reason and drags us toward gratification -- that's called excess.

"Now, excess takes many forms, and each form gets its own name -- none of them flattering. When the desire for food conquers reason and all our other desires, we call it gluttony, and the person a glutton. When the desire for drink takes the throne, well, the name for that is obvious enough. And you can fill in the blanks for every other appetite.

"By now you can probably see where I'm going with this. But since it's always better to say something plainly than leave it unsaid: when the irrational desire for beauty -- especially the beauty of a human body -- overwhelms the soul's natural pull toward what's right, and when that desire, empowered by passion itself, conquers everything in its path and drags us forward -- that supreme desire, deriving its very name from the force that drives it, is called love."

Now, dear Phaedrus, let me pause and ask -- don't you think I'm starting to sound inspired?

Phaedrus You do seem to be in an unusually powerful flow, Socrates.

Socrates Then listen in silence. This place truly does feel sacred. So don't be surprised if, as I go on, I seem to be seized by divine frenzy. I'm already slipping into rapturous mode.

Phaedrus That's certainly true.

Socrates And it'll be your fault. But let me go on -- maybe the fit will pass. That's in the hands of the gods above. I'll keep talking to my imaginary young man. Listen:

So then, my friend, we've defined what love is. Now, keeping that definition firmly in mind, let's consider what benefit or harm the lover or the non-lover brings to the person who accepts him.

The man who is a slave to his passions and a prisoner of pleasure will naturally want to make his beloved as agreeable to himself as possible. And to a sick mind, anything that doesn't resist is agreeable -- but anything equal or superior is threatening. So the lover will never tolerate any superiority or even equality in his beloved. He's constantly working to make the other person less.

The ignorant is inferior to the wise. The coward to the brave. The tongue-tied to the eloquent. The slow-witted to the clever. All these deficiencies in the beloved -- and more -- are a delight to the lover when they occur naturally. And when they don't occur naturally, he works to create them. Because if his beloved were to improve, he'd lose his fleeting advantage.

This is why the lover is inevitably jealous. He'll cut his beloved off from any social connection that might make a real person of him, and above all from the one that would give him wisdom -- philosophy. The greatest harm a lover can inflict is exactly this: in his terror of being outgrown and looked down upon, he's driven to banish divine philosophy from his beloved's life. He'll arrange things so that the boy knows nothing, sees nothing, depends entirely on the lover for everything -- a source of delight to the lover, and a disaster for the boy himself. In everything relating to the mind, a lover makes the worst possible guardian.

Now let's look at the body. What kind of physical specimen will our master of pleasure -- whose ruling principle is desire, not goodness -- want to keep and cultivate? He'll choose a beloved who is soft rather than sturdy. Raised in the shade, never in the sun. A stranger to exercise and honest sweat. Someone who knows cosmetics, not health -- who has the pallor of paint rather than the color of a body that's been outdoors. The rest you can imagine, and I won't belabor it. Let me sum it up in one line and move on: in war, or in any real crisis, a body like that is a source of anxiety to friends and delight to enemies. Nobody would deny it.

Next -- property. How will the lover treat his beloved's possessions? It's obvious enough that the lover wants, above all, to strip the beloved of everything he values most: father, mother, family, friends -- anyone who might interfere with or criticize their "sweet companionship." He'll cast a jealous eye on money and property too, because wealth makes the beloved harder to catch and harder to control once caught. So the lover naturally resents his beloved's possessions and rejoices when he loses them. He'd prefer the boy to be unmarried, childless, homeless -- and the longer the better, because the longer the boy has nothing, the longer the lover gets to enjoy him.

There are certain kinds of creatures -- flatterers, for instance -- who are dangerous and harmful, yet nature has mixed in a kind of shallow charm. You might call a courtesan destructive and disapprove of her and her profession, but in the moment she can be very pleasant company. But the lover isn't just harmful -- he's also an extremely unpleasant companion. There's an old saying: "birds of a feather flock together." People of the same age, drawn to the same pleasures, become friends through similarity. But even that can become too much of a good thing. And constraint, everyone agrees, is always oppressive.

The lover is nothing like his beloved in this way. He forces himself on the younger man. He's old; his love is young. He won't leave the boy's side, day or night, if he can help it. Compulsion and the sting of desire drive him on, lured by the pleasure of seeing, hearing, touching, being constantly aware of the other. But what pleasure can the beloved possibly be getting from all this? Imagine the disgust of looking at a wrinkled old face, day after day, and the body to match -- which is unpleasant even to describe, let alone to be pressed up against. And then the suffocating jealousy and surveillance, the wildly misplaced praise and the equally off-base criticism -- unbearable when the man is sober, and when he's drunk, not only unbearable but broadcast to the world in all its sloppy, embarrassing detail.

And it doesn't end there. While the love lasts, the lover is a nuisance and a menace. But when the love dies? He becomes a faithless enemy. All those oaths and prayers and promises he used to barely persuade his beloved to tolerate his tedious company -- now the bill comes due. But the lover has a new master now. Instead of love and infatuation, wisdom and moderation rule his heart. He's a changed man. But the beloved hasn't noticed the change. He asks for what was promised. He reminds the lover of what was said, what was done. He thinks he's talking to the same person. But the lover, who doesn't have the courage to admit the truth and doesn't know how to honor the promises he made when he was in the grip of folly -- now that he's regained his senses, he doesn't want to do what he did before, or be what he was. So he runs. The coin has flipped -- what was pursuit becomes flight, and the beloved is left chasing after him with demands and curses, not realizing that he should never have accepted a deranged lover in the first place instead of a sensible non-lover. By choosing the lover, he handed himself over to someone faithless, irritable, jealous, and insufferable -- someone harmful to his property, harmful to his health, and most harmful of all to the cultivation of his mind, which is the most precious thing there is or ever will be in the eyes of gods and men.

Think about all this, beautiful youth, and understand: in the friendship of a lover, there is no real kindness. He has an appetite, and he wants to feed on you.

"As wolves love lambs, so lovers love their loves."

There, you see? Now I'm even speaking in verse. I'd better stop. Enough.

Phaedrus But I thought you were only halfway through! I was expecting a matching speech about all the advantages of accepting the non-lover. Why are you stopping?

Socrates Didn't you notice? I've already gone from wild enthusiasm to full-blown epic poetry, and I was only attacking the lover. If I start praising the non-lover, what's going to happen to me? Can't you see I've been seized by the nymphs -- the ones you deliberately exposed me to? Let me just say this: the non-lover has every advantage that the lover lacks. And leave it there. The tale can find its own ending. I'm going to cross the river and get home before something worse happens.

Phaedrus Not yet, Socrates! Not in this heat. Don't you see it's almost noon? The sun is standing right overhead. Let's stay and talk about what was said, and then we'll head back when it cools down.

Socrates Your love of speeches, Phaedrus, is superhuman. Truly extraordinary. I don't think anyone in your generation has produced, or forced others to produce, more speeches than you have. I'd make an exception for Simmias of Thebes, maybe. But everyone else? Not even close. And now I believe you've caused yet another one.

Phaedrus That's good news! But what do you mean?

Socrates I mean that just now, as I was about to cross the stream, my sign came to me -- the divine voice that sometimes speaks up to stop me from doing something. It never tells me what to do, only what not to do. And I heard it say that I've committed an act of impiety and must not leave until I've atoned for it.

You know, I'm something of a prophet -- not a very good one, but good enough for my own purposes, the way you might say a bad writer's work is good enough for him. And I'm beginning to see where I went wrong. The soul is prophetic, my friend. Even while I was speaking, something felt off. I was troubled, like Ibycus, who said, "I feared that I was buying honor from men at the price of sinning against the gods." Now I see my mistake.

Phaedrus What mistake?

Socrates That was a dreadful speech you brought here, Phaedrus. And you made me produce one just as bad.

Phaedrus What do you mean?

Socrates It was foolish. And in a certain sense -- impious. What could be worse than that?

Phaedrus Nothing, if it really was as bad as you say.

Socrates Well -- isn't Eros the son of Aphrodite? Isn't he a god?

Phaedrus So people say.

Socrates But that's not what either speech acknowledged. Not Lysias' speech, and not the one you charmed out of me. If Love is truly a god -- and he surely is -- then he can't be evil. Yet both speeches treated him as though he were. They were false. And there was something else about them -- a smug cleverness, a pretense of being something profound when they were really just hollow performances, hoping to impress the little people of this earth and win applause. I need to purify myself.

And here's my model. There's an ancient method of purification that Homer never figured out -- which is why he was blind -- but Stesichorus understood. When Stesichorus lost his eyes as punishment for slandering the beautiful Helen, he knew exactly why it had happened. And he composed his famous recantation, which began:

"That was a lie I told -- you never boarded the ships, you never went to Troy."

The moment he finished that poem, his sight came back.

Now I'm going to be wiser than either Homer or Stesichorus. I'm going to make my recantation for slandering Love before I'm punished -- not with my face covered in shame, as before, but with my head held high.

Phaedrus Nothing could make me happier than hearing you say that.

Socrates Think about it, Phaedrus. Think how utterly crude those two speeches were -- mine and the one you read from the book. If someone of genuine nobility, someone who loved or had ever loved another person of similar nature, were to hear us going on about lovers' petty jealousies, their vicious spite, their cruelty to the ones they claim to love -- he'd think we'd learned about love in some sailors' dive where nobody has any manners. He'd never accept our indictment as fair.

Phaedrus Probably not, Socrates.

Socrates And so, because I'm ashamed at the thought of such a person hearing me, and because I'm afraid of Love himself, I want to wash the salt water out of my ears with something fresh. And I'd advise Lysias not to waste any time: he should write a new speech arguing that, all else being equal, the lover deserves to be chosen over the non-lover.

Phaedrus Don't worry -- he will. Once you've given your speech praising the lover, I'll make absolutely sure Lysias writes a matching one.

Socrates I believe you. It's in your nature.

Phaedrus Then speak. Don't be afraid.

Socrates But where is the beautiful young man I was addressing? He should hear this too, in case he goes and accepts a non-lover before he knows what he's doing.

Phaedrus He's right here. Always at your service.

Socrates Then understand this, beautiful youth. That first speech was the word of Phaedrus, son of Pythocles, from the district of Myrrhina. But the speech I'm about to give is the recantation of Stesichorus, son of Euphemus, from the city of Himera. And it goes like this:

"That was a lie -- my claim that the beloved should accept the non-lover instead of the lover, on the grounds that the one is sane and the other mad. If madness were simply an evil, that argument would hold. But in fact, some of the greatest blessings we receive come to us through madness -- madness that is a gift from the gods.

"Consider: the prophetess at Delphi and the priestesses at Dodona have given Greece some of its greatest benefits, both public and private -- but only when they were out of their minds. When they were in their 'right minds,' they accomplished little or nothing. I could mention the Sibyl and other inspired seers who've given countless people warnings that saved them from disaster, but that would be telling you what everyone already knows.

"Here's something worth noting, though: the ancients who invented our words never thought madness was something shameful. The proof is in the language itself. The noblest of all arts -- the one that foretells the future -- they called prophetic (mantike). And that word is virtually identical to 'madness' (manike). The only difference is a single letter -- a 't' -- which is really just a later, tasteless addition. The ancients clearly considered inspired madness a noble thing, because they named their highest art after it. By contrast, when people try to predict the future rationally -- through reading bird-signs and other methods -- using mere human intelligence and information to form human judgment, the ancients gave that a decidedly less exalted name. The language itself testifies: in proportion as prophecy is more perfect and more honored than augury, inspired madness is superior to sober calculation. One comes from the gods; the other is merely human.

"Then there's a second kind of divine madness. When ancient curses and hereditary guilt have brought plagues upon certain families, madness has arrived with sacred prayers and rites, and through inspired utterance has found a way of deliverance for those in need. Through purification and sacred rituals, the person possessed by this madness is made whole and set free from evil -- both present and future.

"The third kind of madness belongs to those possessed by the Muses. It seizes a delicate, untouched soul, awakens it, stirs it to lyrical frenzy, and through song and poetry adorns the countless deeds of ancient heroes for the instruction of future generations. But anyone who comes to the door of poetry without the Muses' madness, convinced that technical skill alone will make him a poet -- he and his sane, rational verses will be completely eclipsed. The uninspired man vanishes the moment he's put next to the one who is truly possessed.

"I could list many more noble achievements that spring from divine madness. So let no one frighten us by arguing that we should prefer the sober friend to the inspired one. Let him first prove that love is not sent by the gods as a blessing to both lover and beloved. If he can, we'll concede the point. But we, for our part, will prove the opposite: that the madness of love is the greatest blessing heaven can bestow. And this proof will convince the wise, even if the cynics refuse to believe it.

"But first, we need to understand the nature of the soul -- both divine and human -- by examining what it experiences and what it does. And our proof begins here:

"Every soul is immortal. Here's why: anything that is always in motion is immortal. But anything that moves something else while being moved by something else must eventually stop moving -- and when it stops moving, it stops living. Only the self-moving never ceases to move, because it never abandons itself. In fact, the self-moving is the source and origin of motion for everything else that moves. And an origin cannot be created from something else -- because if it were, it wouldn't be an origin. And since it was never created, it can never be destroyed. If the origin were destroyed, nothing could ever start it up again, and nothing could ever come into being from it. Everything must have an origin. Therefore the self-moving is the origin of motion, and it can neither be destroyed nor come into being -- or else the entire universe would grind to a halt and never move again.

"Now, if we've proven that the self-moving is immortal, we shouldn't hesitate to say that self-motion is the very essence of the soul. Because any body that receives its motion from outside itself is without soul. But any body that is moved from within has a soul -- that is the very nature of soul. And if this is true -- if the soul is what moves itself -- then it follows that the soul must be uncreated and immortal.

"So much for the soul's immortality.

"Now for its nature. To describe what the soul truly is in its deepest reality would require a long and truly superhuman discourse. But to describe it through an image, through a figure of speech -- that is within our human power. So let's try it this way.

"Picture the soul as a charioteer driving a team of two winged horses.

"Now, with the gods, both the horses and the charioteer are noble, of excellent breeding. But with the rest of us -- with humans -- the team is mixed. One horse is beautiful and good, of noble stock. The other is the opposite in every way. And this is what makes our driving so terribly, agonizingly difficult.

"Let me explain the difference between mortal and immortal souls. The soul, in its fullness, has charge of everything that lacks a soul, and it travels through the entire heavens, taking different forms at different times. When the soul is perfect and fully winged, it soars upward and governs the whole cosmos. But when it loses its wings, it falls, tumbling down until it catches hold of something solid -- and there it settles, taking on an earthly body. This body seems to move on its own, but it's really the soul's power that moves it. This combination -- soul joined to body -- is what we call a living, mortal creature. No truly immortal being could be put together this way, though we imagine it without having seen or understood the nature of God. But let that be as God wills.

"Now let us ask: why does the soul lose its wings?

"The wing is the part of the body most akin to the divine. It naturally soars upward, carrying what is heavy toward the heights where the gods dwell. The divine -- beauty, wisdom, goodness, and everything like them -- nourishes the soul's wings and makes them grow. But ugliness, evil, and everything opposed to the divine causes the wings to waste away and die.

"And now -- the great procession.

"Zeus, the mighty lord and ruler of heaven, drives his winged chariot at the head of the host, ordering all things, caring for all things. Behind him comes the army of gods and spirits, marshaled in eleven bands. Hestia alone stays behind in the house of heaven. But the rest -- all the gods who belong to the company of the twelve -- march in their appointed places. And what a sight awaits them in the inner heaven! Many blessed visions, many paths crisscrossing back and forth, along which the blessed gods travel, each one going about his own divine work. Anyone who is willing and able may follow, because there is no jealousy in the choir of heaven.

"But when the gods go to their feast and celebration, they drive upward along the steep road to the top of the vault of heaven. The gods' chariots, perfectly balanced and obedient to the reins, glide smoothly. But the other chariots struggle. The bad horse pulls down hard, dragging the charioteer toward the earth whenever the horse hasn't been properly trained. And this is the moment of supreme agony and conflict for the soul.

"The immortal souls, when they reach the summit, pass through to the outside and stand on the outer rim of heaven. The great revolution of the heavens carries them around, and they gaze outward at what lies beyond.

"But the heaven that is above the heavens -- what earthly poet ever has or ever will sing worthily of that? Yet I must try. I must dare to speak the truth, since truth is my subject.

"In that place beyond the sky dwells true Reality itself -- the being that truly is, which only the mind can see, the pilot of the soul. It has no color, no shape, no substance that any hand could touch. It is visible only to the intellect. And the divine intelligence, nourished on pure thought and knowledge, rejoices when it finally beholds Reality. It gazes on truth, and is filled, and made glad. In the great revolution, it contemplates Justice itself -- not justice as we know it in the world of change and becoming, but absolute Justice in absolute Being. It beholds Knowledge -- not the knowledge that shifts with its objects, not the kind we call knowledge down here, but Knowledge itself dwelling in Reality itself. And beholding all the other true existences in the same way, feasting on them, the soul descends back into the interior of the heavens and returns home. There the charioteer stables the horses and feeds them ambrosia and gives them nectar to drink.

"Such is the life of the gods. But among other souls, the one that follows God most closely and has grown most like him manages to lift the charioteer's head into the outer world and is carried around in the revolution -- but troubled by the horses, barely glimpsing true Being. Another soul rises and falls, seeing some things and missing others because the horses are so unruly. The rest of the souls are all straining upward too, all longing to follow -- but they aren't strong enough. They're pulled down below the surface, trampling and crashing into one another, each fighting to get ahead. The confusion is enormous. There is straining and sweating and desperate effort. And many souls are crippled. Many have their wings broken through the bad driving of their charioteers. And all of them, after this exhausting, fruitless struggle, depart without having attained the vision of true Being. They go away and feed on mere opinion.

"Why is every soul so desperately eager to see the Plain of Truth? Because the pasture that grows there is the only food that nourishes the highest part of the soul. And the wings on which the soul soars are fed by this food and nothing else. And there is a law of destiny: any soul that catches even a glimpse of truth while traveling in the company of a god is kept safe from harm until the next great cycle. And if it succeeds every time, it is kept safe forever. But when a soul fails to follow, when it fails to see the truth, when through some misfortune it sinks under the double weight of forgetfulness and vice, and its wings fall away and it drops to the earth -- then the law decrees that this soul shall be born first as a human being, never as an animal. And the soul that has seen the most truth shall be born as a philosopher, a lover of beauty, or someone devoted to the Muses and to love. The soul ranked second shall become a righteous king or warrior leader. Third: a statesman, an economist, a businessman. Fourth: an athlete or a physician. Fifth: a prophet or a priest of the mysteries. Sixth: a poet or some other kind of imitative artist. Seventh: a craftsman or a farmer. Eighth: a sophist or a demagogue. Ninth: a tyrant.

"In every case, the one who lives justly receives a better lot, and the one who lives unjustly receives a worse one.

"Ten thousand years must pass before any soul can return to the place it came from. Wings cannot regrow in less time than that. The sole exception is the soul of a genuine philosopher, or a lover whose love is not devoid of philosophy. These souls can regain their wings after only three thousand years -- three cycles of a thousand years each -- if they choose the philosophical life three times in succession. After that, they receive their wings and depart. But the other souls, when they've completed their first life, face judgment. Some are sent to places of correction beneath the earth to be punished. Others are lifted by justice to some region of heaven, where they live in a manner worthy of the life they led on earth. At the end of a thousand years, both the good souls and the bad ones come to draw lots and choose their next life, and they may choose any life they wish. A human soul may pass into the life of an animal, or an animal soul may return to human form -- but only if it once beheld truth. Because to be born human requires the ability to reason in general terms -- to move from the scattered data of the senses to a unified concept grasped by the mind. And this ability is actually recollection -- the memory of the things our souls once saw when they traveled with God, when they looked past what we now call 'reality' and gazed upward at what is truly Real.

"This is exactly why the philosopher's mind alone has wings. His memory always clings, as best it can, to those things in which God dwells, and by dwelling in which God is what he is. The person who uses these memories rightly is continually initiated into perfect mysteries, and he alone becomes truly complete. But because he has left behind earthly concerns and is absorbed in the divine, ordinary people think he's crazy. They scold and criticize him. They don't realize he's inspired.

"And this brings us to the fourth and final kind of divine madness -- the one we've been building toward. When a person sees beauty here on earth and is transported by the memory of true Beauty, he wants to fly upward, but he can't. He stretches toward the sky like a bird, oblivious to everything below, and people call him mad. And I have shown that this is the noblest and most exalted of all forms of inspiration, and that the one who possesses it -- the one who loves beauty -- is called a lover.

"Because, as I've said, every human soul has by nature beheld true Being. That was the condition of its birth into human form. But not every soul remembers easily. Some saw the truth only briefly. Others, once they fell to earth, were corrupted by bad company and had the memory of sacred things driven out of them. Only a few retain a clear enough recollection. And when these few encounter some image of that other world here below, they're struck with wonder. But they don't fully understand what's happening to them, because their perception isn't clear enough.

"Here's the problem: there is no radiance in the earthly copies of Justice, or of Self-Control, or of any of the other things the soul holds precious. We see them here only through a dim and murky glass, and the few who do perceive the originals behind the copies can only do so with great difficulty. But Beauty -- Beauty is different. We saw her there, shining among the celestial forms in dazzling splendor. And when we came to earth, we found that she alone still shines -- still radiates -- through the clearest channel of our senses.

"Sight is the sharpest of all our bodily senses. It cannot see Wisdom -- if Wisdom had a visible form, the love it would inspire would be overwhelming. The same goes for every other Form worth loving. But Beauty alone has this privilege: she is the most radiant, and she is the most visible.

"Now, the person who is not freshly initiated, or who has been corrupted, doesn't easily rise from earthly beauty to the vision of true Beauty. He looks at beauty's earthly namesake and, instead of being awestruck, he gives himself over to pleasure. Like an animal, he tries to mount and breed. He chases physical gratification shamelessly, without reverence or fear. But the person whose initiation is recent, who was a spectator of many glories in the world above -- when he sees a godlike face or a body that is a true expression of Beauty -- at first a shudder runs through him, and a trace of the old awe steals over him. Then, gazing at the beautiful one, he reveres him like a god. If he weren't afraid of looking completely insane, he'd offer sacrifices to his beloved as to a divine image.

"And as he gazes, something changes. The shudder gives way to an unfamiliar warmth, a strange flushing heat. Because as he takes in beauty through his eyes, something moistens within him. He warms. And the parts of the soul from which the wings once grew -- parts that had long been sealed shut, hardened and closed -- begin to soften and melt. As this nourishment streams in, the base of the wing begins to swell and push upward from the root. The growth spreads through the entire soul, because once, long ago, the whole soul was winged.

"During this process, the entire soul seethes and throbs. It's like the ache and irritation in the gums when teeth are coming in -- that restless, itching, painful swelling. The soul feels exactly this as its wings begin to sprout. It bubbles and aches and tingles. And when the soul turns toward the beautiful one and receives the stream of particles flowing from that beauty -- which is why the Greeks call it 'himeros,' desire, from the word for 'flow' -- it is warmed and refreshed and the pain subsides into joy.

"But when the soul is separated from the beloved and the moisture dries up, the openings through which the wings were pushing begin to close and seal shut, trapping the new growth inside. Locked in together with desire, the budding wing throbs like a pulse, pushing against its confinement, pricking every sealed passage from within -- until the entire soul is pierced through with pain and driven half-mad. And yet even in this agony, at the memory of beauty, there is a flash of delight.

"The soul is torn between the two. The strangeness of what it feels is overwhelming. In its frenzy it can't sleep at night or stay in one place by day. It runs to wherever it thinks it will see the beautiful one again. And when it sees him -- when it bathes in the streaming warmth of beauty -- the pain loosens, the sealed passages open, and relief floods in. And this, for the moment, is the sweetest pleasure the soul has ever known.

"This is why the lover's soul will never willingly leave the beautiful one. Nothing and no one else matters. Mother, brothers, friends -- all forgotten. If his fortune is ruined by neglect, he doesn't care. The rules and social conventions he once took such pride in? He despises them now. He'd sleep on a doorstep, like a servant, as close as he can get to the one he worships -- the one who is both the object of his adoration and the only physician who can cure his terrible pain.

"This condition, my dear imaginary youth, is what humans call love. But the gods have another name for it, and when you hear it, you'll probably laugh -- you're young enough to find it funny. There are two lines in the secret writings of Homer -- lines not found in the official editions -- that mention the name. They're a little outrageous, and the meter doesn't quite work. They go like this:

'Mortals call him fluttering love, But the gods call him the winged one, Because the growing of wings is his gift to give.'

"You can take that or leave it. But the experience of lovers and the causes of their love are exactly as I've described.

"Now, a person whose soul once followed in Zeus' company is better able to bear the weight of love's winged god. But those who followed Ares become dangerous when love seizes them -- if they think they've been wronged, they're ready to kill, to destroy themselves and their beloved alike. Each person, in fact, lives and loves according to the god he followed. Everyone chooses his beloved from the ranks of beauty, according to his own character. And the beloved becomes a kind of god to the lover -- an image he shapes and adorns and worships. Those who followed Zeus seek someone of a philosophical and commanding nature. When they find him and fall in love, they do everything they can to cultivate that nature in him. If they've never encountered such a disposition before, they learn how from any teacher they can find, and they shape themselves accordingly. And they succeed more easily in discovering their god within themselves, because they've been compelled to gaze so intensely on Zeus. Their memory clings to him, and through that connection they absorb his character and disposition, as much as any human being can participate in the divine. They attribute these godlike qualities to their beloved, and love him all the more for them. Like worshippers inspired by Zeus, they pour their own divine inspiration over the beloved, trying to make him as much like their god as possible. Those who followed Hera seek a royal nature, and when they find one, they do the same with him. And in the same way

...and in this way, the followers of Apollo -- and of every other god -- walk in the path of their god and seek a beloved who can be shaped in the same image. When they find him, they imitate their god themselves and encourage their beloved to do the same, educating him into the character and nature of that god as far as they can. They feel no jealousy or resentment toward the one they love. Instead, they do everything in their power to create in him the greatest possible likeness to themselves and to the god they honor. And so the desire of the divinely inspired lover is something beautiful and blessed for the beloved -- and the initiation I'm describing, into the mysteries of true love, is a genuine blessing, if the beloved allows himself to be won over.

Now, here's how the beloved is captured.

As I said at the beginning of this story, I divided each soul into three parts -- two horses and a charioteer. One of the horses was good and the other bad. I described the division but haven't yet explained what makes each one good or bad. So let me do that now.

The right-hand horse is noble and well-formed, with a high arching neck and a fine, hawk-like nose. He's white, with dark eyes -- a lover of honor, self-control, and true glory. He needs no whip; a word or a quiet command is enough to guide him. The other horse is a crooked, poorly built beast, thrown together any old way. He has a thick, squat neck, a flat face, and a dark hide with bloodshot eyes and a flushed complexion. He's the companion of arrogance and recklessness -- shaggy-eared and half-deaf, barely yielding to whip and spur.

Now, when the charioteer catches sight of the beloved and his whole soul is flooded with warmth through his senses, filled with the pricklings and stirrings of desire -- the obedient horse, governed as always by a sense of shame, holds himself back from leaping on the beloved. But the other horse, ignoring the pricks of the goad and the blows of the whip, plunges forward and bolts, causing every kind of trouble for his partner and the charioteer, dragging them toward the beloved and forcing them to recall the pleasures of love.

At first, the other two resist indignantly and refuse to be dragged into doing anything terrible or forbidden. But finally, when the bad horse keeps tormenting them without letup, they give in and agree to do what he demands.

And now they're right there, face to face with the blazing beauty of the beloved. When the charioteer sees it, his memory is carried back to true Beauty itself, which he once beheld standing beside Restraint like an image set on a holy pedestal. He sees it -- and he's struck with awe, falling backward in reverence. The force of his recoil yanks the reins back so violently that both horses are pulled onto their haunches -- the good one willingly and without complaint, the wild one deeply unwilling. When they've backed off a little distance, the good horse is overcome with shame and wonder, his whole soul drenched in sweat. The bad horse, once the pain from the bridle and the fall has faded and he's caught his breath, is consumed with rage, hurling abuse at the charioteer and his fellow horse for their cowardice and lack of nerve, accusing them of betraying their agreement and deserting the mission.

Again they refuse, and again he drives them forward, and he barely yields to their pleas to wait for another time. When the appointed hour returns, they pretend to have forgotten, but he reminds them -- fighting and neighing and dragging them along -- until finally, bent on the same purpose as before, he forces them to approach the beloved once more. And when they draw near, he drops his head, raises his tail, bites down on the bit, and pulls forward shamelessly.

Then the charioteer is in worse shape than ever. He falls back like a jockey jerked at the starting barrier, wrenches the bit out of the wild horse's teeth even more violently, covers his foul tongue and jaws with blood, and forces his legs and haunches to the ground, punishing him severely. And after this has happened several times and the brute has finally given up his reckless ways, he's broken and humbled. He follows the charioteer's will, and when he catches sight of the beautiful one, he's ready to die of fear.

And from that point on, the soul of the lover follows the beloved with humility and reverent awe.

The beloved, then -- having received from his lover every kind of genuine and loyal devotion, not as a performance but in truth, and being himself naturally disposed to care for his admirer -- even if in earlier days he blushed to acknowledge his feelings and turned his lover away because his young friends or others slanderously told him he'd be disgraced -- now, as the years pass and the right time comes, he's drawn to accept him into a deep bond. For fate, which has decreed that there can be no true friendship among the wicked, has also decreed that there will always be friendship among the good.

And when the beloved has accepted him into this closeness and intimacy, he's utterly amazed by the lover's goodwill. He realizes that this divinely inspired friend is worth more than all his other friends and relatives put together -- none of them have anything remotely comparable to offer.

As this feeling continues, and they draw closer, embracing during exercise and at other times they spend together -- then the fountain of that stream, which Zeus named "Desire" when he was in love with Ganymede, overflows onto the lover. Some of it enters the beloved's soul, and when his soul is full, the rest flows back out again. Like a breeze or an echo rebounding off smooth rocks and returning to where it started, the stream of beauty passes back through the beloved's eyes -- which are the windows of the soul -- and returns to the beautiful one. Arriving there, it waters the passages of the wings, encouraging them to grow, and fills the beloved's soul with love too.

And so he loves -- but he doesn't know what he loves. He can't understand or explain his own state. It's as though he's caught an infection from another person's eyes. The lover is like a mirror in which the beloved sees himself reflected, though he doesn't realize it. When they're together, both find relief from their longing. When they're apart, he aches just as the lover aches, carrying love's reflection -- love returned for love -- lodged in his heart. But he calls it friendship, not love, and thinks of it that way. His desire mirrors the lover's desire, though it's somewhat weaker. He wants to see him, touch him, kiss him, hold him -- and before long, those desires find fulfillment.

When they're together, the unruly horse of the lover has something to say to the charioteer: he'd like a little pleasure in return for all his suffering. But the unruly horse of the beloved says nothing at all -- he's bursting with a passion he doesn't understand. He throws his arms around the lover and embraces him as his dearest friend, and when they're lying side by side, he's not in a state to refuse the lover anything he might ask, even though his fellow horse and the charioteer oppose it with appeals to shame and reason.

After this, their happiness depends on self-control. If the better elements of the mind -- the ones that lead to order and philosophy -- win out, then they live their lives in happiness and harmony, masters of themselves and well-ordered, having enslaved the vicious parts of the soul and set the virtuous parts free. And when the end comes, they are light and winged, ready for flight, having won one of the three truly heavenly, truly Olympian victories. No human discipline and no divine inspiration can confer any greater blessing on a person than this.

If, on the other hand, they abandon philosophy and give themselves to the lower life of ambition, then probably -- after drinking too much, or in some other careless moment -- the two unruly horses catch the two souls off guard and bring them together, and they satisfy that desire which the masses consider the height of bliss. Once they've tasted it, they keep coming back to it, though not often, because they don't have the approval of their whole soul. These lovers too are dear to one another, though not as dear as the others, both during their love and after it fades. They believe they've exchanged the most sacred pledges and that it would be wrong to break them and become enemies.

In the end, they leave the body unwinged but longing to take flight, and so they receive no small reward for their love-inspired madness. For those who have once set out on the heavenward journey will not be sent back down into darkness and the underworld passage. They live in the light always, happy companions on their journey, and when the time comes for them to receive their wings, they share the same plumage -- because of their love.

These, my young friend, are the great and divine blessings that the friendship of a lover will bring you. But the attachment of a non-lover, diluted with worldly calculation and dispensing its meager benefits in a worldly, penny-pinching way -- that will plant in your soul the petty qualities the masses applaud, will send you rolling around the earth for nine thousand years, and will leave you a fool in the world below.

And so, dear Eros, I've made my recantation and paid my debt, as well and as fairly as I could -- especially the poetic images, which I was forced to use because Phaedrus insisted on them. Now forgive what came before and accept what I've offered. Be gracious and merciful to me. Don't strip me of my sight in your anger, or take away the skill of love you've given me, but let me be held in even higher regard by those who are beautiful. And if Phaedrus or I said anything offensive in our first speeches, blame Lysias -- he's the father of this whole misguided offspring. Make him give up this kind of talk and turn to philosophy, the way his brother Polemarchus has. Then his devoted Phaedrus here will stop wavering between two positions and dedicate himself fully to love and to philosophical conversation.

Phaedrus I join in that prayer, Socrates, and echo your words -- if this is truly what's best for me, may it all come to pass. But I have to ask: why was your second speech so much better than the first? I'm genuinely puzzled. And honestly, I'm starting to worry that Lysias will look tame by comparison -- even if he's willing to put up another speech as fine and long as yours, which I doubt. Actually, just recently one of your politicians was attacking him on exactly this point, calling him a "speechwriter" over and over. So his pride might actually make him give up writing altogether.

Socrates What an amusing idea! But I think, my friend, you're badly misjudging Lysias if you imagine he's scared off by a little criticism. And maybe you think his attacker was actually being serious?

Phaedrus It certainly seemed that way, Socrates. And you know that the most powerful and influential politicians are embarrassed to write speeches and leave them behind in written form -- they're afraid future generations will call them Sophists.

Socrates You're forgetting the proverb about "the sweet elbow," Phaedrus -- which is really about the long bend of the Nile. You also seem unaware that this "sweet elbow" of theirs is actually a very long reach. Because there's nothing our great politicians love more than writing speeches and passing them down to posterity. In fact, they're so fond of it that they put the names of their supporters right at the top of each document, out of gratitude.

Phaedrus What do you mean? I don't follow.

Socrates You don't know that when a politician writes something, he starts with the names of the people who approved it?

Phaedrus How so?

Socrates He begins like this: "Be it resolved by the Senate, the People, or both, on the motion of so-and-so" -- and "so-and-so" is our author. Then, putting on a very serious face, he proceeds to show off his own wisdom to his admirers in what's often a long and tedious piece of writing. Tell me -- what is that, really, if not authorship?

Phaedrus True enough.

Socrates And if the law passes, the author leaves the assembly absolutely delighted. But if it's rejected and he's denied his moment of speechmaking, if he's deemed not good enough to write, then he and his supporters go into mourning.

Phaedrus Very true.

Socrates So they're hardly contemptuous of writing -- quite the opposite. They value the practice enormously.

Phaedrus No doubt.

Socrates And when a king or an orator has the power of achieving immortality through authorship -- as Lycurgus or Solon or Darius did -- doesn't posterity regard him as practically divine when they read his work? Doesn't he think of himself as divine while he's still alive?

Phaedrus Very true.

Socrates Then do you really think any politician, no matter how hostile, would genuinely criticize Lysias just for being a writer?

Phaedrus Not on your argument, no. He'd be insulting his own favorite activity.

Socrates So it's clear enough: there's nothing disgraceful about writing in itself.

Phaedrus Of course not.

Socrates The disgrace begins when someone writes badly.

Phaedrus Obviously.

Socrates So what counts as writing well, and what counts as writing badly? Should we consult Lysias on this, or any other poet or speechmaker who has ever written or ever will write -- whether it's a political work or something else, in verse or in prose?

Phaedrus Should we? What's the point of living if not for the pleasures of good conversation? Surely not for bodily pleasures, which almost always come with pain beforehand, and which we rightly call slavish.

Socrates Well, there's time enough for this. And I think the grasshoppers singing above us in the heat are watching us and talking to each other. If they saw us doing what most people do -- dozing off in the midday sun, lulled by their voices, too lazy to think -- wouldn't they have a right to laugh at us? They'd assume we were like sheep that had wandered to their watering hole and fallen asleep in the shade. But if they see us conversing, sailing past them like Odysseus past the Sirens, deaf to their enchanting song, they might respect us enough to share the gifts they've received from the gods to pass along to humans.

Phaedrus What gifts? I've never heard of any.

Socrates A music-lover like you should really know the story of the grasshoppers. They say that long ago, before the Muses existed, grasshoppers were human beings. But when the Muses appeared and song came into the world, some people were so ravished with delight that they sang constantly and forgot to eat or drink -- until eventually they died without even realizing it. From these people, the grasshoppers were born. And this is the gift the Muses gave them in return: from the moment they're born, they never need food or water. They just sing their whole lives, and when they die, they go to the Muses and report who on earth has honored them. They win the favor of Terpsichore for the dancers, of Erato for those in love, and of the other Muses for those who honor them in their various ways. But it's Calliope, the eldest Muse, and Urania, who comes next, that they report to about the philosophers -- because these are the Muses most concerned with the heavens and with thought, both divine and human, and they have the sweetest voices of all. So for many reasons, we really should keep talking and not fall asleep at midday.

Phaedrus Then let's talk.

Socrates Shall we take up the question we proposed earlier -- the rules of good speaking and writing?

Phaedrus Absolutely.

Socrates Here's where we have to start: shouldn't a good speaker actually know the truth about whatever subject he's going to speak about?

Phaedrus Well, Socrates, I've heard it said that someone who wants to be an orator doesn't need to concern himself with genuine justice -- only with what the crowd sitting in judgment is likely to approve. Not with what's truly good or honorable, but with what people believe about those things. Because persuasion comes from opinion, they say, not from truth.

Socrates We shouldn't dismiss what wise people say too quickly -- there might be something to it. So let's think through what this claim really means.

Phaedrus Fair enough.

Socrates Let me put it this way. Suppose I tried to convince you to buy a horse and go off to war, and neither of us actually knew what a horse looked like -- but I did know that you believed a horse was the tame animal with the longest ears.

Phaedrus That would be ridiculous.

Socrates It gets worse. Suppose that, in all seriousness, I then composed a speech praising a donkey, calling it a horse: "A noble animal and a most useful possession, especially in war! You can ride it into battle, and it'll carry your baggage and anything else you need."

Phaedrus That's absurd!

Socrates Absurd, yes. But isn't even an absurd friend better than a clever enemy?

Phaedrus I suppose so.

Socrates Now here's the serious point. When an orator, instead of confusing a donkey for a horse, confuses good for evil -- being himself as ignorant of their true nature as the public he's trying to fool -- and when he's studied the crowd's opinions and uses those to persuade them, not about "the shadow of a donkey" mistaken for a horse, but about good things mistaken for evil ones -- what kind of harvest do you think rhetoric will reap from sowing those seeds?

Phaedrus Nothing good.

Socrates But maybe we've been too rough on rhetoric. She might fire back: "What ridiculous nonsense! As if I force anyone to learn to speak without knowing the truth first! Whatever my advice is worth, I'd tell a student to arrive at the truth first and then come to me. But at the same time, I'll boldly say this: knowing the truth alone won't give you the skill of persuasion."

Phaedrus There's something to that defense.

Socrates Quite right -- if the remaining arguments testify that rhetoric really is a genuine skill. But I seem to hear other voices lining up on the opposite side, declaring that she's lying, that rhetoric is no skill at all -- just a routine, a trick. And here comes a Spartan voice saying: there never has been and never will be a real skill of speaking that's divorced from the truth.

Phaedrus Let's hear those arguments, Socrates. Bring them out so we can examine them.

Socrates Come forward then, noble arguments, and convince our friend Phaedrus -- the father of many fine ideas himself -- that he'll never be able to speak properly about anything unless he has a grasp of philosophy. And Phaedrus, you respond.

Phaedrus Go ahead, ask.

Socrates Isn't rhetoric, broadly speaking, a kind of universal skill for influencing minds through words? One that's practiced not only in courts and public assemblies, but in private conversations too -- dealing with matters great and small, important and trivial alike -- and supposedly equally valuable in all cases? Isn't that what you've heard?

Phaedrus Not exactly. I'd say I've mostly heard the skill described as applying to speaking and writing in lawsuits and to making speeches in assemblies -- not extending much beyond that.

Socrates Ah, then you've only heard about the rhetoric of Nestor and Odysseus, which they polished during their downtime at Troy, and never about the rhetoric of Palamedes?

Phaedrus I haven't heard of Nestor's or Odysseus's rhetoric either -- unless you mean Gorgias is your Nestor and Thrasymachus or Theodorus your Odysseus.

Socrates Maybe that's what I mean. But let's set them aside. Tell me this: what are the plaintiff and defendant actually doing in a lawsuit? Aren't they in a contest?

Phaedrus Exactly.

Socrates A contest about what's just and what's unjust -- that's the dispute?

Phaedrus Yes.

Socrates And a master of the skill can make the same thing seem just at one moment and unjust at another -- to the same audience -- whenever he feels like it?

Phaedrus Exactly.

Socrates And in the assembly, he can make the same policies seem beneficial to the city at one time and harmful at another?

Phaedrus That's right.

Socrates Now, haven't we heard of Zeno of Elea -- our "Palamedes" -- who has such a skill with words that he makes the same things appear to his audience as both like and unlike, one and many, in motion and at rest?

Phaedrus We certainly have.

Socrates So the skill of argument isn't limited to courts and assemblies. It's one and the same everywhere language is used -- this is the skill, if it is a skill, that can find a resemblance between anything and anything else, and that brings to light the resemblances and disguises that other people use. Agreed?

Phaedrus What exactly do you mean?

Socrates Let me put it this way: when is deception more likely to succeed -- when the difference between two things is large, or when it's small?

Phaedrus When it's small.

Socrates And you're more likely to slip past unnoticed if you move to the opposite position by small degrees than if you jump there all at once?

Phaedrus Of course.

Socrates So anyone who wants to deceive others without being deceived himself needs to know the real similarities and differences between things with absolute precision.

Phaedrus He'd have to.

Socrates And if he doesn't know the true nature of a given subject, how can he detect even a tiny degree of resemblance between other things and the thing he's ignorant about?

Phaedrus He can't.

Socrates And when people are deceived -- when their beliefs are out of step with reality -- the error always slips in through resemblances, doesn't it?

Phaedrus Yes, that's how it works.

Socrates Then anyone who wants to master the art of rhetoric needs to understand the true nature of things. Otherwise, he'll never know how to guide an audience step by step from truth toward its opposite using resemblances -- or how to avoid being led astray himself.

Phaedrus He won't.

Socrates So a person who doesn't know the truth and only chases after appearances will end up with a rhetoric that's laughable and not really a skill at all?

Phaedrus That seems likely.

Socrates Want to look for examples of genuine skill and the lack of it in Lysias's speech that you're still holding, and in my own speech?

Phaedrus That would be perfect. Our discussion has been a bit abstract and could use some concrete examples.

Socrates And it just so happens that the two speeches provide excellent examples of how a speaker who knows the truth can, without being entirely serious, charm his audience. I credit this lucky break to the local gods -- and maybe the Muses' prophets singing above us have lent me some inspiration. I certainly don't claim to have any rhetorical skill of my own.

Phaedrus Fine, fine -- just get on with it.

Socrates All right. Read me the opening words of Lysias's speech.

Phaedrus "You know my situation, and you've heard how I think things could be arranged to our mutual advantage. I maintain that my suit should not fail simply because I am not your lover. For lovers come to regret..."

Socrates That's enough. Now, shall I point out the rhetorical problem with those words?

Phaedrus Yes.

Socrates Everyone would agree that when it comes to certain things, we're all on the same page, while about other things, we're divided.

Phaedrus I think I see what you're getting at, but explain.

Socrates When someone says "iron" or "silver," don't we all picture the same thing?

Phaedrus Certainly.

Socrates But when someone says "justice" or "goodness," we go off in different directions -- disagreeing with each other and even with ourselves?

Phaedrus Exactly.

Socrates So on some things we agree, and on others we don't.

Phaedrus Right.

Socrates In which category are we more likely to be fooled? And in which does rhetoric have greater power?

Phaedrus Clearly in the disputed category.

Socrates Then a rhetorician needs to make a careful distinction between the two classes -- concepts where most people agree and concepts where they're easily confused -- and have a clear understanding of both.

Phaedrus That would be an excellent principle to work from.

Socrates Right. And next, he needs sharp eyes for the specifics of whatever he's talking about, never misclassifying which category a particular topic belongs to.

Phaedrus Absolutely.

Socrates Now, which category does love belong to -- the settled or the disputed?

Phaedrus The disputed, obviously. If it weren't, do you think love would have let you say what you said -- that it's both the worst thing that can happen to lover and beloved, and also the greatest possible blessing?

Socrates Excellent point. But tell me this: did I define love at the beginning of my speech? I was in such an ecstatic state I can barely remember.

Phaedrus Oh, you absolutely did. No question about it.

Socrates Well then! Apparently the Nymphs of Achelous and Pan, son of Hermes, who inspired me, are far better rhetoricians than Lysias, son of Cephalus. How outclassed poor Lysias is! Unless, that is, he actually did insist at the start of his speech on defining love as some particular thing, and then built the rest of his argument on that definition. Shall we go back and check?

Phaedrus If you like, but you won't find what you're looking for.

Socrates Read it, so we have his exact words.

Phaedrus "You know my situation, and you've heard how I think things could be arranged to our mutual advantage. I maintain that my suit should not fail simply because I am not your lover, for lovers come to regret the kindnesses they've shown once their passion has faded."

Socrates He's done exactly the opposite of what he should have! He started at the end and is swimming backward through the river to the beginning. His pitch to the young man starts where a lover would have finished. Don't you think so, dear Phaedrus?

Phaedrus You're right, Socrates -- he really does start at the end.

Socrates And what about the rest of it? Aren't the topics just thrown together at random? Is there any organizing principle? Why does one point follow another? In my ignorance, it seemed like he simply wrote down whatever popped into his head. But perhaps you can spot some rhetorical necessity in the sequence of the parts?

Phaedrus You're giving me too much credit if you think I can detect anything like that in his composition.

Socrates But surely you'd agree that every good piece of writing should be like a living creature -- it should have a body of its own, with a head and feet, a middle, a beginning, and an end, all fitted to one another and to the whole?

Phaedrus Of course.

Socrates Can we honestly say that about Lysias's speech? See if you can find any more logical structure in it than in the famous epitaph supposedly inscribed on the tomb of Midas the Phrygian.

Phaedrus What's special about the epitaph?

Socrates It goes like this:

"I am a maiden of bronze, and I lie on the tomb of Midas. As long as water flows and tall trees grow, Here on this spot by his sorrowful tomb I'll stay, Telling all passersby that Midas sleeps below."

Now, as you'll notice, it doesn't matter one bit whether you put any line first or last.

Phaedrus You're making fun of our speech.

Socrates Well, I'll drop the subject -- I don't want to offend you about your friend. Though I think there are plenty more examples of what a speaker should avoid. But let me move on to the other speech, which I think has some useful lessons for students of rhetoric.

Phaedrus In what way?

Socrates The two speeches, you'll remember, took opposite positions. One argued that you should accept the lover, the other that you should accept the non-lover.

Phaedrus And they argued vigorously!

Socrates You should really say "madly" -- and madness was exactly the point. As I said, "love is a form of madness."

Phaedrus Yes.

Socrates And we found two kinds of madness: one caused by ordinary human disturbance, and another that's a divine liberation of the soul from the chains of custom and convention.

Phaedrus True.

Socrates The divine madness was divided into four types: prophetic, mystical, poetic, and erotic -- presided over by four gods respectively. The first was the inspiration of Apollo, the second of Dionysus, the third of the Muses, and the fourth of Aphrodite and Eros. In describing the last kind, which we also called the best, we spoke of love through a metaphor. We wove a myth that was reasonably believable and possibly even true, though partly imaginative -- a hymn in honor of Love, who is your lord and mine, Phaedrus, and the guardian of beautiful young people. And we sang this hymn in a measured and solemn tone.

Phaedrus I took immense pleasure in hearing it.

Socrates Let's take this as our example and look at how the speech moved from blame to praise.

Phaedrus What do you mean?

Socrates I mean that the speech was largely playful. But woven into those spontaneous flights of inspiration were two principles that I'd love to understand more precisely, if some method could clarify them.

Phaedrus What principles?

Socrates The first is collection -- gathering scattered particulars under a single idea. Take our definition of love: whether it was true or false, it gave the whole speech clarity and internal consistency. The speaker should define his key terms and thereby make his meaning clear.

Phaedrus And the second principle, Socrates?

Socrates The second is division -- cutting according to the natural joints, the way a good butcher carves, not hacking through bone the way a bad one does. Just as our two speeches took as their starting point a single form of irrationality, and then -- just as a single body can be divided into a left side and a right side, each with corresponding parts -- the speaker divided the parts on the left side and kept cutting until he found a harmful, "left-handed" love, which he rightly condemned. The other speech, meanwhile, led us to the madness on the right side, where it found a different love -- one that shares the same name but is divine -- and held it up for admiration, declaring it the source of our greatest blessings.

Phaedrus Absolutely right.

Socrates I'm a devoted fan of these twin processes -- collection and division. They help me think and speak. And whenever I find someone who can see the One and the Many in the nature of things, I follow that person and walk in his footsteps as though he were a god. The people who have this ability -- I've been calling them "dialecticians." But whether that name is the right one, only the gods know. And I'd like to know what name you'd give to Lysias's students -- or whether this might be that famous "art of rhetoric" that Thrasymachus and others teach and practice. They're skilled speakers, all right, and they'll happily pass along their skill to anyone willing to pay them royal sums and treat them like kings.

Phaedrus They may be impressive, but their skill isn't the same as what you're calling dialectic -- and you're right to call it that, in my opinion. Still, we're in the dark about what rhetoric actually is.

Socrates What do you mean? Could there be something valuable that falls outside of dialectic but still counts as a legitimate skill? We certainly shouldn't dismiss it -- but what exactly is left?

Phaedrus There's a great deal, surely, in all those rhetoric textbooks.

Socrates Right, thank you for the reminder. First there's the "exordium" -- how to begin a speech properly. That's what you mean, isn't it? The refinements of the craft?

Phaedrus Yes.

Socrates Then comes the statement of facts, followed by the presentation of witnesses. Third, evidence. Fourth, arguments from probability. And the great Byzantine wordsmith -- if I'm not mistaken -- also talks about "confirmation" and "additional confirmation."

Phaedrus You mean the excellent Theodorus.

Socrates That's the one. And he explains how to handle refutation and counter-refutation, whether you're prosecuting or defending. I should also mention the illustrious Evenus of Paros, who invented innuendo and indirect praise. Some say he even put his indirect criticisms into verse as a memory aid. But shall I consign to oblivion Tisias and Gorgias? Those two discovered that probability trumps truth, and through the sheer force of argument they make small things seem great and great things small, dress up the new in old clothes and the old in new ones, and have invented formulas for speeches of every length -- from the ultra-brief to the infinitely long. I remember Prodicus laughing when I told him all this. He said he alone had discovered the true rule of the craft: a speech should be neither long nor short, but just the right length.

Phaedrus Brilliant, Prodicus!

Socrates And then there's Hippias from Elis, who probably agrees with him.

Phaedrus I'd imagine so.

Socrates And don't forget Polus, with his treasury of "double expressions," maxims, and figurative language -- techniques taught to him by Licymnius to give his speeches polish.

Phaedrus Didn't Protagoras have something similar?

Socrates Yes -- rules for proper word choice, among many other fine precepts. As for evoking the "sorrows of a poor old man" or any other emotional scenario, no one does it better than the great Chalcedonian giant, Thrasymachus. He can whip a whole audience into a frenzy and then calm them right back down again with his verbal magic, and he's second to none at fabricating or demolishing accusations on any grounds -- or no grounds at all. And they all agree on one thing: a speech should end with a summary, though they don't all use the same term for it.

Phaedrus You mean there should be a recap of the main arguments to refresh the audience's memory.

Socrates That's everything I have to say about the techniques of rhetoric. Do you have anything to add?

Phaedrus Nothing important.

Socrates Then let's skip the minor points and bring the really important question into the light: what power does this so-called art of rhetoric actually have, and when does it have it?

Phaedrus Enormous power, I'd say -- at least in public gatherings.

Socrates It does have power. But do you share my feeling about these rhetoricians? To me, their whole framework seems full of holes.

Phaedrus Give me an example.

Socrates All right. Suppose someone walked up to your friend Eryximachus -- or his father Acumenus -- and said: "I know how to produce heating and cooling effects in the body, how to induce vomiting or purging, and all sorts of treatments like that. Since I know all this, I claim to be a doctor, and I can make other people doctors by teaching them what I know." What do you think they'd say?

Phaedrus They'd obviously ask him: "Do you also know who to give these treatments to, and when to give them, and in what doses?"

Socrates And what if he answered: "No, I don't know any of that. I expect my patients to figure those things out for themselves"?

Phaedrus They'd say he was a lunatic -- or a clueless bookworm who thinks he's a physician because he stumbled across a couple of remedies in a book, without having any real understanding of medicine.

Socrates Now suppose someone went to Sophocles or Euripides and said: "I know how to compose very long speeches on trivial subjects and very short speeches on important ones. I can make speeches that are mournful, or terrifying, or threatening, or any other kind you want. And by teaching these things, I believe I'm teaching the art of tragedy."

Phaedrus They'd laugh at him too, Socrates, if he thought tragedy was anything other than arranging all these elements so they work together and form a coherent whole.

Socrates But I don't think they'd be rude about it. They'd treat him the way a musician would treat someone who claimed to be a harmony expert just because he could identify the highest and lowest notes. The musician wouldn't snap, "You idiot, you're out of your mind!" Being a musician, he'd say gently and kindly: "My friend, a person who wants to be a real expert in harmony does need to know these things. But someone at your stage of knowledge might understand absolutely nothing about harmony itself. You've learned the prerequisites, not the actual thing."

Phaedrus Very true.

Socrates And wouldn't Sophocles say the same to the aspiring tragedian -- "What you've shown me isn't tragedy, but the preliminaries of tragedy"? And wouldn't Acumenus say the same to the aspiring doctor about medicine?

Phaedrus Absolutely.

Socrates And if the silver-tongued Adrastus or Pericles could hear about all these marvelous techniques -- the brachylogies and eikonologies and all the fancy terminology we've been dragging into the light -- what would they say? Rather than losing their tempers and throwing around insults the way you and I have been doing, their deeper wisdom would lead them to rebuke us along with the rhetoric teachers. "Easy now, Phaedrus and Socrates," they'd say. "You shouldn't be so harsh with people who lack the dialectical skill to define what rhetoric actually is and consequently mistake the preliminary conditions for the art itself. They teach these techniques to others and imagine they've taught the complete art of rhetoric. As for actually using these tools effectively, or making a speech into a coherent whole -- well, they consider that an easy bit their students can figure out on their own."

Phaedrus I have to admit, Socrates, that the rhetoric these men teach and write about is exactly as you describe. I agree completely. But I still want to know: where and how does one acquire the true art of rhetoric and persuasion?

Socrates Becoming a truly accomplished orator is like becoming accomplished at anything else -- it requires both natural talent and training. If you have the natural gift and add knowledge and practice to it, you'll be a remarkable speaker. If you fall short in either area, you'll be deficient to that degree. But the genuine art of rhetoric, insofar as there is an art, doesn't lie in the direction Lysias or Thrasymachus points.

Phaedrus Then which direction?

Socrates I think Pericles was the most accomplished orator of them all.

Phaedrus And?

Socrates All the great arts demand serious study and deep thinking about the nature of things. That's where lofty thought and complete mastery come from. And this is exactly the quality that Pericles, on top of his natural gifts, gained from his association with the philosopher Anaxagoras. He steeped himself in higher philosophy, gained insight into the nature of Mind and the absence of Mind -- Anaxagoras's favorite subjects -- and then applied what was useful to the art of speaking.

Phaedrus Go on.

Socrates Rhetoric is like medicine.

Phaedrus How so?

Socrates In medicine, you need to understand the nature of the body. In rhetoric, you need to understand the nature of the soul. That is, if you want to proceed scientifically rather than just by trial and error -- in one case to produce health and strength through the right medications and diet, in the other to implant whatever conviction or excellence you're aiming for, through the right words and practices.

Phaedrus You know, Socrates, I think you're right about that.

Socrates And do you think you can truly understand the nature of the soul without understanding the nature of the universe as a whole?

Phaedrus Hippocrates says you can't even understand the body properly without looking at the whole.

Socrates He's right, friend. But we shouldn't just take Hippocrates at his word -- we should examine whether his reasoning actually holds up.

Phaedrus Agreed.

Socrates Then consider what truth itself, along with Hippocrates, says about any nature we want to investigate. Shouldn't we first determine whether the thing we want to study and teach about is simple or complex? If it's simple, then we should ask what power it has to act on other things, or to be acted upon by them. If it's complex, then we should count its different forms and examine each one the same way -- asking what power of acting or being acted upon makes each of them what it is.

Phaedrus That sounds right, Socrates.

Socrates Any method that skips this analysis is like a blind man groping in the dark. But surely someone who calls himself a craftsman shouldn't be compared to someone who's blind or deaf. The rhetorician who truly teaches his students to speak scientifically will carefully explain the nature of the thing he's addressing his speeches to. And that thing, I believe, is the soul.

Phaedrus Obviously.

Socrates Because the soul is where the orator directs all his effort. That's where he's trying to create conviction.

Phaedrus Yes.

Socrates So clearly, Thrasymachus -- or anyone else who teaches rhetoric seriously -- must first provide an exact description of the nature of the soul. This will show us whether it's a simple unity or, like the body, has many different forms. That's what it means to reveal the nature of the soul.

Phaedrus Exactly.

Socrates Second, he'll explain how the soul acts and how it's acted upon.

Phaedrus Right.

Socrates Third, having sorted out the different types of souls and the different types of arguments, along with their various effects, he'll match them up -- showing why one kind of soul is persuaded by a particular kind of argument, and another is not.

Phaedrus Now that's a powerful approach.

Socrates Yes, and it's the one true method. No subject can ever be properly presented or treated by rules of art, whether in speech or in writing, any other way. But the rhetoric teachers of today, the ones you've been studying with, are crafty -- they know all about the soul's nature perfectly well and are deliberately hiding it. Until they adopt our method of analysis, we can't grant that they're working from genuine knowledge of their craft.

Phaedrus And what exactly is our method?

Socrates I can't give you every last detail, but let me describe the general approach, as far as I can, for how a person should proceed according to genuine principles of the art.

Phaedrus I'm listening.

Socrates Rhetoric is the art of influencing souls, and therefore the person who wants to be an orator must first learn the different types of human souls -- there are many, of various kinds -- and from these come the differences between people. Having gotten that far in his analysis, he'll then classify the different types of speeches: "This kind of person is affected by this kind of speech in this way" -- and he'll explain why. The student needs a solid theoretical grasp of all this first, and then real-world experience -- the ability to observe these types in actual people, following them with all his senses sharp. Otherwise he'll never get past what he learned in the classroom. But when he understands which arguments persuade which people, and when he spots the actual person he'd previously only thought about in the abstract standing right in front of him, and can say to himself, "This is the man -- this is the character type that calls for this particular argument to create this particular conviction" -- when he knows all this, and also knows when to speak and when to hold back, when to use a pointed remark, when an emotional appeal, when a dramatic effect, and every other technique he's learned -- when, I say, he knows the right times and occasions for all of these, then and only then is he a true master of the art. But if he falls short on any of these points, whether in speaking, teaching, or writing, and still claims to be practicing a genuine art -- well, anyone who says "I don't believe you" has the better of the argument.

"So then," our imaginary teacher might say, "is this your account of the so-called art of rhetoric, Phaedrus and Socrates? Or should I look elsewhere?"

Phaedrus This has to be it, Socrates. There's no other possibility. Though I have to say -- creating such an art doesn't sound easy.

Socrates Very true. So let's turn this over and look at it from every angle, to see whether there might be a shorter and easier path. There's no point taking a long, rough detour when there's a more direct route. Can you think of anything you've heard from Lysias or anyone else that might help us?

Phaedrus I'd help if I could, but nothing comes to mind right now.

Socrates Then shall I share something I was told by someone who knows about these things?

Phaedrus Please do.

Socrates They say even the wolf deserves a hearing -- so shall I make his case?

Phaedrus Go ahead.

Socrates The argument goes like this: there's no need for such a grand, circuitous approach. As I said at the start, when it comes to questions of justice and goodness -- or questions involving people who are just and good, whether by nature or by habit -- the skilled orator has no need for truth. In the courts, nobody actually cares about truth; they only care about what's convincing. And what's convincing is based on probability. So the aspiring orator should devote himself entirely to probability. In fact, they say there are cases where you should suppress the actual facts, if they're improbable, and present only what seems likely -- whether you're prosecuting or defending. In every speech, probability should be your guiding star, and you should say goodbye to truth. Master that principle from start to finish, and you've mastered the entire art.

Phaedrus That's exactly what the rhetoric professors say, Socrates. I remember we touched on this briefly before. They consider it the central point.

Socrates Well, you know Tisias well enough. Tell me -- doesn't he define "probability" as simply what the majority believes?

Phaedrus That's exactly what he says.

Socrates And here's a clever little case he supposedly invented to illustrate it. A weak but brave man assaults a strong but cowardly one and robs him of his cloak or something. They end up in court, and Tisias says both men should lie. The coward should claim he was attacked by multiple assailants, not just one. The other man should prove they were alone and then argue: "How could a little guy like me have possibly assaulted a big guy like him?" The plaintiff, of course, won't want to admit his own cowardice, so he'll invent some other lie -- and that gives the defendant an opening to tear it apart. There are other tricks of the same kind built into the system. Am I right, Phaedrus?

Phaedrus You are.

Socrates What a marvelously mysterious art Tisias -- or whoever it was, whatever name or country he's so proud of -- has discovered! Shall we say a word to him, or not?

Phaedrus What should we say?

Socrates Let's tell him this: "Before you showed up, Tisias, we were already saying that this 'probability' of yours is created in people's minds by its resemblance to the truth. And we'd just established that the person who knows the truth will always be best at finding those resemblances. So if you have something else to add about the art of speaking, we'd love to hear it. If not, we'll stick with what we've already concluded: unless a person understands the different types of listeners and can classify things properly, grouping them under single ideas, he'll never be a skilled orator, even within the bounds of what's humanly possible. And this skill won't come without tremendous effort -- effort that a good person should undertake not just to impress other people in speech and action, but to be able to say and do what's pleasing to the gods as far as it lies within him. For people wiser than us have said that a sensible person shouldn't spend his life trying to please his fellow servants -- at least that shouldn't be his primary goal -- but should aim to please his good and noble masters. So if the road is long and winding, don't be surprised. For great destinations, we take the longer road. But not for lesser ones like yours."

"Truly, Tisias," the argument might conclude, "if you're willing to go that far, rhetoric has a worthy starting point right here."

Phaedrus I think that's admirable, Socrates -- if only it's achievable.

Socrates But even failing at a noble goal is honorable.

Phaedrus True.

Socrates Well, I think we've said enough about what makes rhetoric genuine and what makes it a sham.

Phaedrus Agreed.

Socrates But there's still something to be said about the appropriateness and inappropriateness of writing.

Phaedrus Yes, there is.

Socrates Do you know how to speak or act regarding rhetoric in a way that would be pleasing to the gods?

Phaedrus No, I don't. Do you?

Socrates I've heard an old tradition. Whether it's true, only the ancients know. Though if we could discover the truth ourselves, would we really care much about what people said in the past?

Phaedrus That's a silly question -- but please, tell me what you've heard.

Socrates Very well. At the Egyptian city of Naucratis, there lived a famous old god named Theuth. The ibis is the bird sacred to him. He was the inventor of many things -- arithmetic, calculation, geometry, astronomy, board games, and dice. But his greatest invention was writing.

Now, in those days, the god Thamus was king of all Egypt, ruling from that great city of Upper Egypt that the Greeks call Egyptian Thebes. (The god himself they call Ammon.) Theuth came to Thamus and displayed his inventions, asking that they be shared with the rest of the Egyptian people. He explained them one by one, and Thamus praised some and criticized others, depending on whether he thought each was useful or not. It would take far too long to repeat everything Thamus said about each invention. But when they came to writing, Theuth said: "This invention, my king, will make the Egyptians wiser and improve their memories. I've discovered a remedy for both memory and wisdom."

Thamus replied: "O most ingenious Theuth, the person who invents something is not always the best judge of how useful or harmful it will be for the people who use it. You, as the father of writing, have a father's bias -- you've attributed to your creation the very opposite of its real effect. This invention will produce forgetfulness in the souls of those who learn it, because they'll stop exercising their memories. They'll rely on external written marks instead of remembering things themselves, from within. What you've discovered is not a remedy for memory, but for reminding -- and you're offering your students the appearance of wisdom, not the real thing. They'll hear about many subjects without genuinely learning them. They'll seem to know everything while actually knowing nothing. And they'll be exhausting company -- full of the conceit of wisdom, without the substance."

Phaedrus You know, Socrates, you have a real talent for making up stories about Egypt -- or any other country, for that matter.

Socrates Well, the tradition at the oracle of Dodona was that the first prophecies came from oak trees. The people of that earlier age, simpler than you sophisticated young philosophers, were happy to listen to truth even from "an oak or a rock," as long as it was true. But you, it seems, care less about whether something is true than about who's saying it and where they're from.

Phaedrus Fair enough -- you're right to call me out. And I think the Theban god has a point about writing.

Socrates Anyone who thought he could establish a genuine art by putting it in writing -- or who accepted written instructions thinking that anything clear or reliable could come out of written words -- would be deeply naive, a stranger to the wisdom of Thamus. He'd be imagining that written words can do more than serve as a reminder to people who already know what the writing is about.

Phaedrus That's absolutely right.

Socrates You know, Phaedrus, writing has this strange quality, which makes it really just like painting. The creations of a painter stand there looking as though they're alive, but if you ask them a question, they maintain a dignified silence. Written words are the same way. You'd think they were speaking with intelligence, but if you ask them something -- if you want to understand what they're saying -- they just keep repeating the same thing, over and over, forever. And once something has been written down, it rolls around everywhere, landing in the hands of people who understand it and people who don't, without distinction. It doesn't know who it should speak to and who it shouldn't. And when it's attacked or unfairly criticized, it can't defend itself -- it always needs its father to come to its rescue, because on its own, it's completely helpless.

Phaedrus That's absolutely true as well.

Socrates But isn't there another kind of speech, far better than this one, with far greater power? A legitimate sibling of the written word, but of nobler birth?

Phaedrus What do you mean? Where does this other kind come from?

Socrates I mean the living word of knowledge, written in the soul of the learner -- a word that can defend itself, and that knows when to speak and when to stay silent.

Phaedrus You mean the living, breathing discourse of someone who truly knows -- a discourse that has a soul. The written word is just its shadow, isn't it?

Socrates Exactly. And now, let me ask you this: would a sensible farmer, who had seeds he valued and wanted to bear fruit, seriously plant them in the heat of summer in some little "garden of Adonis," just to enjoy watching them sprout prettily in eight days? He might do that for fun, for amusement on a holiday. But when he's serious, he uses proper farming techniques -- he plants in the right soil at the right time, and he's satisfied if the seeds he's sown reach maturity in eight months.

Phaedrus That's exactly right, Socrates. He'd do the serious planting properly and the other only for play.

Socrates And are we really going to say that the man who understands justice, goodness, and beauty has less sense about his own "seeds" -- his ideas -- than a farmer has about his crops?

Phaedrus Certainly not.

Socrates Then he won't seriously attempt to "write his thoughts in water" -- using pen and ink to sow words that can't speak for themselves and can't adequately teach the truth to others.

Phaedrus No, that doesn't seem likely.

Socrates No, it doesn't. In the garden of letters, he'll plant and write only for recreation and amusement -- storing up reminders as a treasury against the forgetfulness of old age, for himself and for anyone else who follows the same path. He'll take pleasure in watching his garden of words grow. And while other people refresh themselves with drinking parties and similar entertainments, his pastime will be this.

Phaedrus A glorious pastime, Socrates, compared to those ordinary amusements -- the pastime of someone who can find delight in serious talk and spin stories about justice and other great themes.

Socrates It is. But far nobler still, Phaedrus, is the serious work of the dialectician. He finds a kindred spirit and, with the help of genuine knowledge, plants words in that soul that can take care of themselves and take care of the one who planted them -- words that aren't barren, but carry within them a seed that, nurtured in other soils and other souls, keeps the flame alive forever, making its possessors as happy as it's possible for a human being to be.

Phaedrus Far nobler, yes.

Socrates And now, Phaedrus, since we've agreed on the premises, we can draw our conclusion.

Phaedrus What conclusion?

Socrates The one about Lysias, which started this whole discussion -- whether he deserves censure for his writing, and what his speeches reveal about rhetorical skill or the lack of it. That's what we set out to examine, and now I think we have a pretty clear picture of what constitutes genuine art and what doesn't.

Phaedrus I think so too, but I'd like you to summarize it.

Socrates Here it is. Until someone knows the truth about every subject he's writing or speaking about, and can define things as they really are, and having defined them can divide them further until they can be divided no more -- and until he can analyze the nature of the soul in the same way, identifying which types of discourse are suited to which types of soul, and arrange everything accordingly, offering simple arguments to simple natures and complex, many-layered arguments to complex natures -- until he's accomplished all of that, he won't be able to handle the craft of speaking with genuine artistry, whether his purpose is teaching or persuading. That's the view our entire argument points to.

Phaedrus Yes, that was definitely our conclusion.

Socrates Second, regarding whether it's right or wrong to write and deliver speeches, and when it's a credit and when it's a disgrace -- didn't our earlier argument make clear...?

Phaedrus Make clear what?

Socrates That whether it's Lysias or any other writer who ever lived or ever will live -- whether a private citizen or a politician proposing laws and thereby becoming the author of a political treatise -- if he imagines that his written words possess great certainty and clarity, the mere fact of his writing that way is a disgrace, regardless of what anyone says. Because not to understand the nature of justice and injustice, good and evil, and not to be able to tell the dream from the reality -- that can't honestly be anything but disgraceful, even if the whole world applauds.

Phaedrus True.

Socrates But the person who recognizes that a written work necessarily contains much that isn't serious, and that no poem or prose composition -- spoken or written -- has ultimate value if it's merely recited to be believed rather than examined and learned from; the person who understands that even the best writing is only a reminder of what we already know; that true clarity, depth, and seriousness exist only in principles of justice and goodness and nobility that are communicated through live dialogue and inscribed directly on the soul, which is the only real writing; the person who considers such living principles his own legitimate children -- first, the understanding he discovers within his own heart, and second, the understanding he has carefully planted in the souls of others, which are its descendants and relatives -- the person who cares for these and disregards everything else: this is the right kind of person. And you and I, Phaedrus, should pray to become like him.

Phaedrus That is absolutely my wish and my prayer.

Socrates Well then -- the play has been performed, and we've said enough about rhetoric. Go and tell Lysias that we went down to the fountain and school of the Nymphs, and they told us to deliver a message -- to him and to all other writers of speeches, to Homer and all poets whether they write lyrics or not, and to Solon and everyone who has composed political works they call laws. The message is this: if their writings are founded on knowledge of the truth, and they can defend and prove what they've written through live conversation -- arguments that make their written words look thin by comparison -- then they deserve to be called not just poets or orators or lawmakers, but something higher, a name that befits the serious work of their lives.

Phaedrus And what name would you give them?

Socrates "Wise" -- that I can't call them. That's too great a title; it belongs to the divine alone. But "lovers of wisdom" -- philosophers -- that's their proper and fitting name.

Phaedrus Very fitting indeed.

Socrates On the other hand, someone who can't rise above his own compositions -- who has spent ages patching and stitching them together, adding a bit here, removing a bit there -- can fairly be called a poet, a speechwriter, or a lawmaker. Nothing more.

Phaedrus Of course.

Socrates Now go tell that to your friend Lysias.

Phaedrus But there's another friend of yours who shouldn't be forgotten.

Socrates Who?

Phaedrus Isocrates -- the brilliant young Isocrates. What message will you send him? How should we describe him?

Socrates Isocrates is still young, Phaedrus. But I'm willing to make a prophecy about him.

Phaedrus What prophecy?

Socrates I think he has a genius that soars far above the speeches of Lysias, and his character is made of finer stuff. I have a feeling he'll improve astonishingly as he grows older, and that all the rhetoricians who came before will seem like children compared to him. What's more, I believe rhetoric alone won't satisfy him. There's a divine spark in him that will drive him toward something higher. He has the element of philosophy in his nature. That's the message from the gods who dwell in this place. I'll deliver it to Isocrates myself -- he's my delight. And you deliver the other message to Lysias, who is yours.

Phaedrus I will. And now that the heat has died down, let's head back.

Socrates Shouldn't we offer a prayer first to the gods of this place?

Phaedrus By all means.

Socrates Beloved Pan, and all you other gods who make this place your home: grant me beauty in my inner soul, and let my outer self be in harmony with what's within. Let me count the wise as the truly wealthy. And as for gold, give me only as much as a self-controlled person can carry.

Is there anything else? I think that prayer is enough for me.

Phaedrus Pray the same for me too. After all, friends should share everything.

Socrates Let's go.

The Republic

Book I

Justice and the Stronger

I went down to the Piraeus yesterday with Glaucon, Ariston's son. I wanted to offer my prayers to the goddess, and I was also curious to see the festival -- it was the first time they'd held it. The procession put on by the locals was impressive, but the Thracian contingent was every bit as beautiful, maybe even more so. After we'd finished our prayers and taken in the spectacle, we turned to head back toward the city.

That's when Polemarchus, Cephalus' son, spotted us from a distance as we were setting off. He sent his servant running after us. The servant grabbed my cloak from behind and said, "Polemarchus wants you to wait."

I turned around and asked where his master was.

"He's right behind you," said the boy. "Just wait a moment."

"We'll wait," Glaucon said. And sure enough, a few minutes later Polemarchus appeared, along with Adeimantus -- Glaucon's brother -- and Niceratus, the son of Nicias, and several others who'd been at the procession.

Polemarchus said to me, "Socrates, it looks like you and your friend are already heading back to the city."

"You're not far wrong," I said.

"But do you see how many of us there are?" he replied. "Are you stronger than all of us? Because if not, you're going to have to stay right here."

"Well, there might be another option," I said. "We could persuade you to let us go."

"Can you persuade people who refuse to listen?" he asked.

"Certainly not," said Glaucon.

"Then you can count on us not listening."

Adeimantus chimed in: "Has nobody told you about the torch-race on horseback tonight? It's in honor of the goddess."

"On horseback!" I said. "That's something new. Riders carrying torches and passing them to each other during the race?"

"Exactly," said Polemarchus. "And that's not all -- there's going to be a festival after dark that you really shouldn't miss. We'll eat dinner first and then go watch. There'll be lots of young people there, and we'll have a good conversation. Stay. Don't be difficult."

Glaucon said, "Well, since you insist, I suppose we'll have to."

"Fine by me," I replied.

So we went home with Polemarchus. There we found his brothers Lysias and Euthydemus, along with Thrasymachus the Chalcedonian, Charmantides the Paeanian, and Cleitophon the son of Aristonymus. Cephalus, Polemarchus' father, was there too. I hadn't seen him in a long time, and he looked like he'd aged quite a bit. He was sitting in a cushioned chair with a garland on his head -- he'd been offering sacrifices in the courtyard. There were other chairs arranged in a semicircle, and we sat down next to him. He greeted me warmly, then said:

"You don't come to see me nearly often enough, Socrates. If I could still get around, I wouldn't be asking you to come to me -- I'd come to you. But at my age I can barely make it into the city, so you should come down to the Piraeus more often. Because let me tell you something: the more the body's pleasures fade away, the more I enjoy good conversation. The desire for it grows and grows. So don't turn me down. Come visit us. Treat this house like your own. These young men are good company, and you and I are old friends."

"There's nothing I like better, Cephalus," I replied, "than talking with men of your age. I think of you as travelers who've already walked a road that I may have to walk myself, and I want to ask you: is the road smooth and easy, or rough and difficult? You've reached what the poets call the 'threshold of old age.' So tell me -- is it harder toward the end? What's your report?"

"I'll tell you exactly how I feel about it, Socrates," he said. "A group of us old men get together regularly -- birds of a feather, as the saying goes. And at these gatherings, the usual refrain is: 'I can't eat like I used to. I can't drink. The pleasures of youth and love are gone. It was great while it lasted, but now that's over, and life isn't really living anymore.' Some of them go on about how their relatives treat them badly, and they'll give you a long list of all the terrible things old age has inflicted on them.

"But to me, Socrates, these people are blaming the wrong thing. If old age were the cause of their misery, then I'd feel the same way -- and so would every other old person. But that's not my experience, and it's not the experience of others I've known. I remember a wonderful story about the poet Sophocles. Someone asked him, 'How's your love life, Sophocles? Are you still the man you were?' And he replied, 'Quiet! I'm delighted to have escaped that. It was like being chained to a raving lunatic.' I've thought about that many times since, and it still strikes me as beautifully put. Because old age does bring a great sense of calm and freedom. When the passions loosen their grip, it's exactly as Sophocles said -- you're freed not from one mad master, but from many.

"The truth is, Socrates, the complaints about old age and about how relatives treat you -- they all come from the same source: not old age itself, but a person's character. If you're naturally calm and at peace with yourself, you'll barely feel the weight of the years. But if you're the opposite sort of person, then youth and old age are equally miserable for you."

I was genuinely impressed, and I wanted to draw him out further. "Yes, Cephalus," I said, "but I suspect most people don't buy that when you say it. They think old age sits lightly on you not because of your temperament but because you're rich. As they say, wealth is quite the comforter."

"You're right -- they don't buy it," he replied. "And there's something to what they say, but not nearly as much as they think. There's a story about Themistocles. A man from the tiny island of Seriphos was insulting him, saying he was only famous because he was an Athenian, not because of any personal merit. Themistocles shot back: 'True enough -- if I'd been born in Seriphos, I wouldn't be famous. But you wouldn't be either, even if you'd been born in Athens.' The same thing applies here: a good person who's poor won't find old age easy. But a bad person who's rich won't ever have peace with himself either."

"Can I ask, Cephalus -- did you mostly inherit your fortune, or did you make it yourself?"

"Make it? Socrates, let me tell you -- I'm somewhere between my father and grandfather when it comes to moneymaking. My grandfather, who had my name, doubled and tripled what he'd inherited, ending up with roughly what I have now. But my father Lysanias brought the fortune down below its current level. I'll be satisfied if I leave these sons of mine not less but a little more than I received."

"The reason I asked," I said, "is that you seem fairly indifferent to money. That's usually a trait of people who've inherited their wealth rather than made it themselves. The self-made types develop a second love for their money -- they adore it the way authors adore their own books or parents adore their children. On top of the natural love that everyone has for money because of what it can buy, they have this extra attachment to it as their own creation. That makes them terrible company. All they can talk about is how great wealth is."

"That's true," he said.

"Very true. But let me ask you something else: What do you think is the greatest benefit you've gotten from your wealth?"

"Something that most people probably wouldn't believe," he said. "But here's the thing, Socrates. When a man starts to think that death is coming for him, fears and worries creep into his mind that never bothered him before. The old stories about the underworld -- about how people are punished there for what they've done in this life -- used to seem ridiculous. Now they start to haunt him. Maybe it's the weakness of age, or maybe it's because he's getting closer to that other place and can see it more clearly. Either way, suspicions and terrors crowd in on him, and he starts going over his life, tallying up the wrongs he's done. And when a man finds that the total is large, he bolts awake in the middle of the night like a frightened child, and he's filled with dark foreboding. But for a man whose conscience is clean, as Pindar beautifully says, sweet hope is the kind nurse of his old age:

"'Hope,' he says, 'cherishes the soul of him who lives in justice and holiness. Hope is the nurse of his old age, the companion of his journey -- hope, which is mightiest to sway the restless soul of man.'

"Those are wonderful words. And the great benefit of wealth -- I don't say for every man, but for a good man -- is this: it means he's never had to cheat or defraud anyone, intentionally or by accident. And when he departs for the next world, he's not terrified about offerings owed to the gods or debts owed to men. Wealth contributes enormously to this peace of mind. So weighing everything up, I'd say that for a man of good sense, this is the greatest advantage money can give."

"Well said, Cephalus," I replied. "But about this thing, justice -- is it simply telling the truth and paying what you owe? Nothing more than that? And even that definition -- doesn't it have exceptions? Suppose a friend lends me his weapons when he's perfectly sane, and then comes to ask for them back when he's lost his mind. Surely no one would say I should return them, or that it would be right to do so. And nobody would say I should always tell the truth to someone in that state either."

"You're absolutely right," he replied.

"Then telling the truth and paying your debts isn't a correct definition of justice."

"I'm afraid, Socrates, that I have to go now," said Cephalus. "I need to attend to the sacrifices. I'll hand the argument over to Polemarchus and the rest of you."

"Isn't Polemarchus your heir?" I said.

"He certainly is!" he answered, laughing, and went off to the sacrifices.

"All right then," I said, "you, the heir to this argument -- tell me: what did Simonides say about justice that you think he got right?"

"He said that paying your debts is just," Polemarchus answered. "And I think he was right about that."

"Well, I'd hate to doubt a man as wise and inspired as Simonides. But his meaning -- which is probably perfectly clear to you -- is anything but clear to me. He certainly can't mean what we were just talking about: that I should return a deposit of weapons or anything else to someone who's out of his mind. And yet a deposit is clearly a debt."

"True."

"So when the person asking me for it isn't in his right mind, I shouldn't hand it over?"

"Certainly not."

"Then Simonides didn't mean to include that kind of case when he said paying debts is justice?"

"Certainly not. He thinks a friend should always do good to a friend, and never harm."

"I see -- so returning a deposit of gold that would actually hurt the person receiving it, if the two parties are friends, isn't really repaying a debt. Is that what you think Simonides meant?"

"Yes."

"And what about enemies? Should they receive what we owe them too?"

"Absolutely," he said. "They should receive what's owed to them. And what an enemy owes another enemy is exactly what's appropriate -- which is to say, something bad."

"So Simonides was speaking in riddles, the way poets do. What he actually meant was that justice is giving each person what's appropriate to them -- and he called that a 'debt.'"

"That must have been his meaning," he said.

"By heaven! Then suppose we asked him: 'Simonides, what appropriate things does the skill of medicine give, and to whom?' What do you think he'd say?"

"Obviously that medicine gives drugs and food and drink to human bodies."

"And what appropriate things does the skill of cooking give, and to what?"

"Seasoning to food."

"Good. And what does the skill of justice give, and to whom?"

"Well, Socrates, if we follow the logic of the previous examples, then justice is the skill that gives benefits to friends and harm to enemies."

"That's what he means?"

"I think so."

"And who is best at doing good to friends and harm to enemies when they're sick?"

"A doctor."

"And when they're on a sea voyage, amid the dangers of the ocean?"

"A captain."

"Then in what kind of situation is the just person best at helping friends and harming enemies?"

"In war, I'd say. Fighting against the one and allying with the other."

"Fair enough. But when someone is healthy, there's no need for a doctor, is there?"

"No."

"And when someone isn't at sea, there's no need for a captain?"

"No."

"So in peacetime, is justice useless?"

"I wouldn't say that at all."

"You think justice is useful in peace as well as in war?"

"Yes."

"The way farming is useful for getting grain?"

"Yes."

"And shoemaking is useful for getting shoes?"

"Yes."

"Then what's the equivalent usefulness of justice in peacetime? What does it help you get?"

"It's useful in contracts, Socrates."

"By contracts you mean business partnerships?"

"Yes."

"But when you're playing a board game, who's the more useful partner -- a just person or a skilled player?"

"The skilled player."

"And when you're laying bricks, who's more useful -- a just person or a builder?"

"The builder, obviously."

"Then what kind of partnership is the just person better at than, say, a musician is at playing the harp?"

"A money partnership."

"Except when it comes to actually using money, Polemarchus. If you want to buy a horse, you'd want someone who knows horses, not someone who's just. And if you want to buy a ship, you'd want a shipbuilder or a captain. Right?"

"Apparently."

"So when is a just person the better partner for handling silver or gold?"

"When you need to keep a deposit safe."

"You mean -- when the money isn't being used? When it's just sitting there?"

"Yes."

"So you're saying justice is useful when money is useless?"

"That seems to be where we've ended up."

"And if you want to keep a pruning hook safe, justice is handy. But when you want to actually use it, you need a gardener's skill?"

"Apparently."

"And you'd say justice is useful for keeping a shield or a lyre safe when you're not using them. But when you need to use them, you want a soldier or a musician?"

"Necessarily."

"So in general, justice is useful when things aren't being used, and useless when they are?"

"That seems to be the implication."

"Then justice doesn't amount to much, does it? But let's push further. Isn't the person who's best at landing a punch in a boxing match also the best at blocking one?"

"Yes."

"And the person most skilled at preventing disease is also the most skilled at causing it?"

"True."

"And the best person to guard a military camp is also the best person to infiltrate the enemy's?"

"True."

"So in general, whoever is good at guarding something is also good at stealing it?"

"I suppose that follows."

"Then if the just person is good at safeguarding money, he's also good at stealing it."

"That's where the argument seems to lead," he said.

"So the just person turns out to be a thief! You must have picked this up from Homer. He's fond of Odysseus' grandfather Autolycus, and says of him that 'he surpassed all men in theft and perjury.' So it seems you, Homer, and Simonides all agree: justice is a kind of theft -- practiced, of course, for the benefit of friends and the harm of enemies. Isn't that what you were saying?"

"No -- definitely not that! Though honestly I'm not sure what I was saying anymore. But I do still believe that justice means helping friends and harming enemies."

"All right, but let me ask: when you say 'friends' and 'enemies,' do you mean the people who actually are good or bad, or just the people who seem to be?"

"I'd think a person would love those they consider good and hate those they consider evil."

"But don't people make mistakes about this all the time? Don't many bad people seem good, and many good people seem bad?"

"That's true."

"So for those people, the good become their enemies and the bad become their friends?"

"Yes."

"And in that case, it would be right for them to help bad people and hurt good ones?"

"That seems to follow."

"But good people are just and wouldn't do wrong?"

"True."

"So by your argument, it's just to harm people who've done nothing wrong?"

"No, Socrates -- that can't be right. The whole argument sounds immoral."

"Then maybe we should say we ought to do good to the just and harm to the unjust?"

"That sounds better."

"But think about the consequence. Many people are bad judges of character. They have friends who are terrible people and enemies who are actually good. In that case, they'd end up harming good people and helping bad ones -- which is exactly the opposite of what we said Simonides meant."

"You're right," he said. "We should probably fix the error in how we're using the words 'friend' and 'enemy.'"

"What was the error?"

"We assumed that a friend is whoever seems good."

"And how should we fix it?"

"A true friend is someone who both seems good and actually is good. Someone who only seems good but isn't -- that person only seems like a friend but isn't one. Same goes for enemies."

"So you're saying the good are our friends and the bad are our enemies?"

"Yes."

"And instead of our original version -- 'do good to friends and harm to enemies' -- we should say: 'Do good to friends who are truly good, and harm to enemies who are truly evil?'"

"Yes, that seems right to me."

"But should a just person harm anyone at all?"

"Absolutely -- he should harm people who are both wicked and his enemies."

"When you harm a horse, does it get better or worse?"

"Worse."

"Worse in terms of what makes a horse excellent -- not in terms of what makes a dog excellent?"

"Right -- in terms of horse-excellence."

"And dogs that are harmed get worse in terms of dog-excellence, not horse-excellence?"

"Of course."

"And what about people? When they're harmed, don't they get worse in terms of what makes a human being excellent?"

"Yes."

"And isn't human excellence the same thing as justice?"

"Certainly."

"Then people who are harmed necessarily become more unjust?"

"That seems to follow."

"But can a musician use the art of music to make people unmusical?"

"Impossible."

"Or a horseman use his skill to make people bad at riding?"

"No."

"Then can the just, by means of justice, make people unjust? Can the good, through virtue, make people bad?"

"Absolutely not."

"Any more than heat can produce cold?"

"No."

"Or drought can produce moisture?"

"No."

"And the good can't harm anyone?"

"It seems not."

"And the just person is good?"

"Yes."

"Then harming anyone -- friend or otherwise -- isn't the act of a just person. It's the act of the opposite: an unjust person."

"I think what you're saying is absolutely true, Socrates."

"So if someone claims that justice means repaying debts -- that a just person owes good to friends and evil to enemies -- that person is not wise. It's simply not true, because we've shown that harming others can never be just."

"I agree," said Polemarchus.

"Then you and I are ready to join forces against anyone who tries to pin this saying on Simonides, or Bias, or Pittacus, or any other wise man?"

"I'm ready to fight at your side," he said.

"Want to know who I think really said it?"

"Who?"

"I think it was Periander, or Perdiccas, or Xerxes, or Ismenias the Theban -- some rich, powerful man who was deeply impressed with his own power. He was the one who first declared that justice is 'doing good to your friends and harm to your enemies.'"

"That sounds exactly right," he said.

"Good. But if this definition of justice has also collapsed, what other one can we offer?"

Now, throughout this whole discussion, Thrasymachus had been trying to break in and seize control of the argument, but the others kept holding him back -- they wanted to hear us finish. When Polemarchus and I reached a pause, though, he couldn't contain himself any longer. He gathered himself up and came at us like a wild animal going in for the kill. Polemarchus and I were genuinely terrified.

He bellowed at the entire room: "What is this nonsense, Socrates? Why are you two playing these little games, bowing and scraping to each other? I'm telling you -- if you actually want to know what justice is, stop just asking questions. Stop showing off by tearing apart other people's answers. You know perfectly well it's easier to ask than to answer. Give your own answer. And don't tell me justice is 'duty' or 'advantage' or 'profit' or 'gain' or 'interest.' I won't accept that garbage. I want clarity. I want precision."

I was shaken by his outburst. I couldn't even look at him without trembling. Honestly, I think if I hadn't forced myself to look him in the eye first, I'd have been struck dumb. But I'd seen the fury building in him, so I managed to look at him before he spoke, and that meant I could reply.

"Thrasymachus," I said, with a slight quaver, "don't be so hard on us. If Polemarchus and I went wrong somewhere in the argument, it wasn't on purpose. If we were looking for a piece of gold, you wouldn't think we were deliberately fumbling around, ruining each other's chances of finding it. So why, when we're searching for justice -- something worth far more than gold -- would you accuse us of 'bowing and scraping' and not doing our best to find the truth? No, my friend, we're perfectly willing and eager. The problem is that we can't figure it out. Surely you experts who know all the answers should feel sorry for us, not angry."

"Ha!" he replied with a bitter laugh. "There it is -- classic Socrates! I knew it. I told everyone in advance: whatever you ask him, he'll refuse to answer. He'll dodge, he'll play dumb, he'll pull out the irony -- anything to avoid actually committing to a position."

"Well, you are a philosopher, Thrasymachus," I replied. "You know perfectly well that if you ask someone what numbers make twelve, but then say, 'Don't you dare answer six times two, or four times three, or three times four, or two times six -- that sort of nonsense won't do for me!' -- obviously nobody can answer your question. But what if the person said, 'Thrasymachus, what do you mean? If one of these answers you've banned happens to be the right one, am I supposed to give a wrong answer instead? Is that what you want?' How would you respond to that?"

"Oh, as if the two situations were anything alike!" he scoffed.

"Why shouldn't they be?" I replied. "And even if they're not perfectly alike, but only appear so to the person being asked -- shouldn't he still give the answer he thinks is true, regardless of whether you or I forbid it?"

"So that's what you're going to do -- give one of the answers I've banned?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if I did, once I've thought it through and one of them seems right."

"But what if I give you an answer about justice that's better than any of those?" he said. "What should happen to you then?"

"What should happen to me? What should happen to any ignorant person? Obviously, I should learn from the wise. That's what I'd deserve."

"How charmingly naive! But what about paying for the lesson?"

"I'll pay when I have the money," I said.

"But you do have money, Socrates!" Glaucon broke in. "And Thrasymachus, don't worry -- we'll all chip in for Socrates."

"Right," said Thrasymachus, "and then Socrates will do what he always does: refuse to answer himself, wait for someone else to answer, and then tear their answer to pieces."

"My good man," I said, "how can anyone answer who admits he doesn't know and says so openly? And who, even if he has some half-formed thoughts of his own, has just been told by an authority like yourself not to voice them? The obvious move is for you to answer, since you claim to know what justice is and can explain it. Please, do us all a favor. I'd consider it a personal gift if you'd educate me, and I'm sure the rest of the company would be grateful too."

Glaucon and the others joined in my request. Thrasymachus was clearly dying to speak -- he thought he had a brilliant answer and wanted to show it off. But first he pretended to insist that I should answer instead. Finally, he gave in and said, "Behold, the wisdom of Socrates! He won't teach anything himself. Instead he goes around learning from others and never even says thank you."

"That I learn from others," I replied, "is absolutely true. But that I'm ungrateful? That I completely deny. I don't have money, so I pay in praise -- which is all I have. And you'll see soon enough how eager I am to praise anyone who speaks well. I expect you'll speak very well indeed."

"Then listen," he declared. "I say that justice is nothing other than the interest of the stronger. Well? Why aren't you praising me? Oh, of course -- you won't."

"Give me a moment to understand you first," I said. "Justice, you say, is the interest of the stronger. Now what exactly do you mean by that, Thrasymachus? Surely you don't mean something like this: Polydamas the wrestler is stronger than us, and eating beef is in his interest because it builds his strength -- therefore eating beef is also just and right for us, even though we're weaker?"

"That's disgusting, Socrates! You're deliberately twisting my words into the most damaging interpretation possible."

"Not at all, my good sir. I'm just trying to understand. I wish you'd be a little clearer."

"Well," he said, "you do know that different states have different forms of government -- tyrannies, democracies, aristocracies?"

"Obviously."

"And in each state, the government is the ruling power?"

"Yes."

"And each type of government makes laws that serve its own interests. A democracy makes democratic laws. A tyranny makes tyrannical laws. An aristocracy makes aristocratic laws. And once they've made these laws, they declare to the people: 'This is justice -- obeying our laws.' Anyone who breaks them gets punished as a lawbreaker and an unjust person. So that's what I mean: in every state, the principle of justice is the same -- it's the interest of the established government. And since the government has the power, the only reasonable conclusion is that justice is everywhere the same thing: the interest of the stronger."

"Now I understand you," I said. "Whether you're right is what I need to figure out. But let me point out, Thrasymachus, that you've used the word 'interest' in your definition -- the very word you told me I wasn't allowed to use. You've just added 'of the stronger.'"

"A trivial addition," he said.

"Maybe trivial, maybe not -- we'll see. First we need to figure out if what you're saying is actually true. I agree that justice involves interest of some kind. But you add 'of the stronger,' and that's the part I need to examine. So let's proceed."

"Proceed."

"All right. You say it's just for subjects to obey their rulers?"

"I do."

"But are rulers infallible? Or do they sometimes make mistakes?"

"Of course they sometimes make mistakes."

"So when they make laws, sometimes they get it right and sometimes they get it wrong?"

"Sure."

"When they get it right, their laws serve their own interests. When they get it wrong, the laws go against their interests. You'd agree with that?"

"Yes."

"But their subjects are required to obey those laws -- and that's what you call justice?"

"Yes."

"Then according to your own argument, justice isn't only obeying what serves the interest of the stronger -- sometimes it's obeying what goes against their interest."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I'm just repeating what you said. Let's think about it. Haven't we agreed that rulers can be wrong about what's in their own interest? And also that obeying them is justice? Didn't we agree on both those points?"

"I suppose so."

"Then you've also agreed that justice sometimes goes against the interest of the rulers -- the stronger. Because if justice means obeying the rulers' commands, and the rulers sometimes command things that hurt themselves, then -- my wisest of men -- how can you escape the conclusion that justice sometimes means the weaker are forced to do what injures the stronger?"

"Nothing could be clearer, Socrates," said Polemarchus.

"Sure -- if you're going to be his cheerleader," said Cleitophon.

"He doesn't need a cheerleader," Polemarchus replied. "Thrasymachus admitted himself that rulers sometimes command things that aren't in their own interest, and that obeying those commands is justice."

"What Thrasymachus said," Cleitophon insisted, "is that doing what your rulers command is just."

"Yes, Cleitophon, but he also said justice is the interest of the stronger. And after admitting both of those things, he agreed that the stronger sometimes command things that hurt themselves. If both are true, then justice is the injury of the stronger just as much as the interest."

"But," said Cleitophon, "he meant the interest of the stronger is what the stronger thinks is his interest. That's what the weaker must do, and that's what he defined as justice."

"Those weren't his words," said Polemarchus.

"Never mind," I said. "If that's what Thrasymachus means now, let's go with it. Tell me, Thrasymachus -- did you mean by justice what the stronger thinks is in his interest, whether it actually is or not?"

"Absolutely not!" he said. "Do you think I'd call someone 'the stronger' at the exact moment they're making a mistake?"

"Well, yes," I said. "I thought that's what you meant when you agreed that rulers aren't infallible."

"You argue like an informer, Socrates! When someone who's sick makes a mistake about his treatment, do you call him a doctor at the moment he makes that mistake? Or when someone makes an arithmetic error, do you call him a mathematician at that moment? Sure, we casually say 'the doctor made a mistake' or 'the mathematician miscalculated.' But strictly speaking, none of these experts make mistakes insofar as they truly are what we call them. They only err when their skill fails them -- and at that point, they've stopped being experts. No craftsman, no sage, no ruler makes a mistake insofar as he is that thing. Everyone says 'the ruler erred,' and I was using that everyday way of speaking. But to be perfectly precise -- since you love precision so much -- the ruler, insofar as he truly is a ruler, never errs. And since he never errs, he always commands what's in his own interest. And the subject is required to carry out those commands. So, as I said from the start: justice is the interest of the stronger."

"Well, Thrasymachus! Do I really argue like an informer?"

"You certainly do," he said.

"You think I asked those questions deliberately to trip you up?"

"I know you did. But it won't work. You can't outwit me in debate, and you can't overpower me by brute force of argument."

"I wouldn't even try, my friend. But to prevent any misunderstanding between us going forward: when you talk about a ruler or a stronger person whose interest the weaker must serve -- are you using 'ruler' in the popular, loose sense, or in the strict sense?"

"In the strictest possible sense," he said. "Now try to cheat and play the informer if you can! I'm asking no mercy. But you'll never be able to. Never."

"Do you really think I'm crazy enough to try to shave a lion?" I said.

"Well, you just tried, and it didn't go so well for you."

"Enough of these pleasantries," I said. "Let me ask you a real question. Take the physician in your strict sense -- is he a healer of the sick, or a moneymaker?"

"A healer of the sick."

"And a captain -- the true captain -- is he a commander of sailors, or just another sailor?"

"A commander of sailors."

"The fact that he's on the ship doesn't make him a sailor. He's called a captain not because he sails, but because of his skill and his authority over the crew."

"True," he said.

"Now, every skill has an interest it serves?"

"Yes."

"And the whole point of a skill is to discover and provide for that interest?"

"That's the aim."

"And the interest of any skill is simply its own perfection -- nothing else?"

"What do you mean?"

"Let me use an example. If you asked me whether the body is self-sufficient or has needs, I'd say: 'Obviously it has needs -- it can get sick and need healing. That's why the art of medicine exists: to serve the body's interests.' Am I right?"

"Perfectly right."

"But does the art of medicine itself have any deficiency? Does any skill need some other skill to look after its interests, and that skill needs another, and so on forever? Or does each skill simply look after the interests of its subject matter? Because a skill, insofar as it's a genuine skill, is faultless and complete. Take the words in your precise sense and tell me: am I wrong?"

"You're right," he said.

"Then medicine doesn't serve the interests of medicine. It serves the interests of the body."

"True."

"And horsemanship doesn't serve the interests of horsemanship -- it serves the interests of the horse. No skill serves itself, because it has no needs of its own. It serves only its subject."

"So it seems," he said.

"But surely, Thrasymachus, every skill has authority over its subject?"

He agreed to this, though grudgingly.

"Then no skill considers or commands what's in the interest of the stronger. It considers only the interest of the weaker -- its subject."

He tried to dispute this too, but eventually gave in.

"Then," I continued, "no doctor, insofar as he's a doctor, considers his own good. He considers the good of his patient. Because we've agreed that the true physician is a ruler over human bodies, not a moneymaker."

"We have."

"And the captain, strictly speaking, is a ruler of sailors, not just a fellow sailor."

"Agreed."

"And such a captain will make decisions for the benefit of his sailors -- not for his own benefit."

He gave a reluctant "yes."

"Then, Thrasymachus, no ruler of any kind, insofar as he is a ruler, considers or pursues his own interest. He always considers the interest of his subject -- the person or thing under his care. Everything he says and does is directed toward that."

When we reached this point and everyone could see that his definition of justice had been demolished, Thrasymachus -- instead of responding to the argument -- said: "Tell me, Socrates, do you have a nanny?"

"What? Why would you ask something like that instead of answering?"

"Because she obviously lets you walk around with a runny nose and never wipes it. She hasn't even taught you the difference between a shepherd and a sheep."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you actually think that shepherds and cattle herders look after their animals for the animals' benefit and not for their own profit or their master's. You also imagine that real rulers -- the ones who govern states -- think about their subjects the way you'd think about sheep. That they aren't, day and night, studying how to benefit themselves. You're so completely lost when it comes to justice and injustice that you don't even realize that justice is actually someone else's good -- the interest of the ruler and the stronger -- and a loss for the person who obeys and serves. Injustice is the opposite: it rules over the truly simple and just. The unjust person is the stronger, and his subjects serve his happiness, not their own.

"Consider this, you impossibly naive Socrates. The just person always comes out behind the unjust. First, in private business: whenever they're partners, you'll find that when the partnership breaks up, the unjust person walks away with more and the just person with less. Second, in dealings with the state: when taxes come due, the just person pays more on the same income and the unjust person pays less. When there's something to be received, the just person gets nothing and the unjust person gets plenty. Or look at what happens when they hold office: the just person neglects his own affairs and takes other losses, and gains nothing from public service because he won't serve his friends in underhanded ways. His friends and relatives end up resenting him for that. Everything is reversed for the unjust person.

"I'm talking about injustice on the grand scale -- that's where the advantage is clearest. And the clearest case of all is tyranny. A tyrant uses fraud and force to seize everything at once -- sacred and profane, private and public. If you got caught doing any one of these crimes individually, you'd be punished and disgraced. People who commit these acts piecemeal are called temple robbers, kidnappers, burglars, swindlers, and thieves. But when a man not only steals the citizens' property but enslaves the citizens themselves? Instead of those ugly names, he gets called happy and blessed -- not just by his own people, but by everyone who hears about it. The reason people condemn injustice isn't that they're afraid of committing it. They're afraid of being victims of it.

"So as I've shown, Socrates: injustice, when practiced on a large enough scale, has more strength, more freedom, and more power than justice. And as I said from the beginning, justice is the interest of the stronger, while injustice is what actually profits a man."

Having dumped this flood of words into our ears like a bathhouse attendant emptying a bucket of water over our heads, Thrasymachus made as if to leave. But the others wouldn't let him. They insisted he stay and defend what he'd said. I added my own plea.

"Thrasymachus, you remarkable man, you can't just toss a speech like that at us and walk away! Don't you owe us an explanation -- or rather, don't you need to figure out whether it's even true? This is no small question we're trying to settle. We're asking how a person should live their entire life."

"Did I say otherwise?" he replied.

"You seem not to care at all about us, Thrasymachus -- whether we live better or worse by not knowing what you claim to know is a matter of complete indifference to you. Come on, friend, don't keep it to yourself. There are a lot of us here, and we'll make it worth your while. I'll tell you frankly -- I'm not convinced. I don't believe that injustice is more profitable than justice, even if you give it free rein to do whatever it wants. Suppose there is an unjust man who has the power to be unjust, through force or fraud -- that still doesn't persuade me that injustice is the better deal. And there may be others here who feel the same way. So if we're wrong, convince us. Show us we're mistaken to prefer justice over injustice."

"And how am I supposed to convince you?" he said. "If what I've already said doesn't do it, what more can I do? Should I physically force the proof into your brain?"

"By Zeus, please don't! But at least be consistent. Or if you change your position, change it openly and don't try to slip it past us. Look what's happening here, Thrasymachus -- let's go back to what you said before. You started by defining the true physician in the strict sense. But when you got to the shepherd, you dropped that precision. You said the shepherd fattens the flock not for the sheep's benefit, but like someone getting ready for a dinner party -- or like a businessman raising stock for sale. But the art of shepherding, strictly speaking, cares only about the good of the sheep. The shepherd has only to provide what's best for them, since the skill's own perfection is already guaranteed as long as it does its job. And that's what I was saying about rulers too. The art of ruling, whether in public or private life, can only aim at the good of the subjects. You, on the other hand, seem to think that rulers actually enjoy being in power."

"I don't just think it," he said. "I know it."

"Then answer me this: why is it that in the case of lesser offices, nobody takes them willingly without pay? Isn't it because they know that governing benefits the subjects, not the governor? And let me ask you: aren't different skills different precisely because they have different functions? My distinguished friend, please say what you actually think, so we can make some progress."

"Yes, that's what makes them different," he said.

"And each skill gives us a particular good, not just any good? Medicine gives health, navigation gives safety at sea, and so on?"

"Yes."

"And the art of earning wages gives us pay. But we don't mix it up with other skills. You wouldn't say that navigation is the art of medicine just because a captain's health might improve on a sea voyage, would you?"

"Of course not."

"And if someone gets better while earning wages, you wouldn't call earning wages an art of medicine?"

"No."

"And you wouldn't call medicine the art of earning wages just because a doctor charges fees?"

"No."

"We've agreed that each skill's benefit is specific to that skill?"

"Yes."

"Then if all skilled practitioners share some common benefit, that benefit must come from some additional thing they all have in common?"

"It seems so."

"And that common benefit -- the pay they receive -- comes from their additional use of the wage-earning art, not from their own particular skill."

He agreed, reluctantly.

"So the pay doesn't come from the individual skills themselves. Medicine produces health. Building produces buildings. The wage-earning art -- a separate art -- produces pay. Each skill benefits its own subject. But would the practitioner get any benefit from practicing his skill if he weren't also paid?"

"I suppose not."

"But does he fail to benefit his subject when he works for free?"

"No -- he still provides the benefit."

"Then here it is, Thrasymachus. No skill or form of government exists for its own benefit. As we said before, every skill governs and provides for the interests of its subjects -- the weaker, not the stronger. It looks after the good of those under its care, not the good of the ruler.

"And that's why, my friend, no one willingly chooses to govern. No one willingly takes on the burden of straightening out other people's messes -- not without compensation. Because a true practitioner of any art never acts in his own interest when he's doing his work. He always acts in the interest of his subject. That's why rulers need to be paid, in one of three ways: money, honor, or a penalty for refusing."

"What do you mean, Socrates?" asked Glaucon. "I understand money and honor. But what's this about a penalty being a form of payment?"

"You don't understand the payment that motivates the best people to rule? You do know that loving money and loving honor are both considered disgraceful?"

"Yes."

"That's why good people won't rule for money -- they don't want to be called mercenaries for openly demanding payment, and they don't want to be called thieves for secretly enriching themselves from public funds. And they won't rule for honor either, because they're not ambitious. So there has to be a penalty to compel them. That's probably why seeking office eagerly, instead of waiting to be forced into it, has always been seen as shameful.

"And the greatest penalty for refusing to rule? Being governed by someone worse than yourself. That's what drives good people to take office -- not because they want to, not because they expect to enjoy it, but because they can't find anyone better, or even equally good, to hand the job to. Imagine a city made up entirely of good people. Everyone would compete to avoid ruling, the way they now compete to get power. And that would prove once and for all that a true ruler doesn't naturally look out for his own interest -- he looks out for his subjects' interest. Everyone who understood this would rather receive benefits than take on the trouble of governing.

"So I completely reject Thrasymachus' claim that justice is the interest of the stronger. But we can come back to that. What strikes me as much more important is his other claim: that the life of the unjust person is better than the life of the just person. Which is it, Glaucon? Which life would you choose?"

"I'd say the just life is more advantageous," he answered.

"Did you hear all the benefits of the unjust life that Thrasymachus listed?"

"I heard him. But he hasn't convinced me."

"Then should we try to show him he's wrong, if we can?"

"Absolutely."

"Well," I said, "if we match his speech with a speech of our own, listing all the advantages of being just, and then he responds, and then we respond, we'll end up having to count and measure the goods on each side. We'd need judges to decide. But if we proceed the way we've been going -- making arguments, finding points of agreement -- we can be our own judges and our own advocates at the same time."

"Agreed," he said.

"Which method do you prefer?"

"The second."

"All right, Thrasymachus," I said, "let's start from the top. You say perfect injustice is more profitable than perfect justice?"

"I do. And I've given my reasons."

"Then what do you think about them as character traits? Would you call one a virtue and the other a vice?"

"Let me guess -- you'd call justice virtue and injustice vice?"

"What a charming idea! How likely, given that I've just argued injustice is profitable and justice isn't."

"Then what would you say?"

"The opposite."

"You'd call justice a vice?"

"No -- I'd call it noble foolishness."

"And injustice -- is that malice?"

"No. I'd call it good judgment."

"So in your view, unjust people are wise and good?"

"The ones who can pull off injustice on the grand scale, yes -- the ones with the power to conquer cities and nations. Though you probably think I'm talking about pickpockets. Even petty theft has its advantages if you don't get caught. But that's small potatoes compared to what I'm describing."

"I understand what you mean, Thrasymachus. But I'm amazed that you'd rank injustice alongside wisdom and virtue, and justice with their opposites."

"That's exactly what I'm doing."

"Now that's a much tougher position. If you'd just said injustice is profitable while admitting it's still a vice -- the way most people would -- I could respond with conventional arguments. But since you're bold enough to claim that injustice is actually virtuous and wise, I expect you'll insist on it."

"You've guessed exactly right."

"Then I shouldn't hold back from examining this, as long as I believe you're being sincere. And I think you are, Thrasymachus -- I think you really mean it and aren't just toying with us."

"Whether I'm serious or not, what difference does it make to you? Just deal with the argument."

"Fair enough. Then answer me this: does the just person try to gain an advantage over other just people?"

"Of course not -- otherwise he wouldn't be the delightful simpleton he is."

"Would he try to gain an advantage in actions over what's just?"

"No."

"But what about the unjust? Would the just person claim he deserves more than the unjust person, or not?"

"He'd think it was fair, and he'd try -- but he wouldn't succeed."

"That's not what I'm asking. My question is: does the just person want and claim more than the unjust, but not more than the just?"

"Yes, that's right."

"And what about the unjust person? Does he claim more than the just and try to get more than what's just?"

"Of course -- he claims more than everyone."

"And the unjust person will also try to outdo other unjust people, to get more than all?"

"Yes."

"Let me put it this way. The just person doesn't try to get more than his like -- only more than his unlike. The unjust person tries to get more than both his like and his unlike."

"Perfectly stated."

"And you say the unjust is wise and good, and the just is neither?"

"Right again."

"And the unjust resembles the wise and good, while the just resembles their opposites?"

"Naturally. Each person resembles what they're like."

"Fine. Now let me take a different approach. You'd agree that one person can be a musician and another not?"

"Yes."

"Which is wise and which is foolish?"

"The musician is wise, the non-musician foolish."

"And good insofar as he's wise, bad insofar as he's foolish?"

"Yes."

"Same for a doctor?"

"Same."

"Now, do you think a musician tuning a lyre would try to outdo or surpass another musician in how the strings are tightened?"

"No."

"But he would claim to surpass a non-musician?"

"Obviously."

"And a doctor prescribing treatment -- would he try to outdo another doctor, or the practice of medicine?"

"No."

"But he would claim to surpass a non-doctor?"

"Yes."

"Think about this more broadly. Does any person with knowledge ever want to claim more than another person with knowledge, in the same domain? Wouldn't he say and do the same as any other knowledgeable person in the same situation?"

"I suppose that has to be right."

"And what about the ignorant person? Wouldn't he try to outdo both the knowledgeable and the ignorant?"

"Probably."

"And the knowledgeable person is wise?"

"Yes."

"And the wise is good?"

"Yes."

"So the wise and good person doesn't try to gain more than his like -- only more than his unlike and opposite."

"It seems so."

"While the bad and ignorant person tries to gain more than both."

"Apparently."

"But Thrasymachus -- didn't we agree that the unjust person tries to outdo both his like and his unlike?"

"We did."

"And the just person doesn't try to outdo his like, only his unlike?"

"Yes."

"Then the just person resembles the wise and good, and the unjust resembles the evil and ignorant."

"That seems to follow."

"And we agreed that each person is like what they resemble."

"We did."

"Then the just person has turned out to be wise and good, and the unjust person evil and ignorant."

Thrasymachus conceded all of this, but not the way I'm telling it now -- smoothly and easily. He resisted every step. He was sweating profusely -- it was a hot summer day -- and the perspiration was streaming off him. And then I saw something I'd never seen before: Thrasymachus blushing.

Now that we'd established that justice is virtue and wisdom, and injustice is vice and ignorance, I moved to the next point.

"All right," I said, "that's settled. But weren't we also saying that injustice has power and strength? Do you remember, Thrasymachus?"

"I remember," he said. "But I don't accept what you've just argued, and I have plenty to say about it. If I did speak up, though, you'd accuse me of making speeches. So either let me say my piece, or if you'd rather keep asking questions, go ahead. I'll say 'very good,' the way people humor old women telling stories, and I'll nod 'yes' and 'no.'"

"Not if it goes against what you really think."

"Fine -- I'll humor you, since you won't let me speak. What more do you want?"

"Nothing more. If that's how you want to do it, I'll ask and you'll answer."

"Go ahead."

"Then let me repeat my earlier question so we can examine the relationship between justice and injustice properly. It was claimed that injustice is stronger and more powerful than justice. But now that we've identified justice with wisdom and virtue, it's easy to show that justice is also stronger -- since injustice is ignorance. Nobody could dispute that now.

"But I want to look at it from another angle, Thrasymachus. You'd agree that a state can be unjust? That it might try to enslave other states, or might already have enslaved them and hold many under its control?"

"Certainly," he said. "And the most perfectly unjust state would be the best at it."

"I know that's your view. But here's my question: can this conquering power exist without justice, or only with it?"

"If you're right that justice is wisdom, then only with justice. But if I'm right, then without it."

"I'm delighted, Thrasymachus, that you're actually engaging with the argument now -- not just nodding yes and no."

"It's to humor you," he said.

"You're very kind. Now humor me a little more. Do you think a state, or an army, or a band of robbers, or a gang of thieves -- or any group of people working toward an evil goal -- could accomplish anything if they spent their time wronging each other?"

"Obviously not."

"But if they didn't wrong each other, they'd do better?"

"Certainly."

"Because injustice produces division, hatred, and infighting, while justice produces harmony and friendship. Isn't that right?"

"Let's say it is -- I don't want to argue with you."

"How generous! But consider: if injustice produces hatred wherever it appears -- among slaves, among free citizens, among anyone -- won't it make them hate each other and fight, making them incapable of working together?"

"Yes."

"What if it arises between just two people? Won't they quarrel and become enemies -- to each other and to just people?"

"They will."

"And what about a single individual? Does injustice lose its power when it's inside just one person?"

"Let's say it keeps its power."

"Then isn't the nature of injustice this: wherever it takes root -- in a city, an army, a family, or any group -- it first makes that body incapable of unified action, because it creates internal conflict and division. It makes the body its own enemy, and the enemy of everything that opposes it and of everything just. Isn't that true?"

"Yes."

"And in a single person, injustice does the same thing. It makes him incapable of action because he's at war with himself. And it makes him an enemy to himself and to just people. Right?"

"Yes."

"And surely, my friend, the gods are just?"

"Let's say they are."

"Then the unjust person will be an enemy of the gods, and the just person will be their friend."

"Go ahead and feast on your argument," he said. "I won't oppose you, or I'll upset the company."

"Then keep answering, and let me finish the meal. We've already shown that just people are wiser, better, and more capable of action, while unjust people can't even work together. And when we talk about unjust people acting together effectively, that's not strictly true either. If they were completely unjust, they'd have turned on each other long ago. There must have been some justice in them that kept them from destroying each other along with their victims. They were only half-villains. If they'd been whole villains -- truly and completely unjust -- they'd have been utterly incapable of accomplishing anything. That's the truth of the matter, not what you said at first.

"But whether the just also live better and happier lives than the unjust -- that's another question we still need to examine. I think they do, based on what we've argued. But this isn't a trivial question. The stakes are enormous. We're talking about nothing less than how to live."

"Then proceed."

"I will. Tell me: would you say a horse has a function?"

"Yes."

"And the function of a horse, or anything else, is the thing that only it can do, or that it does better than anything else?"

"I don't follow."

"Let me explain. Can you see with anything other than your eyes?"

"No."

"Or hear with anything other than your ears?"

"No."

"Then we'd rightly call seeing and hearing the functions of those organs?"

"Yes."

"Now, you could cut a vine branch with a dagger or a chisel or plenty of other tools?"

"Sure."

"But nothing works as well as a pruning hook made for the job?"

"True."

"So we'd call that the function of the pruning hook?"

"Yes."

"Now you can see what I meant when I asked whether the function of a thing is what only it can do, or what it does better than anything else."

"I understand, and I agree."

"Good. Now, everything that has a function also has a corresponding excellence -- the quality that lets it perform that function well. The eye has a function?"

"Yes."

"And an excellence?"

"Yes."

"The ear has a function?"

"Yes."

"And an excellence?"

"Yes."

"And the same for everything else?"

"Yes."

"Could the eyes perform their function well if they lacked their proper excellence and had a defect instead?"

"How could they?" he said. "You mean if they were blind?"

"I mean whatever their excellence is -- I haven't gotten to that yet. I'm just asking a general question: does anything perform its function well through its proper excellence, and perform it badly through its defect?"

"Certainly."

"So ears deprived of their excellence can't perform their function?"

"Right."

"And the same applies to everything else?"

"I'd agree."

"Then consider: doesn't the soul have a function that nothing else can perform? Functions like directing, commanding, deliberating, and so on? Can these be assigned to anything other than the soul?"

"Nothing else."

"And what about living -- isn't that a function of the soul?"

"Absolutely."

"And the soul has an excellence too?"

"Yes."

"Can the soul fulfill its functions well if it's deprived of its proper excellence?"

"It cannot."

"Then a soul with a bad quality must rule and direct badly, and a soul with a good quality must do these things well?"

"Necessarily."

"And we've agreed that justice is the excellence of the soul, and injustice its defect?"

"We have."

"So the just soul and the just person will live well, and the unjust person will live badly?"

"That's what your argument proves," he said.

"And the person who lives well is blessed and happy, while the person who lives badly is the opposite?"

"Obviously."

"Then the just person is happy, and the unjust person is miserable?"

"So be it."

"But being miserable isn't profitable -- being happy is."

"Obviously."

"Then, my blessed Thrasymachus, injustice can never be more profitable than justice."

"Let this be your entertainment at the festival, Socrates," he said.

"And I have you to thank for it," I replied, "now that you've stopped snarling at me and become so pleasant. But I haven't been well entertained, and that's my own fault, not yours. I've been like a glutton at a banquet, snatching a taste of every dish as it comes out without properly enjoying any of them. Before we settled what justice actually is, I abandoned that question and rushed into whether justice is a virtue or a vice. Then when a new question came up -- whether injustice is more profitable than justice -- I couldn't resist chasing that one too. The result of this whole discussion is that I know nothing. Because as long as I don't know what justice is, I can hardly know whether it's a virtue or not, and I certainly can't know whether the just person is happy or unhappy.

Book II

The Ring of Gyges

I thought those words ended the discussion. But as it turned out, they were only the beginning. Glaucon — who's always the most combative person in any room — wasn't satisfied with Thrasymachus backing down. He wanted the fight to continue. So he turned to me.

"Socrates, do you actually want to convince us that being just is always better than being unjust? Or do you just want to seem like you've convinced us?"

I'd genuinely like to convince you, I replied — if I could.

"Well, you certainly haven't managed it. Let me ask you something. How would you categorize different kinds of good things? Aren't there some things we value purely for their own sake, regardless of consequences? Simple pleasures and enjoyments that make us happy in the moment, even if nothing comes from them?"

I agree there's a category like that, I said.

"And isn't there a second category — things like knowledge, sight, and health — that we value both for themselves and for what they produce?"

Certainly, I said.

"And wouldn't you recognize a third category too — things like physical training, medical treatment, and the various ways of making money? These things do us good, but we find them unpleasant. Nobody would choose them for their own sake. We only put up with them for the rewards and results they bring."

Yes, I said, there's that third category too. But why are you asking?

"Because I want to know which category you'd put justice in."

The highest one, I replied — among those goods that anyone who wants to be truly happy would value both for their own sake and for what they produce.

"That's not what most people think. Most people would put justice in the unpleasant category — the kind of thing you endure for the sake of your reputation and the rewards it brings, but that's inherently disagreeable and best avoided if you can get away with it."

I know that's how they think, I said. That's exactly the position Thrasymachus was pushing a moment ago, when he attacked justice and praised injustice. But I'm too thick-headed to be convinced by him.

"I want you to hear me out," Glaucon said, "and then we'll see whether we agree. Thrasymachus gave up too easily, as if you'd charmed him like a snake. But to my mind, the real nature of justice and injustice still hasn't been made clear. I want to set aside their rewards and consequences. I want to know what justice and injustice are in themselves — how they work inside the soul.

"So here's what I'll do, if you're willing. First, I'll lay out the common view of what justice is and where it comes from. Second, I'll show that everyone who practices justice does it reluctantly — out of necessity, not because it's actually good. And third, I'll argue that this attitude makes perfect sense, because the unjust person's life really is far better than the just person's — at least, that's what people say. Now, Socrates, I don't actually believe this myself. But I'm genuinely confused. My ears are ringing with arguments from Thrasymachus and countless others, and I've never once heard anyone defend justice in a way that truly satisfies me — defend it on its own terms, for what it is in itself. That's what I want to hear from you. So I'm going to argue the case for injustice as powerfully as I can, and the way I argue will show you exactly how I want to hear you argue back — praising justice and tearing injustice apart. What do you say? Will you go along with this?"

There's nothing I'd rather discuss, I said. What topic would a sensible person want to return to more often than this one?

"Wonderful," he said. "Then let me start, as I proposed, with the common view of what justice is and where it comes from.

"Here's what people say. Doing injustice is, by nature, a good thing. Suffering injustice is bad. But the pain of suffering injustice outweighs the pleasure of doing it. So after people have had enough experience of both — doing wrong and having wrong done to them — those who can't reliably avoid one while getting away with the other decide it's better to make a deal. They agree among themselves: nobody does injustice, and nobody suffers it. That's where laws and social contracts come from. Whatever the law commands, they call 'lawful' and 'just.'

"And that, they say, is the origin and nature of justice. It's a compromise — a middle ground between the best possible outcome, which is doing injustice and getting away with it, and the worst possible outcome, which is suffering injustice with no way to fight back. Justice sits in the middle. People don't embrace it because it's actually good. They tolerate it because they're not strong enough to get away with injustice. Any real man — anyone truly worthy of the name — would never agree to such a deal if he had the power to do whatever he wanted. He'd be insane to submit to it. That's the standard account, Socrates, of what justice is and where it comes from.

"Now, to show that people who practice justice do it only because they lack the power to be unjust, let's try a thought experiment. Imagine we give both the just person and the unjust person complete freedom to do whatever they want. Then let's follow them and see where their desires lead. We'll catch the just person red-handed, heading down the exact same road as the unjust person — following self-interest, which every creature naturally pursues as a good. It's only the force of law that drags people off this path and onto the road of justice.

"The kind of freedom I'm talking about would be something like the power that Gyges' ancestor supposedly had — Gyges, the forefather of Croesus the Lydian. According to the story, he was a shepherd working for the king of Lydia. One day there was a massive storm, and an earthquake ripped open the ground right where he was tending his flock. Amazed, he climbed down into the opening. Inside, among other wonders, he found a huge hollow bronze horse with doors in its side. He crouched down and peered in, and there inside was a dead body — larger than any human — wearing nothing but a gold ring on one finger. He pulled off the ring and climbed back out.

"Now, the shepherds had a regular meeting where they'd put together their monthly report for the king about the flocks. Gyges showed up at this meeting wearing the ring. While he was sitting among the others, he happened to turn the setting of the ring inward, toward his palm. Instantly, he became invisible. The other shepherds started talking about him as if he'd left the room. He was stunned. He touched the ring again and turned the setting outward — and reappeared. He tested it several times, and every time he got the same result: turn the setting inward, invisible; turn it outward, visible.

"Once he was sure of its power, he arranged to be chosen as one of the messengers sent to report to the king. When he arrived at the palace, he seduced the queen. With her help, he conspired against the king, murdered him, and seized the throne.

"Now imagine there were two such rings. Give one to the just person and one to the unjust person. No one on earth has an iron will strong enough to stay just under those circumstances. No one would keep their hands off other people's property when they could walk into any shop and take whatever they wanted. No one would resist walking into people's houses and sleeping with whoever they pleased, or killing anyone who got in their way, or freeing any prisoner they chose. With that ring, a person could live like a god among mortals.

"And here's the point: the just person would act exactly like the unjust one. They'd both end up doing the same things. This is powerful proof that nobody is just by choice — only by compulsion. Justice isn't truly good for the individual. Whenever people think they can get away with injustice, they're unjust. Deep down, everyone believes that injustice pays far better than justice. And anyone who argues the way I've been arguing would say they're right. Because think about it: if someone had this power of invisibility and never did a single wrong thing — never took what wasn't his — everyone who knew about it would think he was the most pathetic fool alive. They'd praise him to each other's faces, sure — keeping up appearances out of fear that they'd be victimized themselves. But privately? They'd think he was an idiot. So much for that.

"Now, to really judge the lives of the just and unjust persons, we need to isolate them completely. Here's how. Let the unjust person be perfectly unjust, and the just person be perfectly just. Strip away everything except their justice or injustice. Give each one the full equipment for their respective way of life.

"First, the unjust person. He should be like a master craftsman — like a brilliant pilot or surgeon who knows exactly what's possible and what isn't, who attempts only what he can pull off, and who recovers smoothly from any slip. The perfectly unjust person must commit his injustice flawlessly and never get caught. Getting caught means you're a failure — an amateur. The highest achievement of injustice is to have a spotless reputation while being completely corrupt. So give our perfectly unjust man total perfection. Let him commit the worst crimes while maintaining the greatest reputation for virtue. If he stumbles, let him recover. Let him be eloquent enough to talk his way out of anything, brave and strong enough to use force when needed, and rich and well-connected enough to buy whatever cooperation is required.

"Now place the just person beside him. A man of complete simplicity and nobility who wants, as Aeschylus says, not to seem good but to be good. Strip away the 'seeming.' Because if he seems just, he'll receive honors and rewards, and then we won't know if he's being just for the sake of justice itself or for the honors and rewards. So strip him bare. Dress him in nothing but his justice. Make him the opposite of the other man in every way. Let him be the best person alive — and let everyone think he's the worst. Let him be tested to the limit. Let him go through his entire life being just while seeming unjust. When both men have reached the absolute extreme — one of justice, one of injustice — then let's judge which of them is happier."

Good heavens, my dear Glaucon! I said. You're polishing these two characters for judgment like a sculptor buffing statues — first one, then the other.

"I'm doing my best," he said. "And now that we know what they look like, it's not hard to predict what kind of life awaits each one. Let me describe it — and if the description sounds harsh, Socrates, remember that these aren't my words. I'm putting them in the mouths of those who praise injustice over justice.

"Here's what they'll say: The just man — the one who's just but seems unjust — will be whipped, tortured, and chained. They'll burn out his eyes. And finally, after suffering every imaginable torment, they'll impale him. Then he'll understand that you should want to seem just, not actually be just.

"Those lines from Aeschylus apply far better to the unjust man than the just one. Because the unjust man deals in reality, not appearances. He doesn't want to seem unjust — he wants to be unjust. His mind, as the poet says:

"'Has soil deep and fertile, Out of which spring his prudent counsels.'

"First, because he's thought to be just, he holds power in the city. He can marry whoever he wants and give his children in marriage to whomever he pleases. He can do business with anyone, always to his own advantage, because he has no scruples about cheating. In every contest — public or private — he comes out on top. He grows rich at everyone else's expense. Out of his gains he can help his friends and crush his enemies. He can offer lavish sacrifices and magnificent gifts to the gods. He can honor the gods — or any person he chooses — far more generously than any just man can afford to. And so, naturally, the gods are more likely to favor him than the just man.

"That's how the argument goes, Socrates. Both gods and humans conspire to give the unjust man a better life than the just one."

I was about to respond to Glaucon when his brother Adeimantus jumped in.

"Socrates, you don't think that's the whole argument, do you?"

What else is there? I asked.

"The most important point hasn't even been mentioned," he said.

Well, I said, as the proverb goes, "let brother help brother." If Glaucon's missed anything, back him up. Although I have to confess, he's already said more than enough to knock me flat and leave me unable to defend justice.

"Nonsense," Adeimantus said. "But let me add something. There's another side to this argument about how people praise and condemn justice — one that Glaucon left out, and it's essential for making his point clear.

"Think about what parents and teachers always tell their children: 'Be just! Be good!' But why? Not for the sake of justice itself — for the sake of reputation. They want their children to seem just so they can land the political offices, the good marriages, and all the advantages Glaucon described. These people make even more of appearances than the others. They pile on the good opinion of the gods too, promising a shower of blessings that heaven supposedly rains down on the righteous. And they cite the poets as authorities. Hesiod says the gods make the oaks of the just:

"'Bear acorns at their summit, and bees in the middle; And the sheep bow down with the weight of their fleeces.'

"And Homer has a similar line about a righteous king:

"'As the fame of some blameless king who, like a god, Maintains justice; to whom the black earth brings forth Wheat and barley, whose trees are heavy with fruit, And his sheep never fail to bear, and the sea gives him fish.'

"Musaeus and his son go even further in the rewards they promise the just. They take the righteous down to the underworld, seat them on couches at an eternal feast, and give them garlands on their heads — basically promising that the ultimate reward for virtue is getting to be drunk forever. Others extend the rewards even further, saying the descendants of the faithful and just will prosper for three or four generations. That's how they praise justice.

"As for the wicked — they bury them in mud in Hades and make them carry water in sieves. While they're still alive, they bring them to ruin and pile on all those punishments Glaucon described for the just man who seems unjust. That's all their imagination can produce — nothing else. That's their whole system: praise the one, condemn the other.

"But there's another angle, Socrates, that goes beyond the poets and shows up in ordinary conversation too. Everyone — absolutely everyone — agrees that justice and virtue are noble but painful and demanding, while the pleasures of vice are easy to come by and only condemned by law and social convention. People say dishonesty is usually more profitable than honesty. They're perfectly happy to call wicked men blessed and shower them with honors — in public and private — as long as they're rich and powerful. Meanwhile, they look down on anyone who's weak and poor, even while admitting these people are actually better human beings.

"But the strangest part of all is what they say about the gods. They claim the gods heap suffering and misery on many good people and reward the wicked with prosperity. Wandering priests and prophets show up at rich men's doors claiming they have powers granted by the gods — the ability to atone for any sin through rituals and festivals, to curse any enemy (just or unjust) with cheap spells and incantations. They say they can 'bind heaven' to do their bidding. And they cite the poets as proof. They quote Hesiod on how easy vice is:

"'Vice may be had in abundance without trouble; the way is smooth and her dwelling-place is near. But before virtue the gods have set toil.'

"And they quote Homer as evidence that the gods can be bribed:

"'The gods too may be turned from their purpose; and men pray to them and avert their wrath by sacrifices and soothing entreaties, and by libations and the smell of burning fat, when they have sinned and transgressed.'

"These prophets produce heaps of books attributed to Musaeus and Orpheus — supposedly descendants of the Moon and the Muses — and use them to convince not just individuals but entire cities that sins can be washed away through rituals and entertainments, whether you're alive or dead. These rituals for the dead they call 'mysteries,' and they promise to free us from punishment in the afterlife. But if we neglect them? Who knows what horrors await us.

"Now," Adeimantus continued, "consider this, my dear Socrates. When young people hear all of this — everything that gods and humans supposedly say about virtue and vice — how does it affect them? The smart ones especially — the ones who, like bees flitting from flower to flower, draw conclusions from everything they hear about how to live the best possible life. A young person like that would probably say to himself, in the words of Pindar:

"'Can I by justice or by crooked ways of deceit ascend a loftier tower which may be a fortress to me all my days?'

"Because everything he's heard says this: if I'm actually just but don't seem just, there's no profit in it — only pain and loss. But if I'm unjust while maintaining a reputation for justice, the good life is mine. So since 'appearance tyrannizes over truth and is lord of happiness,' as the wise men say, I should devote myself entirely to appearances. I'll paint a picture of virtue around myself — a beautiful facade, a front door of respectability. But behind it I'll keep the cunning, crafty fox, as Archilochus, that wisest of poets, recommends.

"'But wait,' someone objects, 'it's hard to hide wickedness forever.' True, I'd reply — but nothing great is easy. Still, if we want to be happy, this is the path. For concealment, we'll set up secret societies and political clubs. There are teachers of persuasion who can train us to win over courts and assemblies. So partly through persuasion and partly through force, we'll take what we want and never pay the price.

"'But the gods can't be fooled, and they can't be forced.' Well — what if there are no gods? What if they don't care about humans? Then why worry about hiding anything? And even if they do exist and do care, everything we know about them comes from tradition and the poets — the very same poets who say the gods can be swayed by sacrifices and offerings. So let's be consistent and believe both claims, or neither. If the poets are right, then we should be unjust and simply offer sacrifices from our ill-gotten gains. If we're just, we might avoid divine punishment but we'll miss out on the profits of injustice. If we're unjust, we get to keep the profits, and as long as we pray hard enough after sinning, the gods will forgive us.

"'But there's an afterlife where we or our descendants will pay for our crimes.' Yes, my friend, but the mysteries and the atoning gods have great power — or so the mightiest cities tell us, backed up by the children of the gods themselves, their poets and prophets.

"So on what grounds, Socrates, should we choose justice over the worst kind of injustice? If we combine injustice with a convincing appearance of respectability, we'll thrive — with gods and men alike, in this life and the next. That's what every authority, human and divine, tells us.

"Knowing all this, Socrates, how can any person of intelligence or talent or wealth or power bring himself to honor justice — or even keep a straight face when someone else praises it? And if there is someone who can actually refute what I've said and prove that justice is best — well, that person won't be angry at the unjust. He'll be forgiving, because he knows that apart from those rare individuals who are born with a divine hatred of injustice, or who've actually learned the truth, nobody is just by choice. People condemn injustice only because they're too old, too weak, or too cowardly to practice it themselves. And you can prove this easily enough: give any of them the power to be unjust, and they will be — as fast as they can.

"The root of all this, Socrates, goes back to the very beginning of our argument, when my brother and I told you how astonished we are that none of justice's so-called defenders — from the ancient heroes down to the thinkers of our own time — has ever praised justice or condemned injustice on its own terms. Nobody has ever adequately described, in verse or prose, what justice and injustice actually do inside the soul — invisible to every human and divine eye. Nobody has shown that justice is the greatest good a soul can possess and injustice the greatest evil. If everyone had always said that — if we'd been taught from childhood that justice is what truly matters — we wouldn't need to guard against each other's wrongdoing. Everyone would be their own watchman, afraid of harboring injustice in their soul the way you'd be afraid of harboring a deadly disease.

"I'm sure Thrasymachus and others would say what I've been saying — and say it even more forcefully. They'd mangle the true nature of justice and injustice beyond recognition. But I'm speaking this forcefully, Socrates — and I'll be frank about why — because I want to hear you argue the opposite side. I don't just want you to prove that justice is superior to injustice. I want you to show what each of them does to the person who has it — what makes one a good thing and the other an evil — regardless of whether gods or humans can see it.

"And please, as Glaucon asked, strip away the reputations. Unless you remove each man's true reputation and replace it with the opposite, we'll say you're not really praising justice — just praising the appearance of it. We'll say you're secretly agreeing with Thrasymachus that justice is really the interest of the stronger, that it's someone else's good, and that injustice is what actually benefits the individual while harming the weaker.

"You've already said that justice belongs to the highest class of goods — those valued both for their results and, even more, for their own sake. Things like sight, hearing, knowledge, health — genuine goods, not merely conventional ones. So what I'm asking you to do is praise justice in exactly that way. Show us the essential good and evil that justice and injustice work in the people who possess them. Let other people praise the rewards and reputations. I can tolerate that sort of argument from them. But from you, Socrates — someone who's spent his whole life thinking about this question — I expect something better, unless you tell me otherwise.

"So prove to us not only that justice is better than injustice, but show what each of them does to its possessor — for good or evil — whether gods and men can see it or not."

I'd always admired the intelligence of Glaucon and Adeimantus, but hearing all this, I was truly delighted.

"Sons of an illustrious father," I said. "That admirer of Glaucon's put it well when he wrote those elegiac verses after you both distinguished yourselves at the battle of Megara:

"'Sons of Ariston, divine offspring of an illustrious hero.'

"That word 'divine' fits perfectly. There's something genuinely remarkable about being able to argue so powerfully for the superiority of injustice and still not be convinced by your own arguments. And I do believe you're not convinced — I can tell from your character. If I were judging only from your speeches, I'd be suspicious. But the more confident I am in your sincerity, the more I'm at a loss for what to say. I'm caught between two impossibilities. On one hand, I feel unequal to the task — and this is proven by the fact that my answer to Thrasymachus, which I thought proved justice's superiority, clearly didn't satisfy you. On the other hand, I can't refuse to help. I'd feel like a coward, standing by while justice is under attack and not lifting a finger to defend it. So I'd better do what I can."

Glaucon and the others begged me to keep going — to carry the investigation through to the end. They wanted the truth about justice and injustice: first, what each one actually is, and second, what advantages each one truly brings. I told them honestly that this would be an enormous undertaking, requiring sharp eyes.

"Since we're not exactly geniuses," I said, "let me suggest a method. Imagine someone with poor eyesight is asked to read tiny letters from far away. Then someone points out that the same letters exist somewhere else, written much larger. Wouldn't it be a stroke of luck to read the large letters first and then check whether the small ones are the same?"

"Absolutely," said Adeimantus. "But how does that apply to our question?"

I'll tell you, I said. Justice can be a quality of an individual, but it can also be a quality of an entire city. Right?

"True," he said.

And isn't a city bigger than an individual?

"It is."

Then justice in the larger thing should be larger and easier to see. So here's what I suggest: let's investigate justice first as it appears in a city, and then look for it in the individual — working from the larger to the smaller and comparing them.

"Excellent idea," he said.

And if we imagine a city being built from scratch, we should be able to watch justice — and injustice — come into being right along with it.

"I'd think so."

And once the city is complete, we'll have a better chance of finding what we're looking for?

"Much better."

But should we actually try to build one? I said. It's going to be a huge undertaking. Think about it.

"I've thought about it," said Adeimantus. "Go ahead."

All right. A city comes into existence, I said, because no one is self-sufficient. We all have many needs. Can you think of any other reason a city would be founded?

"No other reason."

So because we have many needs, and no single person can meet them all, we gather together — one person helping with this, another with that. When all these partners and helpers settle in one place, we call that settlement a city.

"True," he said.

And when they trade with each other, each person giving and receiving, they do it because they believe the exchange benefits them.

"Exactly."

Then let's build a city in our minds from the ground up, I said. And the true founder of any city is necessity — the mother of invention.

"Of course."

Now, the first and most essential need is food — the basic requirement of life and survival.

"Right."

The second is shelter, the third is clothing, and so on.

Now, how will our city meet these needs? We'll need at least one farmer, one builder, one weaver — and should we add a shoemaker? Maybe a few other people to provide for our physical needs?

"That works."

So the bare minimum for a city is four or five people.

Here's a question: should each person try to do everything for themselves? Should the farmer grow enough food for four people, spending four times the effort — and then also try to build his own house, make his own clothes, cobble his own shoes? Or is it better for each person to specialize?

Adeimantus thought each person should specialize and focus on producing one thing.

That's probably the better way, I said. And when you say that, it reminds me that we're not all alike. People have different natural talents suited to different kinds of work.

"Certainly."

And does a person do better work when they have many jobs, or just one?

"Just one."

And there's another point: work suffers when it's not done at the right time.

"True."

Because the work won't wait around for the worker to get to it. The worker has to follow the work and give it priority.

"He does."

So the conclusion is this: more things get produced, and the quality is better, and it's easier — when each person does the one thing they're naturally suited for, at the right time, without being distracted by other tasks.

"Absolutely."

That means we'll need more than four citizens. The farmer won't make his own plow or his other farming tools — not if they're going to be any good. Same with the builder and his tools. And the weaver and the shoemaker.

"True."

So carpenters, blacksmiths, and many other craftspeople will join our little city — which is already starting to grow.

And even when we add cowhands, shepherds, and other herders — so our farmers have oxen to plow with, our builders have draft animals, and our weavers and tanners have fleeces and hides — our city still won't be very big.

"That's true. But it won't be tiny either, with all these people in it."

Then there's the matter of location. It's practically impossible to find a place where nothing needs to be imported.

"Impossible."

So we'll need another class of people — traders who bring in whatever we need from other cities.

"We will."

But if our traders go empty-handed — with nothing the other city wants — they'll come home empty-handed too.

"Obviously."

So we need to produce not only enough for ourselves but a surplus — in the right quantity and quality — to trade with our suppliers.

"We do."

Which means more farmers and more craftspeople.

"Right."

Not to mention importers and exporters — merchants, as we call them.

"We'll need merchants."

And if goods are going to travel by sea, we'll need skilled sailors — and plenty of them.

"Yes, plenty."

Now, within the city itself, how will people exchange their goods? That was one of our main reasons for forming a community in the first place.

"They'll buy and sell, obviously."

So they'll need a marketplace and a currency for exchange.

Now, suppose a farmer or craftsman brings goods to market and nobody's there to trade with him. Should he just sit around in the marketplace instead of doing his work?

"Not at all. There will be people who see the need and set themselves up as shopkeepers. In well-organized cities, these tend to be people who aren't strong enough for other kinds of work. Their job is to stay in the marketplace, taking money from buyers and giving money to sellers."

So this need creates a class of retailers in our city. "Retailers" is the word we use for people who buy and sell in the marketplace, while "merchants" is what we call those who travel between cities. Right?

"Yes," he said.

And there's another class of workers — people who aren't really skilled enough for intellectual work but have strong bodies. They sell their labor and are called hired workers, since "hire" is the word for the price of their labor.

"Right."

So hired workers round out our population?

"Yes."

Well then, Adeimantus — is our city fully grown and complete?

"I think so."

So where does justice live in it? Where does injustice live? At what point in the city's growth did they appear?

"Probably in the way these citizens deal with each other," he said. "I can't imagine they'd show up anywhere else."

You're probably right, I said. Let's think it through and not shy away from the question.

Let's first consider how these citizens will live. They'll grow grain and make wine, build themselves houses, and make clothing and shoes. When they're housed, they'll work in summer mostly stripped down and barefoot, but bundled up in winter. They'll eat barley bread and wheat cakes, baked on mats of clean leaves. They'll recline on beds of yew and myrtle branches, feasting — they and their children — drinking wine they've made themselves, wearing wreaths on their heads, singing hymns to the gods, enjoying each other's company. And they'll be careful not to have more children than they can afford, keeping an eye on the dangers of poverty and war.

At this point Glaucon broke in. "So you're having them eat their bread without anything on it?"

True, I said — I forgot. Of course they'll have relishes. Salt, olives, cheese. They'll boil up roots and herbs the way country people do. For dessert we'll give them figs, chickpeas, and beans. They'll roast myrtle berries and acorns over the fire, drinking in moderation. Living this way, they can expect to reach old age in peace and good health, and pass on the same kind of life to their children.

"Yes, Socrates," Glaucon said, "and if you were building a city for pigs, wouldn't you feed them exactly the same way?"

Well, what would you have, Glaucon? I asked.

"The normal comforts," he said. "People who want to live decently expect to recline on couches, eat at tables, and have the kind of delicacies and desserts we enjoy nowadays."

Ah, I said — now I understand. We're not just examining how a city comes into being. We're examining how a luxurious city comes into being. And maybe that's not a bad thing, because in a luxurious city we might be more likely to find where justice and injustice take root. The true and healthy city, in my opinion, is the one I just described. But if you want to see a city running a fever, I'm happy to look at that too. I suspect many people won't be satisfied with the simple life. They'll want couches, tables, and fancy furniture. They'll want perfumes, incense, courtesans, and pastries — and not just one kind of each, but every variety. We'll have to go beyond the basic necessities I described — houses, clothes, shoes — and bring in painters and embroiderers. We'll need gold and ivory and all sorts of luxury materials.

"True," he said.

Then we'll have to expand our city. The original healthy city won't be big enough anymore. We'll need to fill it with a whole crowd of occupations that go beyond natural needs — hunters, actors, musicians, poets and their entourages of performers, dancers, producers. We'll need makers of all kinds of luxury goods, including fancy clothing. We'll need more servants too — tutors, nurses, nannies, hairdressers, barbers, pastry chefs, cooks. And we'll even need pig farmers, who weren't needed in the earlier version of our city but are needed now. Plus all kinds of livestock, for people who eat meat.

"Definitely."

And living this way, won't we need a lot more doctors than before?

"A lot more."

And the territory that used to be enough for the original population will be too small?

"Yes."

So we'll need to grab a slice of our neighbors' territory for pasture and farmland. And they'll want to grab a slice of ours — if they've also given themselves up to the unlimited pursuit of wealth, going beyond what they actually need.

"That seems inevitable, Socrates."

And then we'll go to war, Glaucon. Won't we?

"We will," he said.

Let's not settle yet whether war does good or harm. Let's just note this: we've discovered the origin of war. It comes from the same causes that produce almost every evil in cities, public and private alike.

"No doubt."

And our city will need to grow again — this time by adding a whole army. The army will go out and fight the invaders to protect everything and everyone we've been describing.

"Can't the citizens defend themselves?" he asked.

No, I said — not if we stick to the principle we all agreed on when we were building the city: that one person can't do many jobs well.

"That's true," he said.

And isn't warfare a skill?

"Certainly."

One that requires just as much training and dedication as shoemaking?

"Absolutely."

We didn't let the shoemaker also be a farmer or a weaver or a builder. We assigned him one job — the one he was naturally suited for — and let him focus on it his whole life so he'd do it well. Isn't it even more important that the work of a soldier be done well? Is war so simple that a person can be a warrior and a farmer at the same time? Nobody becomes a good chess player by playing as a hobby. No tool will make you a skilled fighter if you haven't been trained to use it and haven't devoted serious time to practice. You can't just pick up a shield one day and become a good soldier — whether as a heavy infantry fighter or any other kind of fighter.

"That's right," he said. "Tools that could teach their own use would be priceless."

And the higher the guardian's duties, I said, the more time, skill, training, and dedication they'll require.

"No question."

And won't a guardian need a natural aptitude for the job?

"Of course."

Then it's our task to select the natures best suited for guarding the city — if we can find them.

"It is."

It won't be an easy selection, I said. But we have to be brave and do our best.

Now — isn't a well-bred young guardian a lot like a well-bred dog when it comes to guarding and watching?

"What do you mean?"

I mean that both need to be sharp-eyed, fast enough to chase down anything they spot, and strong enough to fight it when they catch it.

"All those qualities are essential," he said.

And a guardian must be brave if he's going to fight well.

"Obviously."

But will anyone be brave without spirit? Haven't you noticed that spirit is irresistible? When spirit is present, every creature becomes absolutely fearless and unstoppable.

"I have."

So we know the physical qualities our guardian needs.

"Yes."

And the mental ones too — his soul must be full of spirit.

"Right."

But wait, I said. Won't people who are that spirited tend to be fierce — savage even — with each other and with everyone else?

"That's a real problem," he said. "Not easy to solve."

But they have to be dangerous to their enemies and gentle to their friends. Otherwise they'll destroy each other before any enemy gets the chance.

"True," he said.

So what do we do? I asked. Where do we find a nature that's both gentle and fiercely spirited? These seem like opposite qualities.

"They do."

And yet a guardian who lacks either one is no good. Being both seems impossible — which would mean being a good guardian is impossible.

"I'm afraid you're right," he said.

I felt stumped. But then I thought back over what we'd said.

My friend, I said — no wonder we're stuck. We've lost track of the comparison we started with.

"What comparison?"

There are natures that combine these opposite qualities. And you can find them in animals.

"Where?"

Our friend the dog is a perfect example. You know that a well-bred dog is perfectly gentle with people he knows but fierce with strangers.

"Yes, I know that."

So it's not impossible or unnatural to find a guardian who combines both qualities.

"Apparently not."

But wouldn't a proper guardian need more than just spirit? Wouldn't he also need to be something of a philosopher?

"A philosopher?" he said. "I don't follow."

The quality I'm talking about can actually be seen in dogs. It's remarkable.

"What quality?"

Well, a dog is hostile to any stranger he sees and friendly to anyone he knows — even if the stranger has never done him any harm and the friend has never done him any good. Hasn't that ever struck you as interesting?

"I never thought about it before," he said. "But now that you mention it — yes, absolutely."

And this instinct is actually quite charming. Your dog, you see, is a true philosopher.

"How so?"

Because he distinguishes friend from foe by one criterion only: knowledge. He knows one person and doesn't know the other. Any creature that determines what it likes and dislikes based on knowledge and ignorance must be a lover of learning. Don't you think?

"I suppose so."

And isn't the love of learning the same as the love of wisdom? And isn't the love of wisdom what 'philosophy' means?

"It is," he said.

So can we confidently say that a person who's going to be gentle with friends and acquaintances must be, by nature, a lover of wisdom and learning?

"We can."

Then the truly good and noble guardian of our city will need to combine philosophy, spirit, speed, and strength in a single nature.

"Absolutely."

So that's what our guardian looks like. Now — how should these people be raised and educated? Investigating this question might shed light on the bigger question driving our whole inquiry: how do justice and injustice grow up in cities? We don't want to leave anything important out, but we don't want to drag this on forever either.

Adeimantus said this investigation would be extremely valuable.

Then we can't give up, I said, even if it takes a while.

"Of course not."

All right then — let's spend some time telling stories. Our story will be the education of our heroes.

"Let's do it."

So what will their education look like? Can we do better than the traditional system? That has two parts: physical training for the body, and the arts for the soul.

"Right."

And should we start with the arts and move to physical training afterward?

"Sure."

When I say "the arts," I'm including literature. You understand?

"Yes."

And literature can be either true or false?

"Yes."

And we should train young people in both kinds — starting with the false?

"I don't understand what you mean."

You know how we start by telling children stories? Stories that are mostly fictional, though they contain some truth. We tell children stories before they're old enough for physical training.

"That's right."

That's what I meant when I said the arts should come before physical training.

"Makes sense."

And you know that the beginning of anything is the most important part — especially when you're shaping something young and impressionable. That's when character is being formed. That's when the deepest impressions are made.

"Exactly."

So should we just let children listen to any random stories invented by any random person? Should we let them absorb ideas that are, for the most part, the exact opposite of what we'd want them to believe when they grow up?

"Absolutely not."

Then the first order of business is to set up a review board for stories. The reviewers will approve the good stories and reject the bad ones. We'll instruct mothers and nurses to tell their children only the approved stories. Let them shape young minds with these stories even more carefully than they shape young bodies with their hands. Most of the stories currently in circulation will have to go.

"Which stories?" he asked.

You can see the problems in the major stories reflected in the minor ones, I said. They share the same spirit, the same patterns.

"Probably," he said. "But I still don't know which major stories you mean."

The ones told by Homer and Hesiod and the other great poets, I said. They've always been humanity's master storytellers.

"But which stories specifically?" he asked. "And what's wrong with them?"

The worst fault, I said — the fault of telling lies. And not just lies, but ugly lies.

"When do they do that?"

Whenever they give a false picture of what gods and heroes are really like. It's like a painter making a portrait that looks nothing like the person.

"Yes, that kind of thing is certainly objectionable. But which stories exactly?"

First and foremost, I said, there's that greatest of all ugly lies about the highest things — Hesiod's story of what Uranus did, and how Cronus took revenge on him. And then what Cronus' son did to him in turn. Even if these stories were true, they shouldn't be casually told to young, impressionable people. Ideally, they should be buried in silence. If they absolutely must be told, only a chosen few should hear them, in the strictest secrecy, after offering a sacrifice so rare and expensive that hardly anyone could afford it. That would keep the audience very small.

"Yes," he said, "those stories are deeply troubling."

And they're not to be repeated in our city, Adeimantus. A young man shouldn't be told that committing the most terrible crimes is perfectly normal — that even if he beats up his father for doing wrong, he's only following the example of the first and greatest of the gods.

"I completely agree," he said. "Those stories have no place being repeated."

And if we want our future guardians to consider fighting among themselves the most shameful thing possible, we should never breathe a word about wars in heaven, or gods plotting and battling each other. Those stories aren't even true. We should never tell the story of the giants' war, or embroider it on robes. We should stay silent about all those countless quarrels between gods and heroes and their friends and relatives. If we can get them to believe us, we should tell the young that fighting among citizens is sinful and has never happened. That's what old men and women should tell children from the very beginning. And when the children grow up, the poets should be required to tell the same kind of stories. But the story of Hephaestus chaining up his mother Hera? Or Zeus hurling him out of heaven for taking her side when Zeus was beating her? Or any of the battles of the gods in Homer? These must not be allowed into our city — whether people claim they have allegorical meaning or not. Young people can't tell the difference between allegory and literal truth. Whatever enters their minds at that age tends to become permanent and unchangeable. That's why it's so critical that the first stories young people hear should be models of good values.

"You're right," he said. "But if someone asks, 'Where are these model stories? What stories do you mean?' — what do we say?"

I said: You and I, Adeimantus, aren't poets at the moment. We're founders of a city. Founders need to know the general guidelines that poets should follow and the boundaries they shouldn't cross. But actually composing the stories isn't our job.

"Fair enough. But what are these guidelines?"

Something like this, I said: God must always be represented as he truly is, regardless of the form of poetry — whether epic, lyric, or tragic.

"Agreed."

And isn't God truly good? Mustn't he be portrayed that way?

"Certainly."

And nothing good is harmful?

"No."

And what isn't harmful doesn't cause harm?

"Of course not."

And what doesn't cause harm does no evil?

"Right."

And can something that does no evil be a cause of evil?

"Impossible."

Well then — the good is beneficial?

"Yes."

And therefore a cause of well-being?

"Yes."

So the good isn't the cause of everything. It's only the cause of what's good.

"Exactly."

Then God, if he's good, is not the author of everything — as most people claim. He's the cause of only a few things that happen to humans. Because the good things in human life are few, while the bad things are many. The good must be attributed to God alone. For the evils, we need to look for other causes — not God.

"That seems absolutely right," he said.

So we can't listen to Homer or any other poet who foolishly says that two jars

"'Lie at the threshold of Zeus, full of fates — one of good, the other of evil,'

"and that the person who gets a mixture from both

"'Sometimes meets with evil fortune, at other times with good,'

"but that the person who gets only the jar of evil —

"'Wild hunger drives him across the beautiful earth.'

"And we certainly can't accept the idea that 'Zeus distributes both good and evil to us.'

"If anyone claims that the breaking of oaths and treaties — which was actually the work of Pandarus — was orchestrated by Athena and Zeus, or that the gods' strife and conflict was instigated by Themis and Zeus, we won't approve it. And we won't let our young people hear Aeschylus say:

"'God plants guilt among men when he desires utterly to destroy a house.'

"If a poet writes about the sufferings of Niobe, or the house of Pelops, or the Trojan War, or any similar subject, we must either forbid him from saying these are the work of God, or — if they are God's work — he must explain them the way we're trying to here. He must say that what God did was just and right, and that those who were punished were better off for it. But we can't let a poet say that those who were punished are miserable and that God made them miserable. He can say the wicked are miserable because they need punishment and benefit from receiving it from God. But the claim that God, being good, is the author of evil to anyone — that must be strenuously denied. It must never be said or sung or heard, in verse or prose, by anyone — young or old — in any well-governed society. Such a story is self-destructive, contradictory, and impious."

"I agree," he said. "I'm ready to vote for that as law."

Then let this be our first principle about the gods, I said — a rule that our poets and storytellers must follow: God is not the author of all things, but only of what is good.

"That will do," he said.

Now, what about a second principle? What do you think about this: Is God a shape-shifter — a magician who appears sometimes in one form and sometimes in another, transforming himself into many shapes? Or does he deceive us with illusions of such changes? Or is he one single, unchanging being, forever fixed in his own true form?

"I'd need to think about that," he said.

Well, consider this, I said. If something changes, must the change be caused either by the thing itself or by something external?

"Necessarily."

And aren't things that are in the best condition also the least likely to be changed or disrupted by outside forces? Think about the human body: when it's healthiest and strongest, it's least affected by food and drink and exertion. The sturdiest plant is least affected by wind, heat, and similar forces.

"Right."

And the bravest and wisest soul is least disturbed or disrupted by any outside influence.

"True."

And the same principle applies to manufactured objects — furniture, houses, clothes. When they're well made, they hold up best against time and wear.

"Yes."

So everything that's in its best condition — whether by nature, by craft, or both — is least affected by change from outside.

"That seems right."

But God and everything divine is, in every way, perfect.

"Of course."

So God is the least likely of all beings to be changed by external forces.

"The least likely."

But might he change and transform himself?

"Obviously, if he changes at all, it has to be self-caused."

And would he change himself for the better or for the worse?

"If he changes at all, it can only be for the worse. We can't suppose he's lacking in either virtue or beauty."

Exactly right, Adeimantus. And given that — would anyone, god or human, deliberately make himself worse?

"Impossible."

Then it's impossible for God to want to change himself. Being the most beautiful and excellent thing conceivable, every god remains absolutely and forever in his own form.

"That follows necessarily," he said.

Then, my dear friend, let none of the poets tell us that

"'The gods, taking the disguise of strangers from other lands, walk up and down cities in all sorts of forms.'

"And let no one slander Proteus and Thetis, or introduce Hera in a tragedy disguised as a priestess collecting alms

"'for the life-giving daughters of Inachus, the river of Argos.'

"Let's have no more lies of that sort. And let's make sure mothers don't frighten their children, influenced by bad poetry, with stories about gods who 'wander about by night in the likeness of strangers and in all sorts of shapes.' We don't want them turning their children into cowards while blaspheming the gods.

"Heaven forbid," he said.

But, I said, even if the gods don't actually change, might they use magic and deception to make us think they appear in different forms?

"Maybe," he said.

Well — can you imagine God willingly lying, whether in word or deed, or projecting a false image of himself?

"I'm not sure," he said.

Don't you know, I said, that the true lie — if we can call it that — is hated by gods and humans alike?

"What do you mean?"

I mean this: no one willingly accepts deception in the truest and highest part of themselves, about the truest and highest matters. That's where everyone is most afraid of having a lie take root.

"I still don't follow," he said.

That's because you think I'm saying something deep, I replied. I'm saying something simple: being deceived in your soul about the way things really are — having falsehood lodged in the deepest part of yourself — that's what people hate most. Nobody wants that.

"Nobody," he agreed.

And this kind of ignorance in the deceived person's soul — this is what we can fairly call the "true lie." The lie in words is just a kind of copy, a shadow of the deeper deception in the soul. It's not the pure, original falsehood. Am I right?

"Perfectly right."

So the true lie is hated by gods and humans alike.

"Yes."

But lies in words — are they always hateful? Aren't they sometimes useful? When dealing with enemies, for example. Or when friends are about to do something crazy — lies can work like a kind of medicine to stop them. And in the old myths we were discussing — since we don't actually know what happened in ancient times, we make our fictions as close to the truth as possible and put them to good use.

"Very true," he said.

But can any of these reasons apply to God? Is God ignorant of ancient times and forced to resort to fiction?

"That would be ridiculous," he said.

So there's no place for a lying poet in our idea of God.

"None."

Maybe God lies because he's afraid of enemies?

"Inconceivable."

Or because he has friends who are foolish or insane?

"No fool or madman can be a friend of God."

So there's no reason whatsoever for God to lie?

"None."

Then the divine is absolutely incapable of falsehood.

"Absolutely."

God is perfectly simple and true in word and deed. He doesn't change. He doesn't deceive — not by signs, not by words, not in dreams, not in waking visions.

"That's exactly what I think," he said.

So you agree, I said, that this is the second principle for writing and speaking about the gods: the gods are not shape-shifters who transform themselves, and they don't deceive us in any way.

"I agree."

Then, even though we're great admirers of Homer, we won't admire the false dream Zeus sends to Agamemnon. And we won't praise those lines of Aeschylus where Thetis says Apollo sang at her wedding,

"'celebrating her fair offspring whose days were to be long and free from sickness. And when he had spoken of my lot as blessed by heaven in all things, he raised a song of triumph and cheered my soul. And I thought that the word of Phoebus, being divine and full of prophecy, could not fail. And now the very god who sang that song, the one who was present at the feast, the one who said all this — he is the one who has killed my son.'

"When a poet says things like that about the gods, we'll be angry. He won't get a chorus. We won't allow teachers to use such stories in educating the young. Our guardians must be true worshippers of the gods and, as far as humanly possible, like the gods themselves."

"I agree completely," he said. "I accept these principles, and I'll treat them as law."

Book III

Education and the Noble Lie

So those are our principles of theology, I said. Some stories should be told and others shouldn't — at least not to our young people, if we want them to honor the gods, respect their parents, and value friendship with each other.

Yes, he said. And I think our principles are right.

But if they're going to be courageous, don't they need to learn other lessons too? Lessons that will take away the fear of death? Can anyone really be brave if they're terrified of dying?

Certainly not, he said.

And can someone be fearless of death — can they choose death in battle over defeat and slavery — if they believe the underworld is real and horrifying?

Impossible.

Then we need to take control of these storytellers too, the ones who talk about the afterlife. We should ask them not to simply trash-talk the world below, but to speak more positively about it. We need to tell them that their descriptions aren't true and will do real harm to our future warriors.

That will be our duty, he said.

Then, I said, we'll have to cross out a lot of offensive passages, starting with lines like this:

"I would rather be a serf on the land of a poor and landless man than rule over all the dead who have come to nothing."

We'll also have to cut the verse that tells us how Pluto was afraid:

"Lest the grim and squalid mansions which the gods abhor should be seen by both mortals and immortals."

And this one:

"Oh heavens! So there really is a soul and ghostly form in the house of Hades — but no mind at all!"

And this about Tiresias:

"To him even after death did Persephone grant a mind, that he alone should be wise; but the other souls are flitting shades."

And:

"The soul, flying from the limbs, went down to Hades, lamenting its fate, leaving behind its manhood and youth."

And:

"The soul, with a shrilling cry, passed like smoke beneath the earth."

And:

"As bats in the hollow of some mysterious cavern — whenever one of them drops out of the cluster and falls from the rock, they fly shrilling and clinging to one another — so did these souls hold together with shrilling cries as they moved."

And we'll have to ask Homer and the other poets not to be angry when we cut these and similar passages. It's not because they're bad poetry — they're not. It's not because they don't appeal to popular taste — they do. But that's exactly the problem. The greater the poetic power of these lines, the less suitable they are for the ears of boys and men who are supposed to be free — people who should fear slavery more than death.

Undoubtedly.

We'll also need to reject all those terrifying names that describe the underworld — Cocytus, Styx, "ghosts under the earth," "sapless shades," and every similar word that makes people shudder just hearing it. I'm not saying these horrible stories might not serve some purpose. But there's a real danger that our guardians will become too jumpy and soft because of them.

There is a real danger, he said.

Then we need to get rid of them.

We need a different and nobler kind of poetry instead.

And shall we go ahead and eliminate all the weeping and wailing of famous heroes?

They'll go with the rest.

But is it right to get rid of them? Think about it: our principle is that a good man won't think death is anything terrible for another good man who is his friend.

Yes, that's our principle.

So he won't grieve for his departed friend as though something terrible had happened?

He won't.

A man like that, as we've also said, is self-sufficient when it comes to his own happiness. He needs other people less than anyone.

True, he said.

And for that reason, losing a son or brother, or losing his fortune — these are the least terrible things that could happen to him.

So he'd be the least likely to grieve, and he'd bear any misfortune like that with the greatest calm.

Yes, he'd feel it far less than other people would.

Then we're right to eliminate the lamentations of famous heroes. We'll hand that kind of behavior over to women — and not even women of any real character — or to men of the lowest sort. That way, the people we're educating to be defenders of our country will be ashamed to act like that.

That's absolutely right.

So once again, we'll ask Homer and the other poets not to show us Achilles — the son of a goddess — first lying on his side, then on his back, then on his face, then jumping up and pacing in a frenzy along the shores of the barren sea, now scooping up sooty ashes with both hands and pouring them over his head, weeping and wailing in all the different ways Homer described. And they shouldn't depict Priam, kinsman of the gods, begging and groveling:

"Rolling in the dirt, calling out each man loudly by his name."

Even more urgently, we'll beg the poets not to portray the gods themselves weeping and saying:

"Alas! My misery! Alas! that I bore the bravest to my sorrow."

And if they absolutely must bring in the gods, they should at least not dare to misrepresent the greatest of them so badly that Zeus says:

"Oh heavens! With my own eyes I see a dear friend of mine chased round and round the city, and my heart is sorrowful."

Or:

"Woe is me, that fate decrees Sarpedon — dearest of men to me — should fall at the hands of Patroclus, son of Menoetius."

Because look, my dear Adeimantus — if our young people take these unworthy portrayals of the gods seriously, instead of laughing at them the way they should, hardly any of them will think that they, mere humans, are above such behavior. They won't feel any shame about it. Instead of having self-control, they'll be constantly whining and weeping over every little thing.

Yes, he said, that's absolutely true.

Yes, I replied. But it shouldn't happen — and that's what our argument has just proved. We need to stand by that conclusion until someone disproves it with a better one.

It shouldn't happen.

And our guardians shouldn't be prone to excessive laughter either. Because a fit of laughter, when it goes too far, almost always triggers a violent emotional swing in the other direction.

I believe that, he said.

So we shouldn't portray people of worth — even mere mortals — as overcome by laughter. And we certainly shouldn't allow that kind of portrayal of the gods.

Certainly not the gods, as you say, he replied.

So we won't tolerate Homer describing the gods like this:

"Inextinguishable laughter arose among the blessed gods, when they saw Hephaestus bustling about the mansion."

On your principles, we can't allow that.

On my principles, if you want to pin them on me. But whether they're mine or not, we definitely can't allow it.

Now, truth should be highly valued. If, as we were saying, a lie is useless to the gods but useful to humans only as a kind of medicine, then the use of that medicine should be restricted to doctors. Ordinary people have no business with it.

Clearly not, he said.

So if anyone gets the privilege of lying, it should be the rulers of the state. They may lie to enemies or to their own citizens when it serves the public good. But nobody else should touch it. For a private citizen to lie to the rulers is just as bad as — no, worse than — a patient lying to his doctor about his symptoms, or a sailor not telling the captain the truth about what's happening with the ship and crew.

Very true, he said.

So if the ruler catches anyone else in the state lying —

"Whether he be craftsman, priest, physician, or carpenter" —

he'll punish them for introducing a practice that's just as destructive to a state as it would be to a ship.

Absolutely, he said — if our vision of the state is ever put into practice.

Next: our young people need to be self-disciplined, don't they?

Certainly.

And aren't the main elements of self-discipline, broadly speaking, obedience to authority and self-control when it comes to physical pleasures?

Yes.

Then we'll approve of lines like Diomedes' command in Homer:

"Friend, sit still and obey my word."

And the verses that follow:

"The Greeks marched breathing prowess, in silent awe of their leaders."

And other sentiments like that.

But what about this line:

"You drunkard, with the eyes of a dog and the heart of a deer" —

and the words that follow? Would you say these, or any similar insults that private individuals supposedly hurl at their commanders — whether in verse or prose — are well spoken?

They are not.

They might get a laugh, but they don't promote self-discipline. So they're likely to do harm to our young men — wouldn't you agree?

Yes.

And then there's Odysseus — supposedly the wisest of men — saying that nothing in his opinion is finer than

"When the tables are full of bread and meat, and the cupbearer carries round wine drawn from the bowl and pours it into the cups."

Is it appropriate — does it encourage self-discipline — for a young person to hear words like that? Or the verse:

"The saddest of fates is to die of hunger"?

And what about the story of Zeus? While all the other gods and men were asleep, he alone was awake, making plans — but forgot every single one of them the instant he saw Hera, because he was so overwhelmed with lust that he wouldn't even go inside. He wanted to take her right there on the ground, declaring he'd never felt such desire before — not even when they first got together

"Without their parents knowing."

Or that other story about Hephaestus catching Ares and Aphrodite in a net because of the same kind of behavior?

I strongly agree, he said, that they shouldn't hear that kind of thing.

But stories of endurance — acts performed or described by famous men — those they should see and hear. Lines like:

"He struck his chest and rebuked his own heart: Endure, my heart — you've endured far worse than this!"

Absolutely, he said.

Next: we can't let them be bribe-takers or money-lovers.

Certainly not.

We shouldn't sing to them about

"Gifts persuading gods, and gifts persuading noble kings."

And we shouldn't praise Phoenix, Achilles' tutor, or say he gave good advice when he told Achilles to accept the Greeks' gifts and help them — but that without gifts he shouldn't give up his anger. We also won't believe or accept that Achilles himself was such a money-lover that he took Agamemnon's bribes, or that he wouldn't give back Hector's body until he was paid, but refused to do it for free.

Undoubtedly, he said, these aren't sentiments we can approve of.

I love Homer — I really do — so it pains me to say this. But attributing these feelings to Achilles, or believing they're really his, comes dangerously close to outright impiety. Just as little can I believe the story of his insolence toward Apollo, where he says:

"You've wronged me, you most detestable of gods. I'd pay you back, if only I had the power."

Or his defiance of the river-god, whose divinity he was ready to attack. Or his dedicating a lock of his hair to the dead Patroclus — hair that had already been consecrated to another river-god, Spercheius — and then actually going through with cutting it. Or the dragging of Hector's body around the tomb of Patroclus. Or the slaughter of captives on the funeral pyre. None of this can I believe. I won't let our citizens believe that Achilles — student of the wise Chiron, son of a goddess and of Peleus, the gentlest of men, third in descent from Zeus — was so out of his mind that he suffered from two contradictory vices at once: petty greed tainted with avarice, combined with arrogant contempt for gods and men.

You're quite right, he replied.

And let's equally refuse to believe — or allow to be repeated — the tale of Theseus, son of Poseidon, and Peirithous, son of Zeus, setting out to commit a terrible kidnapping. Or any other story of a hero or son of a god daring to do such awful, impious things as people nowadays falsely attribute to them. Let's force the poets to choose: either say these acts weren't committed by them, or say they weren't sons of gods. But the poets can't have it both ways. They can't claim someone is divine and also criminal. We won't have them persuading our young people that the gods cause evil, or that heroes are no better than ordinary men — because, as we've already proven, evil can't come from the gods.

Absolutely not.

And these stories are likely to have a terrible effect on anyone who hears them. Everyone will start excusing their own vices once they're convinced that the same kind of wickedness is constantly being committed by

"The kindred of the gods, the relatives of Zeus, whose ancestral altar stands high in the air on the peak of Mount Ida,"

and who still have

"The blood of gods flowing in their veins."

So let's put a stop to these tales, before they breed moral laziness in the young.

By all means, he replied.

Now, we've been deciding which kinds of subjects should and shouldn't be discussed. Let's make sure we haven't missed anything. We've already covered how gods, demigods, heroes, and the underworld should be treated.

What remains?

What should we say about human beings? That's clearly the part we haven't gotten to yet.

Clearly.

But we can't answer that question right now, my friend.

Why not?

Because, if I'm not mistaken, we'll have to say that poets and storytellers commit the most serious errors when they tell us that wicked people are often happy and good people miserable, that injustice pays off as long as you don't get caught, and that justice is a loss for the just person and a gain for everyone else. We'll forbid them from saying these things and command them to sing the opposite.

Of course we will, he replied.

But if you agree with me on that, then I'd say you've already conceded the fundamental principle we've been arguing for all along.

I accept that inference.

Whether such things should or shouldn't be said about human beings is a question we can't settle until we've figured out what justice actually is — and whether it's naturally beneficial to the person who has it, regardless of whether they appear just or not.

Very true, he said.

Enough about the subject matter of poetry. Now let's talk about style. Once we've covered that, we'll have dealt with both content and form.

I don't understand what you mean, said Adeimantus.

Then I'd better explain. Maybe I can make it clearer this way. You know that all storytelling and poetry is a narration of events — past, present, or future?

Certainly, he replied.

And narration can take three forms: straight narration, imitation, or a combination of the two.

That, he said, I don't quite understand either.

I'm worried I must be a terrible teacher, since I'm having so much trouble getting my point across. Like a bad speaker, let me take just a piece of the subject to illustrate what I mean. You know the opening lines of the Iliad, where the poet tells us that Chryses begged Agamemnon to release his daughter, and Agamemnon got furious with him, and then Chryses, having failed, called down the anger of Apollo on the Greeks? Now, up to the lines —

"And he prayed to all the Greeks, but especially the two sons of Atreus, the chiefs of the people" —

the poet is speaking in his own voice. He never pretends to be anyone else. But in what comes next, he takes on the character of Chryses. He does everything he can to make us believe the speaker isn't Homer at all, but the old priest himself. And the entire narrative of the events at Troy and in Ithaca and throughout the Odyssey is written in this double form.

And it remains a narrative both in the speeches the poet delivers in character and in the connecting passages?

Exactly.

But when the poet speaks in the person of another character, wouldn't you say he's adapting his style to match that person?

Yes.

And this adapting of himself to another person — whether through voice or gesture — is imitation. He's imitating the character he's playing.

Right.

So in that case, the poet's narrative proceeds by way of imitation.

But suppose the poet never hid himself — if he appeared as himself the whole time. Then there'd be no imitation, and his work would be pure, straight narration. Let me show you what I mean, so you don't say "I still don't get it." If Homer had said: "The priest came, carrying his daughter's ransom, to beg the Greeks — especially the kings — to give her back." And then, instead of speaking as Chryses, Homer had just continued in his own voice, it would have been straight narration, not imitation. It would have gone something like this — and I'm no poet, so I'll drop the meter:

"The priest came and prayed that the gods would let the Greeks capture Troy and return home safely. He begged them to give back his daughter and accept the ransom he'd brought, and to show respect to the god. The other Greeks were moved by this and agreed. But Agamemnon was furious. He told the priest to leave and never come back, or the god's staff and garlands wouldn't protect him. His daughter would never be released, he said — she'd grow old with him in Argos. He told the old man to go away and not provoke him, if he wanted to get home in one piece. The old man left in fear and silence. Once he was away from the camp, he called on Apollo by his many names, reminding the god of everything he'd done for him — building temples, making sacrifices — and praying that his devotion would be repaid, and that the Greeks would suffer for his tears through the god's arrows."

And so on. That way, the whole thing would be straight narrative.

I understand, he said.

Or you could imagine the opposite — leaving out all the connecting passages and keeping only the dialogue.

Yes, he said, I understand that too. You mean, like in a tragedy.

Exactly! Now you see what I was getting at. Poetry and storytelling fall into three types. First, there's the fully imitative kind — that's tragedy and comedy. Then there's the opposite kind, where the poet speaks only in his own voice — the dithyramb is the best example. And the third kind combines both — that's epic poetry, and various other forms. Do you follow?

Yes, he said, now I see what you meant.

Good. Now remember what I said earlier: we'd finished with the subject matter and could move on to style.

Yes, I remember.

What I was getting at is this: we need to decide about the imitative style. Should we allow our poets to narrate through imitation? If so, should they imitate everything, or only some things? And if only some things, which ones? Or should all imitation be banned entirely?

I suspect you're asking whether tragedy and comedy should be allowed into our state, he said.

Yes, I said, but it might go further than that. I really don't know yet — wherever the argument leads, that's where we'll go.

Let's go there, he said.

All right then, Adeimantus. Should our guardians be imitators? Or hasn't this already been answered by the principle we established earlier — that one person can only do one thing well? If they try to do many things, they'll fail at all of them.

And the same applies to imitation? Nobody can imitate many different things as well as they can imitate one.

So the same person can hardly play a serious role in life and also be an imitator of many other roles. Even two closely related forms of imitation can't be mastered by the same person. Didn't you just call tragedy and comedy both forms of imitation?

Yes, I did, and you're right that the same people can't succeed at both.

Any more than they can be both performers who recite poetry and actors on a stage.

And comic actors and tragic actors aren't the same people either. Yet all of these are forms of imitation.

They are.

And human nature, Adeimantus, seems to have been divided into even smaller specializations. People are just as incapable of imitating many things well as they are of doing many things well.

Very true, he replied.

So if we stick with our original principle — that our guardians should drop everything else and dedicate themselves entirely to maintaining freedom in the state, making that their craft and engaging in nothing that doesn't serve this purpose — then they shouldn't practice or imitate anything else. If they do imitate, they should imitate only what's appropriate to their role, starting from youth: courage, self-discipline, devotion, freedom, and qualities like these. But they shouldn't practice or become skilled at imitating anything degrading or base. The reason? Imitation has a way of becoming reality. Haven't you ever noticed how imitations, started in youth and continued through life, eventually harden into habits and become a second nature — shaping body, voice, and mind?

Yes, I certainly have, he said.

Then we won't allow our guardians — the people we say ought to be good — to imitate a woman, whether young or old, quarreling with her husband, boasting against the gods about how happy she is, or caught in grief, sorrow, or tears. And absolutely not a woman who's sick, in love, or in labor.

Very right, he said.

They must not play slaves — male or female — doing the work of slaves.

They must not.

And certainly not villains — cowards or anyone who does the opposite of what we've been describing. People who mock, insult, or abuse each other, drunk or sober, or who sin against themselves and their neighbors in any of the ways such people typically do. They shouldn't be trained to imitate the speech or behavior of people who are insane or wicked. Madness and vice are things to recognize, not to practice or imitate.

Very true, he replied.

They shouldn't imitate blacksmiths or other craftsmen, or rowers, or boatswains, or anyone like that.

How could they, he said, when they're not even allowed to think about those occupations?

And they can't imitate horses neighing, bulls bellowing, rivers murmuring, the ocean roaring, or thunder, or anything of that kind.

No, he said — if madness is forbidden, they can't imitate madmen either.

So what you're saying, I think, is that there's one style of narration a truly good person would use when they have something to say, and a very different style that someone of the opposite character and education would prefer.

And what are these two styles? he asked.

Here's what I think. When a just and good person, in the course of a story, comes to something said or done by another good person, they'll be happy to take on that role. They won't be embarrassed by this kind of imitation. They'll be most eager to play the good person when that character is acting wisely and firmly, and somewhat less when the character is overcome by illness, love, drink, or some other misfortune. But when they come to a character who is beneath them, they won't bother studying that person carefully. They'll disdain it. They might briefly assume that character when it's doing something good, but otherwise they'll be ashamed to play a role they've never practiced. Their mind revolts at it. They feel — except maybe as a joke — that it's beneath them.

That's what I'd expect, he replied.

So this kind of narrator will use a style like what we illustrated from Homer: a mix of imitation and narration, but with very little imitation and a great deal of narration. Do you agree?

Certainly, he said. That's the model this kind of speaker would naturally follow.

But there's another type. This person will narrate anything, and the worse they are, the fewer boundaries they'll respect. Nothing is beneath them. They'll imitate everything — not as a joke, but in dead earnest, in front of a huge audience. They'll do thunder, wind, hail, creaking wheels, pulleys, trumpets, flutes, pipes, and every kind of instrument. They'll bark like a dog, bleat like a sheep, crow like a rooster. Their entire art consists of vocal and physical imitation, with barely any narration at all.

That will be their style, he said.

So those are the two kinds of style.

And you'd agree that the first style is simple and changes only slightly. If you choose a harmony and rhythm that match its simplicity, the speaker stays pretty much the same throughout. They'll keep to one basic harmony — the changes aren't big — and use roughly the same rhythm.

That's quite true, he said.

The second style is the opposite. It requires every possible harmony and every kind of rhythm to match its constant changes.

That's perfectly true too, he replied.

And don't these two styles — plus a mixture of both — cover all poetry and every form of verbal expression? Everyone speaks in one or the other or both.

They cover everything, he said.

So which shall we allow in our state? All three? Only one of the two pure styles? Or the mixed?

I'd prefer to admit only the pure imitator of virtue, he said.

Yes, Adeimantus, but the mixed style is also very charming. And actually, the pantomimic style — the opposite of the one you chose — is the most popular with children, their caregivers, and the general public.

I don't deny it.

But you'd argue, I think, that such a style doesn't suit our state, where human nature isn't supposed to be divided or complicated. One person does one job.

Yes, completely unsuitable.

And that's why our state, and only our state, would have the shoemaker being just a shoemaker and not also a ship's captain, the farmer being just a farmer and not also a jury member, the soldier being just a soldier and not also a merchant — and the same for everything else.

True, he said.

So when one of these pantomimic artists shows up — someone so talented they can imitate absolutely anything — and offers to perform for us, we'll bow down before them. We'll honor them as someone sweet and wonderful and holy. But then we'll tell them, very politely, that there's no place for people like them in our state. The law won't allow it. We'll anoint their head with perfume and crown them with a garland of wool, and then we'll send them on their way to another city. Because for our own citizens' moral health, we'll employ the rougher, more austere kind of poet or storyteller — one who imitates only the speech of the virtuous and follows the guidelines we laid down when we first started designing our guardians' education.

We certainly will, he said, if we have the power.

So that, my friend, wraps up the part of artistic education that deals with stories and myths. We've covered both the content and the style.

I think so too, he said.

Next up: melody and song.

Obviously.

Everyone can already see what we ought to say about these, if we want to stay consistent with ourselves.

I'm afraid, said Glaucon with a laugh, that "everyone" doesn't quite include me. I can't say right now exactly what the rules should be — though I can probably guess.

Well, you can at least say this much: a song has three components — the words, the melody, and the rhythm. That much you know?

Yes, he said, I'll grant you that.

And the words in a song should follow the same rules as words that aren't set to music — the rules we've already established?

Yes.

And the melody and rhythm should match the words?

Of course.

We said earlier that we have no need for laments and sorrowful musical modes.

Right.

So which musical modes express sorrow? You're the musician — you tell me.

The mixed Lydian, he said, and the full-toned Lydian, and modes like those.

Then those have to go. They're no use even to women of strong character, let alone to men.

Agreed.

And drunkenness, softness, and laziness are completely inappropriate for our guardians.

Completely.

So which are the soft or drinking modes?

The Ionian, he replied, and the Lydian. They're called "relaxed."

Well, are those any use to warriors?

None whatsoever, he replied. So it looks like you're left with only the Dorian and the Phrygian.

I answered: I don't know much about musical theory, but here's what I want. I want one mode that's warlike — one that captures the voice of a brave person in the hour of danger and fierce determination, when they're facing wounds or death or some other disaster, and meeting every blow of fate with steady steps and firm resolve. And I want another mode for times of peace and freedom, when there's no crisis — when a person is trying to persuade a god through prayer, or another person through reason and advice, or on the other hand, when they're open to being persuaded themselves, yielding gracefully. A mode that shows someone who has achieved their goal through good judgment, not carried away by success, but acting with moderation and wisdom and accepting whatever comes. These two modes I want — the mode of necessity and the mode of freedom, the mode of courage and the mode of restraint, the mode of hardship and the mode of good fortune. Give me those and you can get rid of the rest.

And those, he replied, are exactly the Dorian and Phrygian modes I was just talking about.

Good. Then if these are the only modes we'll use in our songs and melodies, we won't need a huge range of notes or instruments that can play every possible scale.

I suppose not.

So we won't support the makers of those fancy triangular lyres and multi-stringed, elaborately tuned instruments.

Certainly not.

And what about flute-makers and flute-players? Will we let them into our state? Think about it — the flute is worse than all the stringed instruments combined when it comes to playing every possible harmony. Even those panharmonic instruments are just imitating what the flute does.

Clearly not.

So what's left? The lyre and the harp for use in the city, and the shepherds can have a pipe out in the country.

That's surely the conclusion our argument leads to.

And by the way, I said, preferring Apollo and his instruments over Marsyas and his instruments isn't exactly radical.

Not at all, he replied.

And by the dog of Egypt! Without even meaning to, we've been purifying the state — that same state we called luxurious not so long ago.

And wisely so, he replied.

Then let's finish the purification. After the musical modes come rhythms, and they should follow the same rules. We shouldn't go looking for complicated meters or every rhythm under the sun. Instead, we should figure out which rhythms express a courageous and well-ordered life. Once we've found them, we'll fit the beat and the melody to words of a matching spirit — not the other way around. What those rhythms are, you'll have to teach me, just as you taught me the modes.

But honestly, he replied, I can't really tell you. I know there are three basic principles from which metrical systems are built — just as there are four notes from which all harmonies are composed. That much I've observed. But which rhythms correspond to which kinds of lives — that I can't say.

Then we'll need to consult Damon on this. He'll tell us which rhythms express pettiness, arrogance, fury, or other vices, and which are reserved for the opposite qualities. I have a vague memory of him mentioning a complex Cretic rhythm, and a dactylic or heroic one, and arranging them in some way I don't quite follow — making the rises and falls of the foot equal, alternating between long and short. And I think he mentioned an iambic rhythm and a trochaic one too, assigning them different long and short values. In some cases he seemed to praise or criticize the movement of the foot as much as the rhythm itself — or maybe some combination. I'm not sure. But these are technical matters best left to Damon himself. Working through the details would take forever. Don't you think?

Absolutely, he said.

But there's one thing that isn't hard to see at all: grace or the absence of grace comes from good or bad rhythm.

Not hard at all.

And good rhythm naturally follows good style, while bad rhythm follows bad style. And harmony and discord similarly follow style. Our principle is that rhythm and harmony are shaped by the words, not the other way around.

Exactly, he said. They should follow the words.

And the words and the character of the style depend on the quality of the soul?

Yes.

And everything else follows from the style?

Yes.

Then beauty of style, harmony, grace, and good rhythm all depend on simplicity — and I mean the true simplicity of a mind and character that are genuinely well-ordered and good. Not that other kind of "simplicity" that's just a polite word for foolishness.

Very true, he replied.

And if our young people are going to do their work well, they need to pursue these qualities constantly?

They must.

And isn't every creative art full of these qualities — or their absence? Painting, weaving, embroidery, architecture, every kind of craftsmanship. Nature too — both animal and plant life — has grace or lacks it. Ugliness, discord, and awkward movement are close cousins of bad words and bad character, just as grace and harmony are the twin sisters of goodness and virtue.

That's absolutely true, he said.

But should our oversight stop with the poets? Should we only demand that they represent the image of goodness in their work, or else be banned from our state? Or should we extend the same control to other artists too? Should we prohibit sculptors, builders, and every kind of creative worker from depicting vice, indecency, vulgarity, or moral ugliness? Anyone who can't follow this rule should be barred from practicing their craft in our city. We don't want our guardians growing up surrounded by images of moral deformity — grazing in some toxic pasture, feeding day by day on poisonous weeds and flowers, bit by bit, until they've quietly built up a massive, festering corruption in their own souls.

Instead, let our artists be people gifted with the ability to see the true nature of beauty and grace. Then our young people will live in a land of health, surrounded by fair sights and sounds. Beauty will flow into their eyes and ears from every good work of art, like a health-giving breeze from a purer region. From their earliest years, it will gently draw their souls into harmony and sympathy with the beauty of reason, without them even knowing it.

There can be no nobler training than that, he replied.

And that's why, Glaucon, artistic education — education through rhythm and harmony — is the most powerful tool we have. Rhythm and harmony find their way deep into the inner places of the soul. They fasten onto it with tremendous force, bringing grace if the education is right, and the absence of grace if it's wrong. A person who has received this true inner education will have the sharpest eye for what's flawed or missing in art and in nature. With genuine good taste, they'll praise and welcome the good into their soul, absorb it, and become noble and good themselves. At the same time, they'll rightly criticize and reject what's bad — even in youth, before they can articulate the reason why. And when reason finally arrives, they'll recognize it like an old friend. They'll greet it with joy, because their education has made them familiar with it all along.

Yes, he said, I completely agree that our young people should be educated through the arts, for exactly these reasons.

It's like learning to read, I said. We were satisfied once we knew the letters of the alphabet — just a handful of letters — in all their different sizes and combinations. We didn't dismiss them as unimportant, whether they appeared in large print or small. We were eager to recognize them wherever we found them, because we knew we wouldn't truly be literate until we could.

Right.

And if we see the reflection of letters in water or in a mirror, we can only recognize them if we already know the letters themselves. The same art and study that taught us one teaches us both.

Exactly.

Well, in the same way, neither we nor the guardians we're educating will ever be truly educated in the arts until we can recognize the essential forms of self-discipline, courage, generosity, magnificence, and their kindred virtues — as well as their opposites — in every possible combination, wherever they appear. We can't dismiss them whether they show up in small matters or great. We need to believe they all belong to the same art and the same study.

Absolutely.

And when a beautiful soul harmonizes with a beautiful body, and the two are cast in the same mold — that's the most beautiful sight for anyone with eyes to see.

The most beautiful indeed.

And the most beautiful is also the most lovable?

That follows.

And the person with a harmonious soul will be most drawn to what's most beautiful and lovable. But they won't love someone whose soul is out of harmony.

True, he replied — at least not if the flaw is in the soul. But if it's merely a physical imperfection, they'll be patient with it and love the person just the same.

I see, I said, that you have — or have had — experience with this kind of thing. And I agree with you. But let me ask another question: does excessive pleasure have anything in common with self-discipline?

How could it? he replied. Excessive pleasure robs a person of their faculties just as much as pain does.

Does it have anything to do with virtue in general?

Nothing whatsoever.

What about indulgence and lack of self-control?

Those, it has everything to do with.

And is there any greater or more intense pleasure than sexual desire?

No — and none crazier, either.

But true love is a love of beauty and order — it's disciplined and harmonious.

Quite true, he said.

Then nothing wild or uncontrolled should come near true love?

Certainly not.

And wild, uncontrolled pleasure must never come near a lover and their beloved. Neither of them should have any part in it, if their love is genuine.

No indeed, Socrates. It must never come near them.

Then I suppose in the city we're founding, you'd make a law like this: a lover may show no more physical intimacy to their beloved than a father would show to a son, and only for a noble purpose, and only with the other person's consent. In all their interactions, this is the boundary. A lover should never be seen going further. If they do, they'll be judged guilty of vulgarity and bad taste.

I completely agree, he said.

So that's our discussion of the arts wrapped up, and it ends in the right place. Because where should education in the arts ultimately lead, if not to the love of beauty?

I agree, he said.

After the arts comes physical training. Our young people need that education next.

Of course.

Physical training, like artistic education, should begin in early youth and continue throughout life. Now here's my view — and I'd like to hear whether you agree — I don't think that a good body improves the soul through bodily excellence. I think it works the other way around: a good soul, through its own excellence, improves the body as much as possible.

Yes, I agree.

So once we've properly educated the mind, we can hand over the detailed care of the body to it. To keep things brief, I'll just sketch the general outlines.

Fair enough.

We've already established that guardians must not get drunk. Of all people, a guardian should be the last one to get so wasted they don't know where they are.

Right, he said — it would be ridiculous for a guardian to need another guardian to look after them.

Now, what about their diet? These men are in training for the greatest contest of all — aren't they?

Yes.

Would the typical athlete's training regimen work for them?

I'm afraid not, I said. Athletes' bodies are in a kind of drowsy condition, and their health is dangerously fragile. Have you noticed how these athletes sleep away their lives and get seriously ill if they deviate even slightly from their usual routine?

Yes.

So our warrior-athletes need a more refined kind of training. They have to be like watchful dogs, able to see and hear with the sharpest senses. During campaigns, they'll face constant changes in water and food, summer heat and winter cold. They can't afford to break down.

That's my view too.

The really excellent physical training is the twin sister of that simple artistic education we were just describing.

What do you mean?

I mean there's a kind of physical training that, like our approach to the arts, is simple and good — especially for military purposes.

Go on.

We can learn from Homer. He feeds his heroes on campaign with soldiers' food. They eat only roasted meat — no fish, even though they're camped on the shores of the Hellespont. And no boiled meat either. Roasting is the easiest method for soldiers — just light a fire. No hauling pots and pans around.

And I'm pretty sure Homer never mentions sweet sauces anywhere. He's not alone in banning them, either — every serious athlete knows that anyone who wants to stay in shape should avoid that kind of thing.

Yes, he said, they're absolutely right to avoid them.

Then I take it you wouldn't approve of fancy Syracusan dinners or the elaborate cuisine of Sicily?

I think not.

And if someone's trying to stay in peak condition, you wouldn't let them have a Corinthian girlfriend either?

Definitely not.

And you'd disapprove of the supposedly exquisite Athenian pastries?

Definitely.

All this fancy eating and living is comparable to music composed in every possible mode and rhythm. In music, complexity breeds moral looseness; in diet, it breeds disease. Simplicity in music produces self-discipline in the soul; simplicity in physical training produces health in the body.

Absolutely true, he said.

But when excess and disease multiply in a city, courthouses and hospitals start popping up everywhere. The lawyers and doctors start putting on airs, because everyone — not just the lower classes, but supposedly well-educated people too — is flocking to them.

True.

And isn't that the biggest possible proof of a bad and disgraceful education? When not only common workers but people who claim to be well-bred need expert physicians and lawyers because they can't manage their own health or their own disputes? Having to hand yourself over to other people as your lords and judges because you can't take care of yourself — isn't that shameful?

It's the most disgraceful thing of all, he said.

Would you call it "most"? I replied. Consider this: there's an even worse stage, where someone isn't just constantly in court — plaintiff one day, defendant the next — but is actually proud of it. They imagine they're a genius at dishonesty, able to twist and wriggle through every legal loophole, bending like a willow branch, dodging justice at every turn. And all for what? To gain some trivial point that isn't worth mentioning. They don't realize that organizing your life so you don't need a sleepy-eyed judge is a far higher and nobler achievement. Isn't that even more disgraceful?

Yes, he said, that's even worse.

And what about needing medical help — not for a wound or an epidemic, but because years of lazy living have filled your body with gases and fluids, like a swamp? Forcing the ingenious heirs of Asclepius to invent new names for your conditions — things like "flatulence" and "catarrh" — isn't that disgraceful too?

Yes, he said, those really are strange and ridiculous names for diseases.

The kind of names, I'd say, that didn't exist in Asclepius' day. Here's my evidence: in Homer, the hero Eurypylus, after being wounded, drinks a brew of Pramnian wine heavily sprinkled with barley meal and grated cheese — which is definitely inflammatory. Yet the sons of Asclepius at Troy don't scold the woman who gives him the drink, and they don't criticize Patroclus for treating the case this way.

That was certainly an extraordinary drink for a wounded man, he said.

Not so extraordinary, I replied, if you keep in mind that in the old days — before Herodicus — the medical profession didn't practice the kind of medicine we have now, which essentially coddles diseases along. Herodicus was a physical trainer with a sickly constitution. He figured out how to combine training regimens with medical treatment, and in doing so he invented a way to torture first himself, and then everyone else.

How so? he said.

He invented the art of dying slowly. He had a terminal illness that he constantly nursed along. Since recovery was out of the question, he spent his entire life as an invalid — unable to do anything except attend to his own body, in constant misery whenever he strayed the slightest bit from his routine. Through the wonders of medical science, he managed to drag his death out all the way to old age.

What a wonderful reward for his skill! he said.

Exactly the reward you'd expect, I said, for a man who never understood this: the reason Asclepius didn't teach his descendants these prolonged-care techniques wasn't ignorance or lack of experience. It was because he knew that in any well-run society, every person has a job to do and doesn't have the luxury of spending their whole life being sick. We can see this clearly with working people — but absurdly, we don't apply the same principle to the wealthy.

What do you mean? he said.

I mean this. When a carpenter gets sick, he asks the doctor for a quick, no-nonsense cure — an emetic, a laxative, cauterization, or surgery. Those are his remedies. If someone prescribes a long course of special diets and tells him to wrap up his head and lie around, he says right away that he doesn't have time to be sick and sees no point in a life spent nursing a disease instead of doing his work. He thanks the doctor, goes back to his regular life, and either gets better and carries on, or his body gives out and he dies. Either way, he's done with it.

Yes, he said, and for a man in his position, that's the right way to use medicine.

Because he has work to do, I said. What would his life be worth without it?

Exactly, he said.

But we don't say that about the rich man. He supposedly has nothing he needs to do.

That's the common assumption.

Then you've never heard the saying of Phocylides: "Once a man has a livelihood, he should practice virtue"?

Actually, he said, I think he should start somewhat sooner than that.

Let's not argue with Phocylides about it. Let's ask ourselves instead: is practicing virtue mandatory for the rich, or can they get by without it? And if it is mandatory, then doesn't this obsessive attention to health — which interferes even with a carpenter's ability to do his job — equally interfere with the practice of virtue?

Without a doubt, he replied. This excessive focus on the body, when carried beyond the basics of physical training, is absolutely hostile to the practice of virtue.

Exactly, I replied. And it's equally incompatible with managing a household, commanding an army, or holding public office. And what's most important of all, it's incompatible with any kind of study, thought, or self-reflection. You're always imagining you have a headache, always suspecting that philosophy is making you dizzy. Wherever this obsession takes hold, it completely blocks the practice and testing of virtue in the highest sense. A person is perpetually worried about their body.

That's very likely, he said.

So we can assume that our wise Asclepius only used his healing art on people who were basically healthy in constitution and habits but happened to have a specific illness. He cured these people with medicines and surgery and told them to go on living normally — because that served the interests of the state. But people whose bodies were thoroughly diseased? He wouldn't have attempted to cure them through long, drawn-out treatments of draining and refilling. He didn't want to prolong worthless lives or have weak fathers producing weaker sons. If someone couldn't live and function normally, Asclepius saw no point in treating them. Such a cure would be useless — both to the patient and to the state.

So you see Asclepius as a statesman, he said.

Obviously. And his sons confirm it. Remember, they were heroes at Troy, and they practiced medicine exactly the way I'm describing. When Pandarus wounded Menelaus, they

"Sucked the blood from the wound and sprinkled soothing remedies" —

but they never prescribed what Menelaus should eat or drink afterward, any more than they did for Eurypylus. The remedies were enough to heal anyone who was healthy and disciplined before being wounded — even if he happened to drink a bowl of Pramnian wine right after. But they wanted nothing to do with unhealthy, undisciplined patients whose lives were useless to themselves or anyone else. The art of medicine wasn't designed for them. Even if they'd been as rich as Midas, the sons of Asclepius would have refused to treat them.

They were very sharp, those sons of Asclepius, he said.

Naturally, I replied. But the tragedians and Pindar disagree with us. They admit Asclepius was the son of Apollo, but they also say he was bribed to heal a rich man who was dying, and that's why he was struck by lightning. But we — consistent with our earlier principles — won't believe both claims at once. If he was a god's son, he wasn't greedy. If he was greedy, he wasn't a god's son.

That all makes perfect sense, Socrates. But let me ask you something: don't we need good physicians in a state? And aren't the best doctors the ones who've treated the widest range of patients, healthy and unhealthy alike? And similarly, aren't the best judges the ones who've had experience with every kind of character?

Yes, I said, I want both good judges and good physicians. But do you know what I consider "good"?

Tell me.

I will. But notice that you're lumping together two very different things in the same question.

How so? he asked.

The best physicians, I said, are the ones who've had the most experience with disease — and ideally, they should have suffered from illnesses themselves, starting in youth. They don't heal the body with the body. If they did, we could never let them get sick. They heal the body with the mind. And a sick mind can't heal anything.

That's very true, he said.

But with judges, it's the opposite. A judge governs mind with mind. So a judge shouldn't have been raised among wicked people, immersed in every kind of crime from youth, just so they can quickly spot the crimes of others the way they'd spot their own diseases. No. An honorable mind that's going to form sound judgments should have no experience of evil habits in its youth. That's why good people, when they're young, often seem naive. They're easily taken in by dishonest people, because they have no model of evil in their own souls to compare against.

Yes, he said, they're far too easily deceived.

Exactly. That's why a judge shouldn't be young. They should have learned to recognize evil not from their own soul but from long observation of it in others. Knowledge should be their guide — not personal experience.

Yes, he said, that's the ideal judge.

Yes, I replied, and they'll be a good person too — which answers your original question. A person with a good soul is good. But that clever, suspicious character — the one who's committed crimes themselves and thinks they're a master of wickedness — seems brilliant when dealing with people like themselves. They take impressive precautions, because they judge others by their own standards. But put them in the company of virtuous people with the experience of age, and they look foolish. They're suspicious at all the wrong moments, because they have no internal pattern of honesty. Yet because bad people outnumber good ones and they encounter bad people more often, they think of themselves — and are thought by others to be — quite wise rather than foolish.

Very true, he said.

So the good and wise judge we're looking for isn't the criminal type. It's the other kind. Because vice can't understand virtue. But a virtuous nature, educated over time, will come to understand both virtue and vice. The wise person is the virtuous one — not the vicious one. That's my view.

And mine too, he said.

This is the kind of medicine and the kind of law you'll establish in your state. They'll serve the better natures, giving health to both soul and body. But those who are physically beyond help will be left to die. And those whose souls are corrupt and incurable — those they'll put to death themselves.

That's clearly the best outcome both for the patients and for the state.

And our young people, having been educated in that simple art form that inspires self-discipline, will be reluctant to go to court.

Right.

And the person schooled in the arts who follows the same path into simple physical training will have no use for medicine except in extreme emergencies.

I completely believe that.

The whole point of their exercises and physical hardships is to stimulate the spirited part of their nature, not to build up muscle mass. They're not like ordinary athletes, who eat and train just to get bigger.

Very right, he said.

And here's a crucial insight: the arts and physical training aren't really designed — as most people think — one for the soul and the other for the body.

Then what are they really for?

I believe, I said, that the teachers of both subjects mainly have in mind the improvement of the soul.

How can that be? he asked.

Have you ever noticed, I said, the effect on someone's mind when they're devoted entirely to physical training? Or the opposite effect when they're devoted entirely to the arts?

What effects? he said.

Excessive physical training produces a character that's hard and fierce. Excessive devotion to the arts produces one that's soft and weak.

Yes, he said, I'm well aware that pure athletes turn into brutes, while pure aesthetes are melted and softened more than is good for them.

Now, I said, that fierceness comes from the spirited element. When properly educated, it produces courage. But when overstimulated, it becomes hard and brutal.

I agree.

On the other hand, the philosophical temperament has a natural gentleness. When indulged too much, this becomes excessive softness. But when properly educated, it becomes genuine gentleness and moderation.

True.

We said our guardians need both qualities.

Yes.

And the two should be in harmony.

Absolutely.

A harmonious soul is both disciplined and courageous.

Yes.

An unharmonious soul is either cowardly or brutish.

Yes.

Now picture this: when someone gives themselves over entirely to the arts — when they let music pour through their ears day after day, those sweet and soft and melancholy tunes we were talking about, and they spend their whole life singing and humming — at first, their spirited element is tempered like iron in a forge. It becomes useful instead of brittle. But if they keep going, if they don't stop softening and soothing it, eventually they start melting it down. They dissolve their spirit and cut the sinews out of their soul, until they become a feeble warrior.

And if their spirit was naturally weak to begin with, this happens quickly. But if they had plenty of spirit to start with, the music weakens it and makes them volatile. The smallest thing sets them off. They flare up instantly and then burn out just as fast. Instead of having real spirit, they become irritable and touchy and impossible to deal with.

Now flip it around. Suppose someone does nothing but intense physical training — eats enormously, never touches the arts. At first, the high condition of their body fills them with pride and energy. They feel twice the person they used to be.

And then what? If they do nothing else — if they never have any contact with the arts, if not even a spark of curiosity or learning or thought or culture ever reaches them — then whatever intelligence they might have had grows weak and dull and blind. Their mind never wakes up. It never gets nourished. Their senses are never cleared of their fog.

True, he said.

They end up hating philosophy, uncivilized, never using the weapon of persuasion. They're like a wild animal — all violence and aggression, knowing no other way. They live in ignorance and squalor, with no sense of grace or decency.

That's exactly right, he said.

So it seems there are two fundamental principles in human nature — let's call them the spirited and the philosophical. And some god, I'd say, has given humanity two corresponding arts — not really for the body and soul separately, but for these two principles. The arts and physical training are meant to tune these two principles like the strings of an instrument, tightening or relaxing each until they're in proper harmony with each other.

That seems to be the idea.

And the person who blends the arts and physical training in the finest proportions, tempering them perfectly together in the soul — that person deserves to be called the true musician and the master of harmony, in a far deeper sense than someone who merely tunes the strings of a lyre.

You're quite right, Socrates.

And we'll always need someone like that in our state, if our system of government is going to last.

Yes — absolutely essential.

So those are our principles of nurture and education. Why go into detail about our citizens' dances, their hunting and field sports, their athletic and equestrian competitions? All of these follow naturally from the general principles we've established. Once you have the principles, the details aren't hard to work out.

I'm sure they won't be, he said.

Very good, I said. Then what's the next question? We need to decide who will rule and who will be ruled.

Clearly.

The older must rule the younger. That's obvious.

Yes.

And the best of the older must rule.

That's clear too.

The best farmers are the ones who are most devoted to farming, aren't they?

Yes.

And since we need the best possible guardians for our city, they must be the ones who are most devoted to guarding it?

Yes.

For that, they need to be wise and capable, and they need to genuinely care about the state.

Right.

And you care most about what you love, don't you?

Of course.

And you love most what you believe shares your interests — what you believe will do well when you do well and suffer when you suffer.

Exactly, he replied.

Then we need to select from among the guardians those who, throughout their entire lives, show the greatest determination to do what's good for the city, and the greatest unwillingness to do anything against its interests.

Those are the right people.

And they'll need to be tested at every stage of life, to make sure they hold onto this conviction and never — through force or manipulation — abandon their sense of duty to the state.

What do you mean by "abandon"? he said.

Let me explain. A person can lose a conviction in two ways: willingly or unwillingly. Willingly, when they discover they were wrong and learn something better. Unwillingly, when the truth is taken from them.

I understand the willing kind, he said. But the unwilling — I need to hear more about that.

Don't you see, I said, that people are unwillingly deprived of good things, but willingly let go of bad ones? And isn't being wrong about the truth a bad thing, while knowing the truth is good? So to think things are as they really are — that's to possess the truth.

Yes, he replied. I agree that people lose the truth against their will.

And isn't this involuntary loss caused by either theft, force, or enchantment?

I still don't understand, he said.

I'm afraid I'm being obscure, like the tragedians. By "theft" I mean that some people have their opinions slowly stolen from them — argument chips away at one group, and time erodes the other — without their realizing it. You get the idea?

Yes.

By "force" I mean people who change their minds because some pain or grief compels them to.

I understand that, he said. You're right.

And by "enchantment" I mean those who change their minds under the influence of either pleasure, which seduces them, or fear, which intimidates them.

Yes, he said. Everything that deceives could be called a kind of enchantment.

So, as I was saying, we need to find out who are the best guardians of their own conviction that the good of the state should be the guiding principle of their lives. We have to watch them from their youth and put them through tests designed to make them forget or be tricked into abandoning this conviction. The one who remembers, who isn't fooled — they're our pick. The one who fails — rejected. That's the method.

Yes.

There should also be physical hardships and suffering and competitive struggles, in which they'll have to prove the same qualities.

Absolutely, he replied.

And then, I said, we need to test them with enchantments — the third kind of trial. Just as people lead young horses into noise and confusion to see if they're easily spooked, we have to lead our young people through frightening situations and then through pleasurable ones. We have to test them more thoroughly than gold is tested in a furnace. If someone proves resistant to every kind of enchantment, if they carry themselves with nobility throughout, if they remain good guardians of themselves and of the education they've received — maintaining rhythm and harmony under every circumstance — then that person will be the most valuable asset both to themselves and to the state.

Whoever passes these tests at every age — as a child, as a teenager, as an adult — and emerges pure and proven, that person shall be appointed ruler and guardian of the state. They'll be honored in life and in death, and receive the most distinguished burial and memorials we can give. But anyone who fails — we reject them.

That's roughly how I think our rulers and guardians should be chosen and appointed. I'm speaking in general terms here, not with any claim to precision.

And speaking generally, I agree with you, he said.

In fact, it might be most accurate to call only this highest class "guardians" in the full sense — the ones who protect us against both foreign enemies and internal disorder, making sure no one inside has the desire, and no one outside has the power, to harm us. The younger ones we've been calling "guardians" up until now might be more properly called auxiliaries — supporters who enforce the decisions of the rulers.

I agree, he said.

Now then — how might we contrive one of those useful falsehoods we were talking about earlier? Just one magnificent lie that could, ideally, convince even the rulers themselves, or if not them, at least the rest of the city?

What kind of lie? he said.

Nothing new. Just an old Phoenician story — something the poets say has happened many times before in other places. Whether people believed it, who knows. It certainly hasn't happened in our time, and I'm not sure it could. It would take a lot of persuading.

You seem to be hesitating, he said.

You won't be surprised when you hear what I'm about to say, I replied.

Just say it. Don't be afraid.

All right, here goes — though I honestly don't know how to look you in the face or find the right words for this audacious fiction. I'll try to communicate it gradually. First to the rulers, then to the soldiers, then to the rest of the population.

Here's the story they'll be told: their youth was a dream. All the education and training we gave them — it only seemed to happen. In reality, the whole time they were being formed and nurtured in the womb of the earth. They themselves, their weapons, all their equipment — everything was crafted down there. When they were complete, the earth, their mother, sent them up to the surface. And so they're bound to care for their country as their mother and nurse, to defend her against attacks, and to regard their fellow citizens as brothers and sisters — children of the same earth.

You had good reason to be embarrassed about telling that lie, he said.

Yes, but there's more — I've only told you half.

"Citizens," we'll say to them in our tale, "you are all brothers and sisters. But the god who made you mixed different metals into your composition. Some of you have gold in your nature — these are fit to rule, and they'll be honored the most. Others have silver — these will be auxiliaries. Still others are made of bronze and iron — they'll be farmers and craftsmen. Generally, children will be made of the same metal as their parents. But since you all spring from the same source, a golden parent may sometimes have a silver child, or a silver parent a golden one.

"And the god commands the rulers — commands it above all else — that there is nothing they must guard more carefully than the mixture of metals in the children. If a child of gold or silver has bronze or iron mixed in, the rulers must not feel sorry for them. They must demote them to the rank of farmer or craftsman, as nature demands. And if children of craftsmen are born with gold or silver in them, those children must be raised to the rank of guardian or auxiliary. For there is a prophecy that the state will be destroyed when it is guarded by a man of bronze or iron."

That's the story. Is there any way we could make our citizens believe it?

Not the current generation, he replied. There's no way to pull that off. But their children might believe it. And their children's children. And eventually all the generations that follow.

I see the difficulty, I replied. Still, fostering this kind of belief would make people care more about the city and about each other. But enough — let's let this myth fly on the wings of rumor and move on.

Now let's arm our earth-born heroes and march them out under their rulers' command. Let them survey the land and pick the best spot — a place from which they can put down any rebellion within and defend against any enemy from outside. There let them make camp, and when they've settled in, let them sacrifice to the appropriate gods and set up their quarters.

Just so, he said.

And their quarters should protect them from winter cold and summer heat.

I suppose you mean houses, he replied.

Yes — but soldiers' houses, not shopkeepers'.

What's the difference? he said.

I'll try to explain. Imagine a shepherd who keeps watchdogs, but the dogs — through lack of training, or hunger, or some bad habit — turn on the sheep and attack them. They start acting like wolves instead of dogs. Wouldn't that be monstrous?

Absolutely monstrous, he said.

Then we need to take every precaution to make sure our auxiliaries — who are stronger than the citizens — don't turn into savage tyrants instead of being their friends and allies.

Yes, we should be very careful about that.

And wouldn't a truly good education be the best safeguard?

But they're already well educated, he said.

I can't be so sure about that, my dear Glaucon. What I am sure of is that they need to be properly educated, and that true education — whatever it turns out to be — will do the most to civilize them in their dealings with each other and with those they protect.

Very true, he replied.

And besides their education, any person of sense would agree that their living arrangements and possessions should be designed so as not to undermine their virtue as guardians or tempt them to prey on the other citizens.

Absolutely.

Then let's consider what their way of life should be, if they're going to live up to our vision.

First, none of them should own any private property beyond the bare minimum. They shouldn't have private houses or storerooms that anyone is barred from entering. Their food should be only what trained warriors — men of discipline and courage — need, nothing more. They should receive a set salary from the citizens, calculated to cover a year's expenses with nothing left over. They'll eat together in common mess halls and live communally, like soldiers in camp.

As for gold and silver — we'll tell them they already carry the divine metals inside them. The gods placed those metals in their souls, and they have no need for the human kind. It would be sacrilege to contaminate the divine gold within them by handling the mortal gold that circulates among ordinary people. That common metal has been the cause of countless unholy acts. Their own metal is pure. They alone, of all the citizens, are forbidden to touch or handle silver or gold, to live under the same roof with it, to wear it, or to drink from vessels made of it.

This will be their salvation. And they will be the salvation of the state.

But the moment they acquire private houses, land, or money, they'll stop being guardians and start being landlords and farmers. Instead of allies of their fellow citizens, they'll become enemies and tyrants. Hating and being hated, plotting and being plotted against, they'll spend their lives in far greater fear of enemies within than enemies without. And at that point, ruin — for themselves and for the state — will be just around the corner.

For all these reasons, then — isn't this how our state should be organized? Aren't these the right regulations for our guardians regarding their housing and everything else?

Yes, said Glaucon.

Book IV

The Tripartite Soul

At this point Adeimantus jumped in with an objection. "How would you respond, Socrates," he said, "if someone said you're making these guardians miserable? And that it's their own fault, too? The city technically belongs to them, but they get nothing out of it. Other people buy land, build big beautiful houses, furnish them with the finest things, make their own private sacrifices to the gods, entertain guests — and on top of that, as you just mentioned, they have gold and silver and everything else that's supposed to make a person happy. But your guardians? They're basically soldiers quartered in the city, standing watch like hired mercenaries."

Yes, I said — and you can add that they only get their meals, with no salary on top. They can't even take a vacation if they wanted to. They've got no money for a mistress or any other luxury that most people consider the whole point of being alive. You could pile on plenty of other charges like that.

"Right," he said. "Let's assume all of that's included in the objection."

You're asking what our answer would be?

If we stick to our original path, I said, I think we'll find the answer. Our response would be this: even as things stand, our guardians might very well be the happiest people alive. But that's not actually the point. We didn't build this city to make any one group disproportionately happy. We built it for the greatest happiness of the whole. We figured that in a city organized for the good of everyone, we'd be most likely to find justice — and in a badly organized city, injustice. Once we found them, we could decide which life is really happier. Right now, we're designing the happy city as a whole, not piece by piece, not to make a handful of people blissful.

In a minute, we'll look at the opposite kind of city. But here's an analogy. Imagine we were painting a statue, and someone came up and said: "Why aren't you using the most beautiful colors on the most beautiful parts? The eyes should be purple, but you've painted them black!" We'd have a perfectly fair answer: "Sir, you wouldn't want us to beautify the eyes to the point where they're no longer recognizable as eyes. We're trying to give each feature its proper proportion so the whole thing is beautiful."

Same principle here. Don't force us to attach some kind of happiness to the guardians that would make them anything but guardians. We could dress our farmers in royal robes, put gold crowns on their heads, and tell them to work the land only when they feel like it. We could let our potters lounge on couches, feast by the fire, pass the wine around, and keep the potter's wheel handy for whenever the mood strikes. We could make every class "happy" that way — and then, as you imagine, the whole city would be happy. But don't put that idea in our heads.

Because if we listen to you, the farmer won't really be a farmer anymore. The potter won't be a potter. Nobody will have a distinct role in the city. Now, when it comes to cobblers pretending to be something they're not, the damage is limited. But when the guardians of the laws and the government are only pretending to be guardians — when they're fake — watch how fast they turn the whole city upside down. They alone have the power to give the city order and happiness. We want our guardians to be genuine protectors, not destroyers of the city. Your objector is thinking of peasants at a festival having a great time, not citizens doing their duty. If that's what he means by happiness, we're talking about two completely different things — and what he's describing isn't really a city at all.

So here's the question we need to ask: when we appoint our guardians, should we maximize their individual happiness? Or does happiness belong to the city as a whole? If it's the latter — and it is — then guardians, auxiliaries, and everyone else must be encouraged to do their own work as well as they possibly can. The whole city will grow up in good order, and each class will receive the share of happiness that nature assigns to them.

"I think you're absolutely right," he said.

I wonder, I said, if you'll agree with something else that occurs to me.

"What's that?"

There seem to be two things that ruin the quality of any craft.

"What are they?"

Wealth, I said, and poverty.

"How so?"

Here's how it works. When a potter gets rich, do you think he'll keep putting the same care into his work?

"Definitely not."

He gets lazier and more careless?

"Yes."

And the result is he becomes a worse potter?

"Much worse."

But on the other hand, if he's so poor he can't afford the right tools and materials, his work suffers too. And he won't be able to train his sons or apprentices properly either.

"Certainly not."

So whether it's wealth or poverty, workers and their work both deteriorate?

"That's clear."

Here, then, I said, are new dangers for our guardians to watch out for — they'll creep into the city if no one's paying attention.

"What dangers?"

Wealth and poverty. One breeds luxury and laziness, the other breeds desperation and bad character, and both breed discontent.

"Very true," he replied. "But I still want to know, Socrates — how is our city going to fight a war? Especially against a rich and powerful enemy, when we've stripped ourselves of the sinews of war?"

There'd certainly be a problem fighting one such enemy, I replied. But what if there are two of them?

"How do you mean?" he asked.

First of all, I said, if it comes to a fight, our side will be trained warriors going up against an army of rich men.

"True," he said.

And Adeimantus — don't you think a single boxer who's perfected his craft could easily handle two well-fed gentlemen who've never trained?

"Hmm, not if they both came at him at once."

What if he could fall back, then turn and hit whichever one caught up first? And suppose he kept doing this in the blazing sun — couldn't an expert fighter take down more than one of these hefty amateurs?

"Sure," he said. "That wouldn't be surprising at all."

And rich men probably have an even bigger advantage in boxing technique than they do in actual military skill.

"Probably."

So we can assume our trained athletes could hold their own against enemies two or three times their number?

"I agree — I think you're right."

And here's another thought. Suppose that before engaging, our citizens send ambassadors to one of the two enemy cities with this message: "We have no gold or silver and we're not allowed to have any. But you do. So come fight on our side, and you can keep all the spoils from the other city." Who would choose to fight against lean, tough, battle-ready dogs when they could fight alongside those dogs against fat, tender sheep?

"Not likely anyone would," he said. "But there might be a danger — what if the wealth of many cities got concentrated into one? That could be a threat to our poor city."

How naive of you to call any of these other places a "city"!

"What do you mean?"

You should call them "cities," not "city" — plural, not singular. Because every one of them, no matter how small, is really divided into two: the city of the rich and the city of the poor. These two are at war with each other. And within each, there are even more factions. If you treat them as one unified force, you're completely missing the point. But if you play them as many — offering the wealth or power or people of one faction to the others — you'll always have plenty of allies and very few real enemies.

And our city, as long as it maintains the wise order we've established, will be the greatest of all cities. I don't mean in reputation or appearance, but in actual strength and truth — even if it has no more than a thousand defenders. You'll struggle to find a single city that's truly its equal, among Greeks or foreigners, though many will look as big or bigger.

"That's absolutely true," he said.

And what, I said, should be the best limit our rulers set for the city's size and territory? Beyond what point should they not expand?

"What limit would you suggest?"

I'd let the city grow only so far as it can remain unified. That, I think, is the right limit.

"Very good," he said.

So here's another directive for our guardians: keep the city neither too large nor too small, but one and self-sufficient.

"That's not such a difficult order," he said.

And here's one that's even easier, I said — something we mentioned before: the duty of moving the children of guardians down to a lower class when they're inferior, and promoting talented children from the lower classes up to the guardian ranks. The whole point is that each individual should be put to the work nature intended for them — one person, one job. That way each person is truly one and not many, and the whole city is one, not many.

"Yes," he said, "that's not so hard."

The rules we're laying down, my good Adeimantus, aren't really the great principles they might seem. They're all trifles — as long as you take care of the one thing that really matters. Though "great" might be the wrong word. Let's call it "sufficient."

"What would that be?" he asked.

Education, I said, and upbringing. If our citizens are well educated and grow into sensible people, they'll easily figure out all of these issues — and others I'm leaving out, like marriage, family life, and having children. These will all follow the general principle that friends hold all things in common, as the saying goes.

"That would be the best way to handle it."

Also, I said, a city that gets started on the right foot builds momentum like a wheel. Good upbringing and education produce good character, and good character, rooted in good education, produces even better results over time — the same way good breeding works in animals.

"Very possibly," he said.

So to sum up: this is the point our rulers must focus on above all else — that education in both the arts and physical training stays intact and doesn't get corrupted. They have to guard it with everything they've got. And when someone comes along quoting the poet —

"People always want the newest song the singers have to offer" —

they need to be careful. The worry isn't new songs but a new kind of song — a fundamental change in style. That kind of thing should never be praised or tolerated. Because any radical change in the style of music is full of danger to the entire city and should be prohibited. Damon says so, and I believe him completely. He says that when the style of music changes, the fundamental laws of the state always change with them.

"Yes," said Adeimantus. "You can add my vote to Damon's and yours."

Then our guardians, I said, must build the foundation of their fortress in music and the arts?

"Yes," he said. "The kind of cultural decay you're talking about creeps in so easily."

Yes, I replied — disguised as harmless entertainment. At first it seems completely innocent.

"Right," he said. "And it is innocent — except that little by little, this spirit of anything-goes finds a home. It seeps imperceptibly into habits and customs. From there it pushes outward, with greater force, into business dealings and contracts. From contracts it invades laws and constitutions, with complete recklessness, until finally, Socrates, it overthrows everything — public rights and private alike."

Is that really how it works? I said.

"That's what I believe," he replied.

Then, as I was saying, our young people need to be trained from the start in a more disciplined system. If their entertainment becomes lawless, and the young people themselves become lawless, they can never grow into responsible, virtuous citizens.

"Very true," he said.

And when they've made a good beginning in play, and through the arts have developed a habit of order — then this habit of order, so different from the chaotic play of others, will accompany them in everything they do. It becomes a principle of growth, and if anything in the city has fallen into disrepair, it raises it back up.

"Very true," he said.

When people are educated this way, they'll figure out the minor rules for themselves — the ones their predecessors completely neglected.

"What do you mean?"

I mean things like: when young people should be quiet around their elders, how to show respect by standing up for them, how to treat parents, what clothes to wear, how to style their hair, general conduct and manners. You'd agree?

"Yes."

But I don't think there's much point in legislating about this sort of thing. I doubt it's ever done effectively. Precise written rules about behavior rarely last.

"Impossible."

It seems, Adeimantus, that the direction education sends a person in determines the course of their whole life. Like attracts like, doesn't it?

"Absolutely."

Until eventually some final, decisive result is reached — which may be good, or may be the opposite of good.

"That can't be denied."

And that's why, I said, I won't attempt to legislate further on these matters.

"Naturally."

And what about the marketplace? The everyday dealings between people? Contracts with craftsmen? Cases of insult and injury? Filing lawsuits, appointing juries? And then there are things like market dues, harbor fees, and all the regulations for markets, policing, harbors, and so on. Good heavens — should we really stoop to legislating about every one of these details?

"I don't think so," he said. "Good people don't need these laws imposed on them. They'll figure out what rules they need on their own."

Yes, I said, my friend — if God preserves for them the laws we've already given them.

"And without divine help," said Adeimantus, "they'll go on forever making and revising their laws and their lives, always hoping they'll finally get it right."

You'd compare them, I said, to those invalids who have no self-control and refuse to give up their unhealthy habits?

Yes, I said — and what a delightful life they lead! They're always visiting doctors, making their ailments worse, and convinced they'll be cured by whatever remedy someone recommends.

"These cases are very common," he said, "with that kind of patient."

Yes, I replied. And the charming part is that they consider their worst enemy the person who tells them the truth — which is simply that unless they stop overeating and overdrinking and being lazy and indulgent, no drug, no surgery, no spell, no magic charm, no remedy of any kind will do them any good.

"Charming!" he replied. "I see nothing charming about getting furious at someone who tells you the truth."

These people, I said, don't seem to be in your good graces.

"Not at all."

And you wouldn't praise cities that act the same way? Because aren't there badly governed cities where the citizens are forbidden, under pain of death, to change the constitution — and yet whoever most sweetly flatters the people living under that regime, whoever indulges them and fawns on them and is cleverly skilled at anticipating and gratifying their whims, is hailed as a great statesman? Don't these cities look a lot like the patients I was just describing?

"Yes," he said. "They're just as bad. And I'm very far from praising them."

But don't you admire, I said, the sheer nerve and skill of these eager ministers of political corruption?

"I do," he said. "But not all of them. Some of them have been so swollen by public applause that they actually believe they're real statesmen. Those ones aren't much to admire."

What do you mean? I said. Have some sympathy for them. When a man can't measure, and a whole crowd of people who also can't measure tell him he's four cubits tall — how can he help believing them?

"Ha, no," he said. "Certainly not in that case."

Well then, don't be angry with them. They're as good as a comedy show — constantly tinkering with petty reforms like the ones I was describing, always convinced their legislation will put an end to fraud and cheating — not realizing they're cutting off the heads of a hydra.

"Yes," he said. "That's exactly what they're doing."

It seems to me, I said, that a true lawgiver won't bother with this kind of legislation — whether in a well-governed city or a badly governed one. In a bad city, these laws are useless. In a good city, they're unnecessary — most of them will flow naturally from our earlier arrangements.

"What, then," he said, "is left for us to do in the way of legislation?"

Nothing for us, I replied. But for Apollo, the god of Delphi, there remain the greatest, noblest, and most important matters of all.

"Which are those?"

The founding of temples and sacrifices, the whole system of worshipping gods, demigods, and heroes — and also the proper treatment of the dead, the rites we need to observe to keep the powers of the underworld on our side. These are things we don't understand ourselves, and as founders of a city, we'd be foolish to trust anyone but our ancestral god. He's the god who sits at the center of the earth, at its navel, and he interprets religion for all of humanity.

"You're right," he said. "We'll do as you suggest."

So then, son of Ariston — where, in the middle of all this, is justice? Now that we've made the city livable, light a candle and search. Get your brother and Polemarchus and the rest of our friends to help. Let's see if we can find justice somewhere in this city, and injustice too. Let's see how they differ from each other, and which one a person who wants to be happy should choose — whether gods and humans are watching or not.

"Nonsense," said Glaucon. "Didn't you promise to search for it yourself? You said it would be impious for you to abandon justice when she needs help."

I don't deny I said that, and since you're reminding me, I'll keep my word. But you have to join in.

"We will," he replied.

Good. I think we can find it this way. I'm going to start with the assumption that if our city is rightly ordered, it's perfectly good.

"That's certain."

And if it's perfectly good, it must be wise, courageous, temperate, and just.

"Clearly."

So whichever of these four virtues we find in the city, the ones we haven't found yet will be whatever's left over.

"Right."

It's like searching for one thing out of four. If you spot it right away, great — you're done. But if you identify the other three first, then the fourth must be whatever remains.

"Very true," he said.

And can't we apply the same method to these four virtues?

"Sure."

The first one that comes into view is wisdom. And I notice something peculiar about it.

"What's that?"

The city we've been building would be called wise because it has good judgment, wouldn't it?

"Yes."

And good judgment is clearly a form of knowledge. People don't make good decisions out of ignorance — they make them out of knowledge.

"Clearly."

But there are many kinds of knowledge in a city. There's the carpenter's knowledge — does that make the city wise?

"Of course not. That would only give it a reputation for good carpentry."

So a city shouldn't be called wise just because it has expertise in building wooden things?

"Certainly not."

Or bronze pots? Or any other specialized craft?

"None of them," he said.

And not farming either — that would just give it a name for agriculture?

"Right."

So here's the question, I said: Is there any knowledge in our newly founded city — held by any of the citizens — that doesn't just deal with one particular thing, but with the city as a whole? A knowledge that considers how the city can best manage its internal affairs and its relations with other cities?

"There certainly is."

And what is this knowledge? Who has it?

"It's the knowledge of the guardians," he replied. "The ones we were just describing as perfect guardians."

And what name does the city earn from having this kind of knowledge?

"The name of being wise and good in judgment."

And will our city have more of these true guardians or more blacksmiths?

"Far more blacksmiths," he replied.

In fact, won't the guardians be the smallest of all the classes that are identified by their particular expertise?

"By far the smallest."

So it's because of its smallest part — the knowledge that resides in the ruling and guiding class — that the entire city, constituted according to nature, will be wise. And this class, which alone possesses the knowledge worthy of being called wisdom, is naturally the smallest of all.

And that, I said, is how we've somehow discovered one of our four virtues — both what it is and where it resides in the city.

"And in my opinion," he replied, "it's been discovered quite satisfactorily."

Now, I said, there's no great difficulty in seeing courage — what it is and which part of the city gives it the name "courageous."

"How do you mean?"

Anyone who calls a city courageous or cowardly, I said, is thinking about the part that fights and goes to war on the city's behalf.

"No one," he replied, "would think of any other part."

The rest of the citizens might be brave or cowardly individually, but their personal courage or cowardice doesn't determine whether the city itself is one or the other.

"Certainly not."

The city is courageous because of a particular part of itself — the part that preserves, through every circumstance, the right beliefs about what should and shouldn't be feared. These beliefs were instilled through the education our lawgiver prescribed. And that's what I'd call courage.

"I'd like to hear that again," he said. "I'm not sure I fully understood."

I mean that courage is a kind of preservation.

"Preservation of what?"

Of the belief — taught through education under law — about what things are genuinely dangerous and what aren't. By "through every circumstance," I mean that a person holds on to this belief and doesn't lose it — not in the face of pleasure, not in pain, not under the influence of desire, and not when gripped by fear. Want me to give you an analogy?

"Please."

You know how dyers work, I said. When they want to dye wool a true sea-purple, they start by carefully selecting white wool. Then they go through an elaborate process of preparing and treating it so that the white will absorb the purple dye as deeply as possible. Once the wool is dyed this way, the color is permanent — no amount of washing, with harsh chemicals or without, can remove it. But when the wool hasn't been properly prepared? You know what happens — the color looks washed-out and ridiculous.

"Yes," he said. "I know that washed-out, pathetic look."

Now, I said, imagine that something similar is what we were doing when we selected our soldiers and educated them in music and physical training. We were designing a process to prepare them to absorb the dye of the laws as deeply as possible. We wanted their beliefs about what's dangerous — and every other belief — to become colorfast, so deeply set that nothing could wash them out. Not pleasure — which is a far more powerful solvent than any chemical. Not sorrow. Not fear. Not desire — the strongest solvents of all.

This power — this ability to preserve the true, law-given belief about what is and isn't really dangerous, through everything life throws at you — that's what I call courage. Unless you disagree?

"I don't disagree at all," he replied. "Because I think you mean to exclude the kind of uninstructed courage you find in animals or slaves — the sort that hasn't been shaped by education. That, in your view, isn't true courage, and it deserves a different name."

Exactly right.

"Then I accept your account of courage?"

Yes, I said — accept it as an account of civic courage, and you won't be far wrong. We can examine it more closely later if you like. Right now we're not hunting for courage — we're hunting for justice. And for that purpose, I think we've said enough about courage.

"Fair enough," he replied.

Two virtues are left to find in the city: temperance, and then justice — the one we're really after.

Now, can we find justice without dealing with temperance first?

"I don't know how we could," he said. "And I wouldn't want justice to come to light only at the cost of losing sight of temperance. So please — do temperance first."

Certainly, I replied. It would be wrong to refuse.

"Then let's hear it," he said.

All right. As far as I can see, temperance is more like a harmony or a symphony than the previous two virtues.

"How so?"

Temperance, I replied, is the ordering and controlling of certain pleasures and desires. That's curiously suggested by the expression "being master of yourself" — and you can find traces of the same idea throughout our language.

"True," he said.

But there's something funny about the phrase "master of yourself." The master is also the servant, and the servant is the master. The same person is on both sides.

"Right."

What the expression really means, I think, is this: within the human soul, there's a better part and a worse part. When the better part has the worse part under control, we say the person is "master of themselves" — and we mean it as praise. But when bad education or bad company lets the worse part — which is larger — overwhelm the better part — which is smaller — then we criticize the person and call them a "slave to themselves," undisciplined.

"That makes sense," he said.

Now look at our newly built city, I said. You'll find that it can rightly be called master of itself — if "temperance" and "self-mastery" mean the rule of the better part over the worse.

"Yes," he said, "I see that's true."

Let me also point out that the wild, uncontrolled pleasures and desires are generally found in children, women, slaves, and the lower, more numerous class of so-called free people.

"Certainly," he said.

Whereas the simple, moderate desires — the ones guided by reason, intelligence, and good judgment — are found only in a few people: the best born and best educated.

"True."

And both of these groups exist in our city. The unruly desires of the many are kept in check by the wisdom and disciplined desires of the few.

"I see that," he said.

So if any city deserves to be called master of its own pleasures and desires — master of itself — it's ours?

"Certainly," he replied.

And it can also be called temperate, for the same reasons?

"Yes."

And if there's any city where rulers and subjects agree on who should rule, that's our city too?

"Without a doubt."

And since this agreement exists, in which class does temperance reside? In the rulers or the subjects?

"In both, I'd say," he replied.

You see? We weren't far off when we guessed that temperance would turn out to be a kind of harmony.

"Why's that?"

Because temperance isn't like courage or wisdom, each of which sits in just one part of the city — one making it brave, the other making it wise. Temperance works differently. It spreads through the whole city, running through every note of the scale, producing a harmony between the weaker and the stronger and the middle — whether you measure strength in wisdom, power, numbers, wealth, or anything else. So we can rightly call temperance the agreement of the naturally superior and the naturally inferior about which one should rule — in cities and in individuals alike.

"I completely agree," he said.

Good, I said. Three out of four virtues discovered. The last one — the one that makes a city truly virtuous — must be justice. If only we knew what it was.

"Obviously."

The time has come, Glaucon! Like hunters, we need to surround the thicket and keep our eyes sharp, or justice will slip through our fingers and vanish. She's somewhere in here — no question. So keep watch, and if you spot her before I do, let me know.

"I wish I could!" he said. "But you'd be better off treating me as a follower with just enough eyesight to see what you point out. That's about the best I can do."

Then say a prayer with me and follow.

"I will — but you have to lead the way."

There's no path, I said, and the woods are dark and confusing. But we have to push on.

"Let's push on."

Wait — I saw something! I said. I think I see a track! I don't think the quarry is going to escape.

"Good news!" he said.

You know, I said, we're idiots.

"Why?"

Because the whole time — from the very start of our investigation, ages ago — justice was right at our feet, and we never saw it. Nothing could be more ridiculous. We're like people searching everywhere for something they're holding in their own hands. We were looking off into the distance instead of right in front of us, and that's why we missed it.

"What do you mean?"

I mean that we've actually been talking about justice for a long time now. We just didn't recognize what we were describing.

"Come on," he said. "You're taking too long to get to the point."

Fine, I said. Tell me if I'm right. Remember the principle we kept laying down at the very foundation of the city? That each person should practice one thing — the thing their nature is best suited for? Well, justice is this principle, or at least a part of it.

"Yes, we said that over and over."

And we also said that justice means doing your own work and not being a busybody. We said it many times, and we're not the only ones who've said it.

"We did."

So doing your own work, in a certain way, is justice. You know where I'm getting this?

"I can't say I do. But I'd like to hear."

Think about it. We've now identified three virtues in the city — wisdom, courage, temperance. What's left? What's the one remaining virtue that makes all the others possible and preserves them once they exist? Whatever it is, that's justice.

"That follows necessarily."

Now, if someone asked which of these four virtues contributes most to the excellence of the city — would it be the agreement between rulers and subjects? The preservation of correct beliefs about what's dangerous? The wisdom and vigilance of the rulers? Or this other quality I'm about to name — the quality found in everyone, children and adults, slave and free, craftsman and ruler and subject alike — the quality of each person doing their own job and not meddling with anyone else's? That last one might just be the most important.

"There would certainly be a difficulty choosing," he replied.

So the power of each individual in the city to do their own work competes with wisdom, temperance, and courage as a political virtue.

"Yes," he said.

And the virtue that enters into this competition is justice?

"Yes."

Let's look at it from another angle. When rulers settle lawsuits, what's the basic principle they're applying? Isn't it that no one should take what belongs to someone else, or be deprived of what's theirs?

"Yes, that's the principle."

Which is a just principle?

"Yes."

So from this perspective too, justice means having and doing what's your own, what belongs to you.

Now think about this. Suppose a carpenter starts doing a cobbler's work, or a cobbler does a carpenter's. They swap tools or duties, or the same person tries to do both jobs. Do you think that would cause serious harm to the city?

"Not really."

But when someone who was born to be a tradesman — lifted up by wealth or strength or connections or some other advantage — tries to force his way into the warrior class, or a warrior tries to push into the class of legislators and guardians without being qualified, and they swap roles and duties, or when one person tries to be tradesman, warrior, and guardian all at once — I think you'll agree that this kind of swapping and meddling is the ruin of the city.

"Absolutely."

So when the three classes meddle with each other's work and trade places, that's the greatest harm to the city. And it would be entirely fair to call it evildoing.

"Certainly."

And the greatest evildoing against your own city — wouldn't you call that injustice?

"Of course."

Then that's what injustice is. And the opposite — when tradesmen, auxiliaries, and guardians each do their own work — that's justice, and that's what makes the city just.

"I agree completely," he said.

Now, I said, let's not be too hasty about declaring victory. We need to test whether this same concept of justice, when applied to individual human beings, works the same way. If it does, we're home free. If not, we'll have to start over. So let's complete the original investigation. We began with the idea that if we could see justice clearly on a large scale — in the city — it would be easier to recognize in the individual. That large-scale example was the city, and we built the best one we could, knowing that justice would be found in a good city. Now let's take what we found and apply it to the individual. If the two match, excellent. If there's a difference, we'll go back to the city and test the theory again. By rubbing the two together, like flint and steel, we might strike a spark — and in that light, justice will be revealed. And once we see it clearly, we'll fix it in our souls.

"That's exactly the right approach," he said. "Let's do it."

I went on: When two things, one larger and one smaller, are called by the same name, are they alike or unlike in the respect that earns them that name?

"Alike," he replied.

So the just person, considered purely from the standpoint of justice, will be like the just city?

"Yes."

And we said the city is just when its three classes each do their own work. And we called it wise, courageous, and temperate because of certain other qualities and conditions in those same classes.

"True," he said.

So if the individual has these same three elements in their soul, we should expect to describe them in the same terms, for the same reasons.

"Necessarily," he said.

Well, here we go again, my friend — we've stumbled onto another easy question: does the soul have these three elements or not?

"Easy!" he laughed. "Hardly, Socrates. The proverb has it right: the good things are hard."

Very true, I said. And honestly, I don't think our current method is precise enough to get a truly rigorous answer. The correct method would be longer and more demanding. But we can still reach a conclusion that's on the same level as our earlier discussion.

"That's good enough for me," he said. "Under the circumstances, I'm quite content."

I'll take it too, I replied.

"Then don't lose heart," he said. "Keep going."

All right. We have to acknowledge, I said, that the same elements and traits that exist in the city also exist in each of us as individuals. Where else would they come from? It would be absurd to think that the quality of spiritedness in a city doesn't come from the individuals in it — like the Thracians, the Scythians, and northern peoples in general, who are known for it. The same goes for the love of learning, which is especially associated with our part of the world. Or the love of money, which you could fairly attribute to the Phoenicians and Egyptians.

"Exactly," he said.

That much is easy to understand.

"Certainly."

But here's the hard part. Do we learn with one part of our nature, get angry with another, and feel desire with a third? Or does the whole soul participate in each activity? That's the real difficulty.

"Yes," he said. "There lies the difficulty."

Let's try to settle whether these are the same or different.

"How?" he asked.

Here's the key principle: the same thing obviously can't do or experience opposite things at the same time, in the same part of itself, and in relation to the same object. So whenever we find this kind of contradiction in something that appears to be one thing, we'll know it's actually not one — it's multiple.

"Agreed."

For example — can the same thing be at rest and in motion at the same time, in the same respect?

"Impossible."

But let's be precise, I said, so we don't get tripped up later. Imagine a person standing still while moving their hands and head. You wouldn't say the whole person is both at rest and in motion simultaneously. You'd say one part is still while another part is moving.

"Right."

And if someone got really clever and objected that a spinning top, with its peg fixed to one spot, is both at rest and in motion at the same time — we wouldn't accept that either. The top isn't at rest and in motion in the same parts of itself. It has an axis and a circumference. The axis stands still; the circumference revolves. But if the axis starts leaning to the right or left, forward or backward — then we couldn't say it's at rest in any sense at all.

"That's exactly right," he said.

Good. So none of these clever objections will confuse us or make us believe that the same thing can simultaneously do or experience opposite things in the same respect.

"They certainly won't confuse me," he said.

Still, I said, to avoid having to refute every possible objection like this, let's just agree on the principle and move forward — with the understanding that if it turns out to be wrong, everything we build on it comes down.

"Yes," he said. "That's the best approach."

Now then — would you agree that assent and dissent, wanting and refusing, attraction and repulsion are all pairs of opposites? Whether you think of them as actions or experiences doesn't matter — they're opposites either way.

"Yes," he said. "They're opposites."

And hunger, thirst, and desires in general — and also wishing and wanting — all of these you'd put in the category of seeking and attracting? When someone desires something, their soul reaches for the thing it wants. When it wants something given to it, it nods assent, as if answering a question. Isn't that right?

"Yes."

And unwillingness, reluctance, and the absence of desire — wouldn't those go in the opposite category, the category of pushing away and rejecting?

"Of course."

Now, if we accept this about desire in general, let's focus on a specific class of desires. Let's take hunger and thirst — the most obvious examples.

"Let's," he said.

One is the desire for food, the other for drink?

"Yes."

Here's the crucial point: is thirst, purely as thirst, a desire for drink and nothing more? Not hot drink or cold drink, not a lot or a little, not any particular kind of drink — just drink? When thirst comes with fever, it adds a desire for cold drink. When it comes with chills, warm drink. When the thirst is extreme, you want a lot. When it's mild, a little. But thirst itself, stripped down to its essence, is simply the desire for drink, just as hunger is simply the desire for food.

"Yes," he said. "The pure desire is for the pure object, and the qualified desire is for the qualified object."

But I want to head off an objection. Someone might argue that nobody desires just "drink" — they desire good drink. And nobody desires just "food" — they desire good food. Because goodness is the universal object of desire, so thirst, being a desire, is necessarily thirst for something good.

"That objection might seem to have some force," he replied.

Still, I'd maintain this: when it comes to relative terms, some have qualities attached to both sides of the relation, while others are simple and have simple correlates.

"I'm not sure I follow."

Well, you know that "greater" is relative to "less"?

"Yes."

And "much greater" is relative to "much less"?

"Yes."

And "greater-at-some-point" to "less-at-some-point"? And "going-to-be-greater" to "going-to-be-less"?

"Certainly," he said.

The same goes for more and less, double and half, heavier and lighter, faster and slower, hot and cold — and all other pairs of correlatives?

"Yes."

And what about the sciences? Knowledge in general has a general object — let's call it "the knowable" or "what can be known." But a particular science has a particular kind of object. For example, the science of building houses is a specific kind of knowledge, distinct from other kinds, which is why we call it architecture.

"Right."

And it has this specific identity because it deals with a specific kind of object?

"Exactly."

The same goes for every other craft and science.

So here's what I was getting at with my point about relative terms. If one term of a relation is taken bare, the other is bare too. If one term is qualified, the other is qualified too. I don't mean that the related terms have to share the same quality — I'm not saying the science of health is itself healthy, or the science of disease is itself diseased. I'm saying that when science stops being "knowledge in general" and gets a specific object — in this case, health and disease — then the science itself becomes specific. It's no longer just "science" but "medical science."

"I understand perfectly," he said. "And I agree."

Now, wouldn't you say thirst is a relative term? It clearly relates to something —

"Yes — to drink."

And a specific kind of thirst relates to a specific kind of drink. But thirst taken by itself is neither for much nor little, neither for good nor bad, neither for any particular kind of drink — it's for drink, period.

"Absolutely."

So the soul of a thirsty person, insofar as that person is thirsty, simply wants drink. That's what it reaches for and strives to get.

"That's plain."

Now — if something pulls a thirsty soul away from drinking, that something must be different from the thirsty element that's drawing it toward drink like an animal to water. Because, as we established, the same thing can't simultaneously do opposite things with the same part of itself toward the same object.

"Impossible."

Just as you can't say that an archer's hands are pushing and pulling the bow at the same time. What's really happening is that one hand pushes while the other pulls.

"Exactly," he replied.

Now, can a person be thirsty and yet unwilling to drink?

"Yes," he said. "It happens all the time."

And what do we say about such a case? Isn't there something in the soul urging the person to drink, and something else forbidding it — something different from and stronger than the impulse to drink?

"I'd say so."

And the forbidding element comes from reason, while the element that urges and drives comes from bodily states and disorders?

"Apparently."

Then we can fairly conclude that these are two distinct things. The part we reason with, we'll call the rational element of the soul. The part that hungers and thirsts and feels the pull of every appetite — we'll call the irrational or appetitive element, the companion of indulgence and pleasure.

"Yes," he said. "That's a fair conclusion."

Good. So we've identified two distinct elements in the soul. But what about spirit — that fiery, passionate energy? Is it a third element, or is it really the same as one of the other two?

"I'd be inclined to say it's the same as desire," he said.

Well, I said, there's a story I once heard that I believe. It goes like this: Leontius, the son of Aglaion, was walking up from the Piraeus along the outside of the north wall when he noticed some corpses lying on the ground near the executioner's block. He felt a powerful desire to look at them, but at the same time he was disgusted and tried to turn away. For a while he struggled, covering his eyes. But finally the desire overpowered him. He forced his eyes open, ran up to the bodies, and cried: "There! Look your fill, you wretches! Feast your eyes on this beautiful sight!"

"I've heard that story too," he said.

The moral is this: anger and desire are two different things. They can go to war with each other.

"Yes," he said. "That's the point."

And haven't you noticed, in many other situations, that when a person's desires overpower their reason, they get angry at themselves? They curse the part of them that's dragging them along. In this inner civil war, their spirit sides with reason. But for spirit to take the side of desire against reason — I don't think you've ever observed that happening, in yourself or in anyone else.

"Certainly not," he said.

Think about it another way. When a person believes they've wronged someone else, the nobler they are, the less anger they feel at any punishment the wronged person inflicts on them — hunger, cold, any kind of suffering. They accept it as just, and their spirit refuses to be aroused against it.

"True," he said.

But when a person believes they're being wronged? Then they boil. Then they burn with indignation. They take the side of what they believe to be justice, and no amount of hunger or cold or suffering can break them. Their noble spirit refuses to quit until they either conquer or die — or until they hear the voice of reason, their inner shepherd, calling the dog back.

"That's a perfect analogy," he replied. "And it fits exactly with what we said earlier — in our city, the auxiliaries are like dogs that obey the voice of the rulers, their shepherds."

You understand me perfectly, I said. But there's one more point to consider.

"What's that?"

Spirit originally seemed like it might be a kind of desire. But now the opposite is clear — when the soul is in conflict, spirit lines up on the side of reason.

"Absolutely."

But the next question is: is spirit actually the same as reason — just another aspect of it? In that case, the soul would have only two elements, not three: the rational and the appetitive. Or is the soul like the city, which has three classes — tradespeople, auxiliaries, and rulers? Is there a third element in the soul — spirit — that naturally serves as reason's ally, unless it's been corrupted by bad upbringing?

"There must be a third," he said.

Yes, I replied — if spirit can be shown to be different from reason, the way we already showed it's different from appetite.

"But that's easily proved," he said. "You can see it even in young children. They're full of spirit practically from birth, but some of them never seem to develop reason at all, and most of them develop it only much later."

Excellent! I said. And you can see the same thing in animals — more evidence that you're right. And we can call on Homer again, who was quoted earlier:

"He struck his chest and rebuked his heart."

Homer clearly treats the faculty that reasons about better and worse as different from the unreasoning anger that's being rebuked by it.

"Very true," he said.

And so, after much tossing on the waves, we've finally reached land. We're fairly agreed: the same three elements that exist in the city also exist in the individual soul. Three in number.

"Yes."

Then the individual must be wise in the same way, and for the same reasons, as the city is wise?

"Certainly."

And the same quality that makes the city courageous makes the individual courageous? And both the city and the individual relate to all the other virtues in the same way?

"Necessarily."

And, Glaucon, the individual will be just in the same way the city is just?

"That follows absolutely."

And we certainly haven't forgotten that the city's justice consisted in each of the three classes doing its own work?

"Not likely to forget that," he said.

So we must remember that the individual is just when each element in their soul does its own proper work.

"Yes," he said. "We must remember that."

The rational element, being wise, should rule. It has responsibility for the care of the whole soul. And the spirited element should be its subject and ally. Isn't that right?

"Absolutely."

And as we were saying, the combined influence of education in the arts and in physical training will bring these two into harmony — strengthening and sustaining reason with fine ideas and learning, while calming and civilizing the wildness of spirit through harmony and rhythm.

"Exactly right," he said.

And these two, trained and educated in this way, having truly learned their proper roles, will govern the appetitive element — which is the largest part of the soul in each of us, and by nature the most insatiable. They'll keep watch over it, making sure it doesn't gorge itself on physical pleasures until it grows fat and strong and stops doing its own work — and instead tries to enslave and dominate the other parts, overturning the entire life of the person.

"Very true," he said.

Working together, reason and spirit will also be the best defense against external threats — one providing counsel, the other fighting under its commander's orders and bravely carrying them out.

"Yes."

And we call a person courageous when their spirit holds firm, through pleasure and pain alike, to what reason has identified as truly dangerous and truly safe?

"Right," he replied.

And we call a person wise when that small ruling element possesses the knowledge of what's best for each part and for the whole soul?

"Yes."

And we call a person temperate when all three elements are in friendly harmony — when the ruling element of reason and the two subordinate elements of spirit and appetite all agree that reason should rule, and none of them rebels?

"Certainly," he said. "That is the true account of temperance, whether in the city or the individual."

And surely, I said, we've explained again and again how and why a person will be just.

"That's very certain."

Does justice look any dimmer in the individual than it did in the city? Is it any different in form?

"There's no difference in my opinion," he said.

Because if any doubt lingers, a few everyday examples will clear it up.

"What kind of examples?"

Think about it: would a just person — or the citizen of a just city — be likely to steal a deposit of gold or silver that was entrusted to them? Can anyone imagine that?

"No one," he replied.

Would the just person commit sacrilege, theft, or betrayal — of friends or of country?

"Never."

Would they break an oath or violate an agreement?

"Impossible."

Would they commit adultery, dishonor their parents, or neglect their religious obligations?

"No."

And the reason for all of this is that each part of their soul is doing its own work — whether ruling or being ruled?

"Exactly."

So are you satisfied that what makes both people and cities just is this quality? Or do you think we need to look further?

"Not at all," he said. "I'm satisfied."

Then our dream has come true! Remember the hunch we had at the very beginning — that some divine power seemed to be guiding us toward a fundamental form of justice?

"Yes, absolutely."

And the division of labor — requiring the carpenter and the shoemaker and everyone else to do their own work — that was a kind of shadow or image of justice. That's why it was useful.

"Yes."

But true justice, we now see, isn't about external actions at all. It's about what's inside — about a person's true self and inner life. The just person doesn't let the different parts of their soul interfere with each other or do each other's work. They put their inner house in order. They become their own master, their own law. They achieve inner peace. When they've bound the three elements together — the highest and lowest and middle, like the highest, lowest, and middle notes of a scale, with all the intervals between — when they've woven all of this into one, and are no longer many but truly one, a perfectly harmonious and balanced person — then and only then do they act. Whether it's a matter of money, or health, or politics, or private business, they always call "just" and "good" whatever action preserves and strengthens this inner harmony. And the knowledge that guides such action they call wisdom. Whatever action breaks this harmony they call "unjust," and the mindset behind it they call ignorance.

"You've spoken the exact truth, Socrates."

Very well. If we were to say that we'd discovered the just person and the just city, and what justice is in each of them — we wouldn't be lying?

"Most certainly not."

Shall we say it, then?

"Let's say it."

Good, I said. Now we need to consider injustice.

Injustice must be a kind of civil war among the three elements — a meddling and interfering, a rising up of one part of the soul against the whole. It's the attempt of a subordinate to seize power it has no right to — a rebel against the rightful ruler, whose natural vassal it is. This confusion, this disorder — that's injustice. That's intemperance, cowardice, ignorance, and every form of vice.

"Exactly," he said.

And now that we know what justice and injustice really are, we can understand perfectly clearly what it means to act justly or unjustly, or to act unjustly.

"How so?" he said.

Because they're exactly like health and disease, but in the soul rather than the body.

"In what way?"

What's healthy causes health. What's unhealthy causes disease.

"Yes."

In the same way, just actions create justice in the soul, and unjust actions create injustice.

"That's certain."

Creating health means establishing the proper natural order among the parts of the body — each part governing and being governed as nature intends. Creating disease means establishing a condition that violates this natural order.

"Right."

And creating justice means establishing the proper natural order among the parts of the soul — each part governing and being governed as nature intends. Creating injustice means establishing a condition that violates this natural order.

"Exactly," he said.

So virtue is the health, the beauty, the well-being of the soul. And vice is its disease, its weakness, its deformity.

"Yes."

And good habits lead to virtue, while bad habits lead to vice?

"Yes."

So now the old question remains — the question of whether justice or injustice is more profitable. Which pays better: to be just and act justly and practice virtue, whether or not anyone sees you doing it? Or to be unjust and act unjustly, so long as you escape punishment?

"In my judgment, Socrates," he said, "the question has become ridiculous. We know that when the body's constitution is ruined, life isn't worth living — even with every food and drink available, every luxury, every kind of power. So how can life be worth living when the very essence of what makes us alive — the soul — is corrupted and destroyed? Even if a person could do anything they wanted, with the single exception that they couldn't cure their injustice or acquire justice? Given what we've now shown justice and injustice to be?"

Yes, I said — the question is ridiculous, as you say. But since we've climbed this high and can almost see the truth with our own eyes, let's not quit now.

"Certainly not," he replied.

Come up here, I said, and look at the many forms of vice — the ones worth examining, at least.

"I'm right behind you," he replied. "Go on."

From this height, I said, the argument looks like a tower from which we can survey the whole landscape. And what I see is this: virtue is one, but the forms of vice are countless. Four in particular deserve attention.

"What do you mean?"

I mean that there are as many types of soul as there are types of government.

"How many?"

Five types of government, I said, and five types of soul.

"What are they?"

The first, I said, is the one we've been describing. It can go by two names — monarchy or aristocracy — depending on whether power is held by one outstanding person or by several.

"True," he replied.

But I consider these two names to describe a single form. Because whether the rulers are one or many, as long as they've been trained the way we've described, the fundamental laws of the city will be maintained.

"That's true," he replied.

Book V

The Three Waves

REPUBLIC — Book V

So that's the kind of city-state that's good and true, and the good and true person is cut from the same cloth. If this model is right, then every other form of government is wrong. The corruption shows up in four distinct varieties, affecting both the structure of the state and the character of individual souls.

What are they? Glaucon asked.

I was just about to explain the order in which I thought these four corrupt forms followed one another, when Polemarchus — who was sitting a little way off, just past Adeimantus — started whispering to him. He reached over, grabbed the shoulder of Adeimantus' cloak, and pulled him close. He leaned in and muttered something in his ear. I only caught the words: "Should we let him off, or what?"

Absolutely not, said Adeimantus, raising his voice.

Who are you refusing to let off? I asked.

You, he said.

Why me specifically? I asked again.

Because we think you're being lazy, he said. You're trying to cheat us out of a whole section of the argument — and it's an important one. You just breezed right past it, thinking we wouldn't notice. As if it's obvious to everyone that when it comes to women and children, "friends share everything in common."

And wasn't I right about that, Adeimantus?

Yes, he said, but what's "right" in this case — like everything else — needs to be explained. "Community" can mean a lot of things. So please, tell us what kind of community you mean. We've been waiting for you to say something about the family life of your citizens. How will they bring children into the world? How will they raise them? What exactly is this "community of women and children"? Because we're convinced that getting this right — or wrong — will have a massive impact on the state, for good or for evil. And now, since the question is still hanging, and you're already moving on to the next thing, we've decided — as you just heard — not to let you off the hook until you give us a full account.

You can count me in on that decision, said Glaucon.

And without further ado, said Thrasymachus, consider all of us equally agreed.

You have no idea what you're doing by attacking me like this, I said. What an argument you're dragging me into! I thought I'd finished, and I was relieved that you'd accepted what I said earlier without a fuss. Now you're asking me to go back to the very beginning. You don't realize what a hornet's nest of arguments you're stirring up. I saw this trouble coming, and I deliberately avoided it.

What do you think we came here for? said Thrasymachus. To dig for gold? Or to hear ideas discussed?

Sure, but there should be some limit to the discussion, I said.

Yes, Socrates, said Glaucon, and the only limit wise people set on discussions like these is an entire lifetime. But don't worry about us. Just take heart and answer the question your own way. What kind of community of women and children do you have in mind for the guardians? How should we handle the period from birth to education — which seems to need the most care? Tell us how these things will work.

My innocent friend, I said, the answer is anything but easy. It raises far more doubts than the conclusions we've already reached. You could question whether the plan is even practical. And even if it is, you could question whether it's actually for the best. That's why I'm hesitant to bring it up. I'm afraid our beautiful aspiration, my friend, might turn out to be nothing but a dream.

Don't worry, he said. Your audience isn't going to be hard on you. They're not hostile or skeptical.

I said: My good friend, I take it you're trying to encourage me with that.

Yes, he said.

Well, you're having the opposite effect. Your encouragement would've been just fine if I actually believed I knew what I was talking about. Declaring the truth to wise friends who care about you — that shouldn't make anyone nervous. But trying to work out an argument when you're nothing but a groping, uncertain inquirer — that's my situation — is a dangerous, slippery business. Not because I'm afraid of being laughed at. That would be childish. I'm afraid I'll stumble away from the truth on the very ground where I need the surest footing, and drag my friends down with me. I pray that Nemesis doesn't punish me for what I'm about to say. Because I genuinely believe that accidentally killing someone is a lesser crime than misleading people about beauty, goodness, and justice when it comes to laws. That's a risk I'd rather take among enemies than among friends. So you're doing me a great favor with your encouragement.

Glaucon laughed. Well then, Socrates, he said, if you and your argument do us any serious damage, consider yourself acquitted in advance of the homicide charge. You won't be held liable as a deceiver either. So take courage and speak.

Well, I said, the law does say that when a man is acquitted, he's free from guilt. And what holds in law might hold in argument too.

Then why should you hesitate?

All right, I replied. I suppose I have to retrace my steps and say what I probably should have said earlier, in its proper place. The men's part has been played out, and now it's the women's turn — which is perfectly natural. And I'm all the more willing to speak since you're inviting me to.

For people born and educated like our citizens, the only way to reach the right conclusion about the role of women and children is to follow the path we started on. We said the men were to be guardians and watchdogs of the community.

True.

So let's take it further. Suppose women are born and educated under the same — or nearly the same — conditions. Then we'll see whether the outcome fits our plan.

What do you mean? he asked.

Here's what I mean, put as a question. When it comes to dogs, do we divide them into males and females and only use the males for hunting and guarding, while the females stay home because bearing and nursing puppies is enough work for them? Or do both sexes share equally in all their duties, the only difference being that males are generally stronger and females weaker?

They share equally, he said. The only difference is in their relative strength.

But can you use different animals for the same job unless you breed and train them the same way?

You can't.

Then if women are going to have the same duties as men, they need the same education?

Yes.

And the education we assigned to the men was music and physical training.

It was.

Then women need to be taught music, physical training, and the art of war too — and they need to practice these skills alongside the men?

That's the logical conclusion, I suppose.

I'd expect, I said, that many of our proposals are going to seem ridiculous, since they're so unusual.

No doubt about that.

And you know what the most ridiculous thing will be? The sight of women exercising naked in the gymnasium alongside the men — especially the older women. They certainly won't be a vision of beauty, any more than those wrinkled, leathery old men who keep showing up at the gym despite everything.

Yes indeed, he said. By current standards, the whole idea would seem absurd.

But since we've committed to speaking our minds, I said, we can't be afraid of the comedians and their jokes about women's achievements in music and athletics — and especially about women wearing armor and riding horses!

Very true.

We've started, so we have to push through to the hard parts. We'll ask the wits to be serious for once in their lives and remind them of this: it wasn't that long ago that Greeks considered it shameful and ridiculous for a man to be seen naked. When the Cretans first introduced the custom of exercising nude, and then the Spartans followed, the comedians of that day must have had a field day with it.

But when experience proved that it was far better to strip down than to cover up, the jokes died away. What seemed laughable to the eye was overruled by what reason showed to be best. And this revealed something important: the only true fool is the one who laughs at anything other than what's genuinely foolish and wrong. The only standard worth measuring beauty by is the standard of what's good.

Very true, he said.

So first — whether we're being playful or serious — let's settle the fundamental question about women's nature. Is she capable of sharing in all men's activities, or only some, or none? And specifically, can she participate in warfare? That's the best way to begin, and it'll probably lead us to the fairest conclusion.

That's much the best approach.

Want to start by arguing against ourselves? That way the opposition's case won't go undefended.

Why not? he said.

All right. Let's put words into our opponents' mouths. They'll say: "Socrates and Glaucon, nobody even needs to refute you — you refuted yourselves. When you first founded your state, you laid down the principle that everybody should do the one kind of work suited to their own nature." And yes, if I remember correctly, we did say that. "And don't men and women have very different natures?" Of course they do, we'll reply. "Then shouldn't men and women be assigned different tasks, ones that match their different natures?" Certainly. "Then haven't you fallen into a serious contradiction? You just said that men and women, whose natures are completely different, should perform the same duties." — So what's our defense, my good friend, against someone who raises these objections?

That's not an easy question to answer on the spot, he said. I'm going to beg you to work out our side of the case.

These are exactly the objections, Glaucon, that I saw coming a long time ago. They're what made me afraid and reluctant to tackle the whole question of women and children in the first place.

By Zeus, he said, this isn't an easy problem.

It certainly isn't, I said. But here's the thing: whether you fall into a swimming pool or the middle of the ocean, you still have to swim.

True. So let's swim for it and hope that some dolphin — like the one that saved Arion — or some other miracle comes along to rescue us.

I suppose so, he said.

All right, let's see if there's a way out. We agreed that different natures should have different occupations, and that men's and women's natures are different. But now we're saying different natures should have the same occupations. That's the contradiction we're charged with.

Truly, Glaucon, I said, the art of contradiction is a powerful thing!

Why do you say that?

Because I think many people fall into it without meaning to. When they think they're reasoning, they're actually just arguing — because they can't properly define and divide the concept they're talking about. They end up chasing verbal distinctions in a spirit of combat rather than genuine inquiry.

Yes, he said, that happens all the time. But how does that apply to us?

Very directly. There's a real danger that we're falling into a purely verbal dispute.

How so?

We're fiercely insisting that different natures should have different occupations — and that's literally true. But we never stopped to consider what we actually mean by "sameness" and "difference" of nature. We never asked: same or different in what respect? When we assigned different pursuits to different natures, we didn't define our terms.

No, he said. We never did.

I said: suppose, by way of illustration, we asked whether bald men and hairy men have opposite natures. If we agree they do, then if bald men are good cobblers, we'd have to forbid hairy men from cobbling — and vice versa.

That would be absurd, he said.

Yes — absurd. And why? Because when we built our state, we never meant that every conceivable difference in nature should matter. We only meant the differences relevant to a particular pursuit. A natural-born physician and another natural-born physician have the same nature in the relevant sense.

True.

Even if one is bald and the other has hair?

Exactly.

But a physician and a carpenter have different natures — in the relevant sense?

Certainly.

So, I said, if men and women turn out to differ in their fitness for some particular skill or pursuit, we should assign that pursuit to whichever sex is better at it. But if the only difference is that women bear children and men beget them, that by itself doesn't prove that women are different from men in the kind of education they should receive. We'll continue to maintain that our guardians and their wives should have the same training.

Very true.

Next, we'll challenge our opponent: tell us, in which civic skill or pursuit does the nature of a woman differ from a man's?

That's a fair question.

And maybe he'll say — just as you might — that it's hard to give a good answer off the cuff, but that with a little thought it's not so difficult.

Yes, perhaps.

So let's invite him to think along with us. Maybe we can show him that there's nothing about women's nature that would disqualify them from governing.

By all means.

Let's put it to him: when you said someone was naturally gifted or ungifted for something, what did you mean? Didn't you mean that one person picks things up easily while another struggles? That one person, with a little training, can figure out far more than the other can after years of study? That one person's body works with their mind while another's fights against it? Aren't these the kinds of differences between the naturally gifted and the ungifted?

No one would deny that.

And can you name a single human pursuit in which the male sex doesn't have all these advantages over the female to a higher degree? Should I waste time talking about weaving and baking and making preserves — the areas where women really do seem to excel, and where it's completely ridiculous for a man to outperform them?

You're right, he said. As a general rule, one sex is far superior to the other in almost everything. Many individual women are better than many individual men at particular things — but on the whole, what you say is true.

Then here's the point, my friend: there's no special aptitude for government that belongs to a woman because she's a woman, or to a man because he's a man. Natural abilities are distributed across both sexes equally. Women can pursue all the same occupations as men — though in every case, they're generally the weaker sex.

So should we impose all our requirements on men and none on women?

That would be ridiculous.

One woman has a gift for medicine; another doesn't. One is naturally musical; another has no ear for it.

True.

And one woman is a natural athlete and warrior, while another hates physical exercise and combat?

True.

And one woman is a philosopher, and another is an enemy of philosophy. One has spirit and courage; another doesn't.

That's also true.

Then some women will have the temperament of a guardian, and others won't. Wasn't that exactly how we selected the male guardians — by differences of this kind?

It was.

Men and women alike possess the qualities that make a good guardian. They differ only in degree — in their relative strength or weakness.

True.

And those women who have these qualities should be selected as companions and colleagues of men who have similar qualities — men they resemble in ability and character?

Certainly.

And shouldn't the same natures pursue the same activities?

They should.

Then we've come full circle: there's nothing unnatural about assigning music and physical training to the wives of the guardians. The argument is consistent both in what's useful and what's possible.

Certainly not unnatural.

The law we enacted is in harmony with nature, not against it. It's the current practice — which bars women from these things — that actually violates nature.

That appears to be true.

We set out to determine two things. First: are our proposals possible? Second: are they beneficial?

Yes.

And we've established that they're possible?

Yes.

Now we need to establish that they're genuinely beneficial?

Yes.

You'd agree that the same education that makes a good male guardian will make a good female guardian, since their original natures are the same?

Yes.

Let me ask you something.

Go ahead.

Would you say all men are equal in ability, or are some better than others?

Some are better.

And in the state we're building, which do you think are more excellent — the guardians who've been raised under our system, or the cobblers who've been educated in cobbling?

What a ridiculous question!

You've made my point, I said. Well then — aren't our guardians the best of all our citizens?

By far the best.

And won't their wives be the best women?

Yes, by far.

And can anything be better for a state than having its men and women be as excellent as possible?

Nothing.

And this is exactly what music and physical training, applied as we've described, will accomplish?

Exactly.

So our proposal isn't just possible — it's supremely beneficial to the state?

Yes.

Then let the guardian women strip — for their excellence will be all the clothing they need — and let them share in the hardships of war and the defense of their country. In distributing the workload, give the lighter duties to the women, since they're the weaker sex. But in everything else, their responsibilities are the same. And the man who laughs at naked women exercising for the best of reasons? In his laughter, he's plucking

"a fruit of unripe wisdom,"

and he doesn't know what he's laughing at or what he's doing. Because this is, and always will be, the truest saying: what is useful is noble, and what is harmful is base.

Very true.

So here's one wave we've survived. We made the rule that guardian men and women should share all their duties, and the argument hasn't drowned us. In fact, it's been entirely consistent in showing that this is both practical and beneficial.

Yes, said Glaucon, that was a pretty big wave.

You won't think so, I said, when you see what's coming next.

Go on. Let me see.

The next law, I said — the one that follows from everything we've built so far — goes like this: "The wives of our guardians are to be held in common. Their children are to be held in common. No parent will know their own child, and no child will know their parent."

Yes, he said, that's a much bigger wave than the first one. Its practicality and its benefit are both far more questionable.

I don't think anyone could dispute the enormous benefit of shared wives and children, I said. The real question — the one that'll be hotly debated — is whether it's actually possible.

I think plenty of doubts can be raised about both, he said.

So you're saying the two questions are linked, I replied. I was hoping you'd grant me the utility and let me escape from fighting on two fronts. Then I'd only have to defend the possibility.

Nice try, but I caught you, he said. You'll have to defend both.

All right, I said, I accept my fate. But grant me one small indulgence. Let me feast my mind on a daydream, the way people do when they're out walking alone. Before they've figured out how to get what they want — that's a detail they don't bother with — they just assume it's already theirs and move on to the fun part: planning what they'll do once their wish comes true. It's a habit that doesn't do much for a mind that wasn't very productive to begin with. But I'm starting to lose heart, and I'd like — with your permission — to set aside the question of possibility for now. I'll assume the plan is feasible and move on to examining how the rulers will carry it out in practice, and I'll show that nothing could be more beneficial to the state and the guardians. We'll tackle those questions first, and then — if you're willing — we'll come back to whether it's possible.

Go ahead, he said. I have no objection.

First, I think that if our rulers and their auxiliaries are going to live up to their titles, the auxiliaries need to be willing to obey, and the rulers need to have the authority to command. The guardians must obey the laws themselves and embody their spirit in whatever details are left to their judgment.

That's right, he said.

You, I said — as their lawmaker — having already selected the men, will now select the women and give them to the men as partners. The women should be as similar as possible in natural ability. They'll all live in common houses and eat at common meals. None of them will own anything privately. They'll be together, train together, and exercise together at the gymnasium. And naturally, inevitably, they'll be drawn to sleep with each other — "necessity" isn't too strong a word, I think?

Not geometrical necessity, he said, but a different kind — the kind that lovers know. And that kind is far more powerful and persuasive than any theorem.

True, I said. But Glaucon, this part — like everything else — has to be conducted in an orderly way. In a city of the blessed, reckless sexual license is unholy, and the rulers won't allow it.

Yes, he said. It shouldn't be permitted.

Then clearly the next step is to make marriages as sacred as possible. And the most sacred marriages will be the most beneficial ones.

Agreed.

But how do we make them most beneficial? Here's a question for you, Glaucon, because I've seen the dogs and fine-bred birds you keep at your house. Tell me — have you ever paid attention to their breeding?

What about it specifically?

Well, first: even though they're all from good stock, aren't some better than others?

Yes.

And do you breed from all of them equally, or do you select the best?

From the best.

And do you breed from the oldest or the youngest, or from those in their prime?

From those in their prime.

And if you didn't breed carefully, wouldn't your dogs and birds deteriorate badly?

Yes.

And the same goes for horses and other animals?

Absolutely.

Good heavens, my dear friend! I said. What incredible skill our rulers will need — if the same principle applies to human beings!

Of course the same principle applies, he said. But why would that require any special skill?

Because, I said, our rulers will frequently need to use deception and manipulation for the good of their citizens. We agreed earlier that such methods, used like medicine, can be justified.

And we were right to say that.

And this "medicinal" approach will come up a lot when it comes to marriage and reproduction.

How so?

Here's the principle we've already established, I said. The best men should be paired with the best women as often as possible, and the inferior with the inferior as rarely as possible. The children of the first group should be raised, while those of the second should not — if we want to keep the flock in top condition. And all of this must be kept secret from everyone except the rulers, or the guardian class will erupt in rebellion.

We should establish regular festivals, I said, where we bring the brides and grooms together. There'll be sacrifices and wedding songs composed by our poets. The number of marriages will be left to the rulers' discretion — their goal is to keep the population stable. They'll need to factor in wars, diseases, and other threats, so the state stays neither too large nor too small.

Certainly, he said.

We'll also need to design some clever lottery system, so that on each occasion, the less worthy partners will blame their bad luck — not the rulers.

Naturally, he said.

And I think our bravest and best young men, in addition to their other honors and rewards, should have more opportunities to be with women. Their courage is a reason in itself, and such men should have as many children as possible.

True.

The proper officials — whether male or female, since women hold offices too — will take the offspring of the best parents to a special nursery, where they'll be cared for by nurses living in a separate quarter. But the children of inferior parents, or any deformed children born to the better ones, will be quietly disposed of in some undisclosed place, as they should be.

Yes, he said, if we want to keep the guardian breed pure.

The nurses will handle the feeding. They'll bring mothers to the nursery when they're full of milk, but they'll take every precaution to make sure no mother recognizes her own child. Other wet-nurses can be hired if more are needed. They'll also see to it that nursing doesn't go on too long. As for night feedings and all that drudgery — the nurses and attendants will handle it.

You're making motherhood pretty easy for the guardian women, he said.

As it should be, I replied. But let's press on with our plan. We said the parents should be in the prime of life.

Yes.

And what counts as "the prime"? Something like twenty years for a woman and thirty for a man.

Which specific years?

A woman should begin bearing children for the state at twenty and continue until forty. A man should begin at twenty-five — once he's passed the point where his energy peaks — and continue until fifty-five.

Yes, he said. For both sexes, those are the years of peak physical and mental vitality.

Anyone older or younger than these limits who takes part in the public breeding program will be committing an unholy and unjust act. Their child — if it sneaks into existence — will have been conceived without the blessings of the sacrifices and prayers that the priestesses, priests, and the whole city offer at every wedding, praying that each new generation will be better and more useful than their good and useful parents. Instead, their child will be the offspring of darkness and uncontrolled desire.

Very true, he said.

The same law applies to anyone within the prescribed age range who sleeps with a woman of childbearing age without the rulers' approval. We'll say he's foisting an illegitimate child on the state — uncertified and unsanctioned.

Very true.

These rules apply only to people of breeding age. After they've passed that age, men and women are free to be with whomever they choose — except that a man can't be with his daughter or granddaughter, or his mother or grandmother. And women can't be with their sons, fathers, grandsons, or grandfathers. All of this is permitted on one strict condition: any pregnancy that results must be terminated. If a child somehow makes it to birth, the parents must understand that it cannot be raised.

That's reasonable enough, he said. But how will they know who their fathers, daughters, and other relatives are?

They won't — not really. Here's how it will work: from the date of a wedding festival, the groom will call all children born in the seventh or tenth month afterward "his sons" and "his daughters," and they'll call him "Father." He'll call their children his grandchildren, and they'll call his generation "grandfathers" and "grandmothers." Everyone born during the same period when their parents were together will call each other brothers and sisters — and as I said, they'll be forbidden to marry. One exception: if the lottery falls in their favor and the oracle at Delphi gives its approval, siblings may marry.

Quite right, he said.

So that's the plan, Glaucon — the community of wives and families for the guardians. Now, shall we have the argument show that this arrangement is consistent with everything else in our system, and that nothing could be better?

Yes, certainly.

Let's start with a basic question: what should be the chief aim of a lawmaker? What's the greatest good for a state, and what's the greatest evil? Then we'll see whether our proposals have the stamp of the good or the evil.

By all means.

Can there be any greater evil than discord — division where unity should reign? Or any greater good than the bond of unity?

There cannot.

And isn't there unity when the citizens share their pleasures and pains — when they all celebrate the same joys and grieve over the same sorrows?

Definitely.

But what happens when feelings become private and fragmented? When half the city rejoices and the other half is plunged in grief over the exact same event? That's when a state falls apart.

Exactly.

And these divisions typically stem from disagreements over two little words: "mine" and "not mine," "his" and "not his."

Precisely.

And isn't the best-governed state the one where the greatest number of people use "mine" and "not mine" to refer to the same things?

Absolutely.

The one that most closely resembles an individual organism? Think about it: when you stub your finger, the whole body — organized around the soul as its center, unified under its governing power — feels the hurt and sympathizes with the injured part. That's why we say "I have a pain in my finger." The same goes for any part of the body, whether it's suffering pain or experiencing relief.

Very true, he said. And I agree: the best-ordered state comes closest to this kind of shared feeling.

So when anything good or bad happens to any citizen, the whole state will treat it as its own experience — rejoicing together or grieving together?

Yes, he said. That's what will happen in a well-governed state.

It's time to go back to our own state, I said, and see whether it — or some other model — best reflects these principles.

Like every state, ours has rulers and subjects.

Yes.

All of whom call each other "citizens."

Yes.

But in other states, what else do the people call their rulers?

In most states, they call them "masters." In democracies, they just call them "rulers."

And in our state? What do the people call the rulers, besides "fellow citizens"?

They call them "saviors" and "helpers," he said.

And what do the rulers call the people?

Their "providers" and "supporters."

And in other states?

"Slaves."

And what do rulers in other states call each other?

"Fellow rulers."

And in ours?

"Fellow guardians."

Now, in other states, could you find a ruler who'd call one colleague "my friend" and another "a stranger with no connection to me"?

Yes, all the time.

And the "friend" is the one he has a personal interest in, while the "stranger" is the one he doesn't?

Exactly.

But would any of our guardians ever think of a fellow guardian as a stranger?

Certainly not. Everyone they meet will be regarded as a brother, a sister, a father, a mother, a son, a daughter — or a descendant or ancestor of one of these.

Excellent, I said. But let me push further: will these be family ties in name only, or will they be lived out in every action? For instance, will the word "father" carry with it the actual care, respect, and obedience that the law demands toward a father? Will the violator of these duties be seen as an impious and unjust person — one unlikely to receive much good from either gods or humans? Will these be the messages ringing in the children's ears from every citizen about those they're told are their parents and kin — or not?

These exactly, he said. Anything else would be ridiculous — using the words of family with the lips while ignoring them in practice.

So in our city, the language of harmony and unity will be heard more than anywhere else. As I described before, when anything happens to one citizen — good or bad — the universal refrain will be: "this is happening to me."

Yes.

And we said that when people think and speak this way, they'll share their pleasures and pains?

Yes, and rightly so.

And they'll have a common interest in the same things — each referring to those things as "mine" — and sharing this common interest, they'll share a common experience of happiness and sorrow?

Yes, far more than in any other state.

And the reason for this — above and beyond the general structure — will be the community of wives and children among the guardians?

That's the main reason.

And we agreed that this unity of feeling is the greatest good for a state, comparing a well-ordered state to a body whose parts all share in pleasure and pain together?

We did, and we were right.

Then the community of wives and children is clearly the source of the greatest good for our state.

That follows.

And this fits perfectly with our earlier principle — that the guardians should have no houses, no land, no private property. Their pay is their food, provided by the other citizens. No private luxuries. We intended them to be true guardians.

Right, he said.

Both the community of property and the community of families make them truer guardians. They won't tear the city apart by fighting over "mine" and "not mine" — with each man dragging his private acquisitions into a separate house where he keeps a separate wife and children and nurses private joys and private sorrows. Instead, all of them will be affected, as far as possible, by the same pleasures and pains, because they all share the same convictions about what's near and dear to them. They'll all pull in the same direction.

Certainly, he said.

And since they own nothing but their own bodies, lawsuits and complaints will virtually cease to exist. They'll be free from all the quarrels that money, children, and family connections create.

Of course.

There won't even be assault charges among them. We'll establish the principle that it's honorable and right for equals to defend themselves against equals — making self-defense a duty.

Good, he said.

And here's another benefit: if someone has a grudge against another, they'll settle it right there and then, instead of letting it fester into something dangerous.

True.

The older guardians will be responsible for disciplining the younger.

Yes.

And the young will never strike or mistreat an elder — unless a magistrate orders it. And they won't disrespect their elders in any other way, either. Two powerful guardians will prevent it: shame and fear. Shame at laying hands on someone they regard as a parent. Fear that the others — who are brothers, sons, and fathers — will come to the injured person's defense.

That's true, he said.

So in every way, the laws will keep the citizens at peace with each other?

Very much so.

And if the guardians never quarrel among themselves, there's no danger of the rest of the city being divided against them or against each other.

None whatsoever.

I'd almost rather not mention the petty annoyances they'll be rid of — they're beneath our notice. Things like the poor flattering the rich. The stress and anxiety of raising a family, borrowing money, scrimping and saving, handing cash over to wives and servants to manage. The thousand little miseries that come with all of this. Everyone knows what they are, and they're not worth cataloguing.

Yes, he said. You don't need eyes to see them.

Free from all of these, our guardians will live a life more blessed than even Olympic victors.

How so? I said. The Olympic champion is considered happy based on only a fraction of the blessings our citizens will enjoy. Our guardians have won a far more glorious victory, and they receive far more complete support from the public treasury. Their victory is nothing less than the salvation of the entire state. Their crown is the fullness of everything life requires. While they live, they receive their country's gratitude. When they die, they receive an honorable burial.

Yes, he said. Glorious rewards indeed.

Do you remember, I said, how earlier in our discussion someone — who will remain nameless — accused us of making our guardians miserable? They had nothing, while they could have had everything. We replied that if the occasion arose we'd revisit the question, but for now we were focused on making the guardians truly guardians, and building the state for the happiness of the whole, not just one class.

Yes, I remember.

Well? Now that the life of our guardians turns out to be far nobler and better than Olympic victors' — does it even compare to the life of cobblers, or farmers, or any other workers?

Certainly not.

But I should repeat what I said before: if any guardian tries to be happy in a way that makes him stop being a guardian — if, infected by some foolish notion of happiness, he tries to seize everything in the state for himself — then he'll learn how wise Hesiod was when he said: "half is more than the whole."

If he came to me for advice, I'd tell him: stay where you are, when this is the life being offered to you.

You agree, then, I said, that men and women should share a common way of life — common education, common children? That they should guard the citizens together, whether in the city or at war? That they should keep watch and hunt together like dogs? That women should share in everything as far as they're able? That in doing this, they'll be doing what's best, and they won't be violating the natural relationship between the sexes — they'll be preserving it?

I agree, he said.

The remaining question, I said, is whether this kind of community is actually possible among humans — as it is among other animals — and if so, how?

You've anticipated exactly what I was going to ask.

As far as war goes, I said, there's no difficulty in seeing how they'll manage.

How?

They'll go on campaigns together, obviously, and bring along any children strong enough to watch — just the way the children of craftsmen observe their parents at work long before they take up the craft themselves. The children won't just watch, either. They'll help out and make themselves useful in war, serving their fathers and mothers. Haven't you noticed how potters' children watch and help at the wheel for a long time before they're allowed to touch it?

Yes, I have.

And should potters be more careful about giving their children experience than our guardians?

The idea is ridiculous, he said.

There's also this: the presence of their own children will be the greatest motivation for the parents to fight bravely — just as it is with other animals.

That's true, Socrates. But if they lose — and defeat happens a lot in war — the children will be lost along with the parents. The state might never recover.

True, I said. But would you never let them take any risk at all?

I'm not saying that.

Then if they're going to face risk at some point, shouldn't it be at a time when — if things go well — they'll be the better for it?

Obviously.

Whether or not future soldiers observe war in their youth is hugely important — important enough to justify some risk.

Agreed.

So our first step is to let the children watch battles — while making sure they're kept safe. Then everything will be fine.

Right.

Their parents aren't blind to the risks of war. They'll know, as far as human foresight allows, which campaigns are safe and which are dangerous.

Yes, that can be assumed.

They'll bring the children along on the safe ones and keep them away from the dangerous ones?

Yes.

And they'll put them under the command of experienced veterans who'll serve as guides and teachers?

Exactly right.

Still, I said, the dangers of war are unpredictable. There's always an element of chance.

True.

So against unexpected danger, we need to give the children wings — so they can fly to safety if things go wrong.

What do you mean? he asked.

I mean we need to put them on horseback from an early age. Once they've learned to ride, we'll take them on horseback to observe the fighting. The horses shouldn't be spirited war-horses, but the fastest and most manageable ones we can find. That way they'll get an excellent view of the work that'll someday be theirs. And if danger comes, they just follow their older leaders and escape.

I think you're right, he said.

Now, what about the rules of war? How should soldiers treat each other and their enemies? Let me start with a proposal: any soldier who abandons his post or throws away his weapons or shows any other kind of cowardice should be demoted to the rank of laborer or farmer. What do you think?

Absolutely.

And anyone who lets himself be taken prisoner can be given as a gift to his captors. He's their rightful catch — let them do whatever they want with him.

Agreed.

But what about the hero who distinguishes himself? First, he should be honored by every one of his young comrades on the field. Each of them should crown him in turn. Does that sound right?

Yes.

And each should shake his hand?

I agree to that too.

But you probably won't agree with my next proposal.

What is it?

That he should kiss — and be kissed by — each of them.

Absolutely! said Glaucon. I'd go even further: while the campaign lasts, no one whom he wants to kiss should be allowed to refuse him. That way, if any soldier is in love — with a young man or a woman — he'll have extra incentive to win the prize of valor.

Excellent, I said. We've already established that the bravest men will get more marriage opportunities and will be chosen for pairing more often than others, so they'll have the most children.

True.

And there's another way to honor brave young men, following Homer's example. He tells us Ajax was rewarded after his heroic performance with a long serving of prime beef — a fitting tribute to a hero in his prime, being both an honor and a source of strength.

Very true, he said.

Then Homer will be our guide here. At sacrifices and similar occasions, we'll honor the bravest — whether men or women — with hymns and the other honors we mentioned, plus

"seats of honor, and prime cuts of meat, and full cups of wine."

And while we honor them, we train them.

Excellent, he said.

And when a soldier dies gloriously in battle — shall we say he's joined the golden race?

Absolutely.

Don't we have Hesiod's word for it that when members of the golden race die, they become

"holy spirits upon the earth, protectors of good, guardians over mortal men"?

Yes, and we accept his authority.

We'll consult the oracle about how to bury these divine and heroic figures, and what special honors they should receive. And we'll do as the oracle commands?

By all means.

And for all time to come, we'll treat their graves with the reverence due to heroes. The same honors will go to anyone judged exceptionally good, whether they die in battle, of old age, or by any other means.

Very right, he said.

Now — how should our soldiers treat their enemies?

In what respect?

First, slavery. Should Greeks enslave other Greeks? Or should they spare them — and encourage other Greeks to do the same — keeping in mind that the whole Greek world could someday fall under barbarian domination?

Sparing them is infinitely better.

Then no Greek should be enslaved by our citizens. That's a rule they'll follow and recommend to all other Greeks.

Certainly, he said. That way they'll unite against the barbarians instead of destroying each other.

What about stripping the dead? After a victory, should the winners take anything beyond the enemy's armor? Doesn't the habit of looting create an excuse for cowards to avoid battle? They skulk around the corpses pretending to do their duty, and many an army has been lost to this greed.

And isn't there something petty and mean about robbing a corpse? Something small-minded about making an enemy of a dead body when the real enemy has fled, leaving only his gear behind? It's like a dog that can't reach the person who threw the stone, so it snarls at the stone instead.

Very like a dog, he said.

So we must not strip the dead or prevent their burial.

Yes, we absolutely must not.

And we won't dedicate captured weapons in temples — especially not Greek weapons — if we care about maintaining good relations with other Greeks. In fact, there's reason to fear that offering spoils taken from fellow Greeks would be a pollution, unless a god specifically commands it.

True.

And what about devastating Greek territory and burning Greek houses? What should the policy be?

I'd love to hear your view, he said.

Both should be forbidden, I think. The victors should take only the year's harvest and nothing more. Want to know why?

Please.

I think there's a meaningful difference between "discord" and "war" — and it goes beyond just the words. One refers to what's internal and domestic; the other to what's external and foreign. Internal conflict is discord; only external conflict is war.

That's a very good distinction.

And I'd add that the Greek world is united by blood and friendship, and is fundamentally alien and foreign to the barbarians.

Very true.

So when Greeks fight barbarians, or barbarians fight Greeks, that's war — they're natural enemies. But when Greeks fight Greeks, it's a sickness. Greece is in a state of disorder and discord, because Greeks are natural friends.

Yes.

Consider this: when such a conflict occurs and a city is split in two, if both sides burn each other's farms and destroy each other's homes, how terrible that seems! No true patriot would tear apart their own motherland. There might be some justification for the victors taking the defeated side's crops, but even then, both sides should recognize that peace is coming eventually — they can't fight forever.

Yes, he said. That's a better attitude than total war.

Won't the city we're founding be a Greek city?

It should be.

And its citizens will be good and civilized?

Very civilized.

And they'll love Greece? They'll think of it as their homeland and share in the common temples?

Most certainly.

So any conflict among Greeks they'll regard as a family quarrel — mere discord, not war?

Certainly not war.

They'll quarrel like people who expect to reconcile someday?

Yes.

They'll use friendly correction, not enslavement or destruction. They'll be reformers, not enemies.

Exactly.

Being Greeks themselves, they won't devastate Greek land or burn Greek homes. They won't assume that every man, woman, and child in a hostile city is their enemy. They know that the guilt of war always lies with a few people, not the many. For all these reasons, they'll be unwilling to ravage fields and demolish houses. Their hostility will last only until the many innocent people force the guilty few to make amends.

I agree, he said. That's how our citizens should treat their Greek enemies. Against barbarians, they should fight the way Greeks currently fight each other.

Then let's add this to our guardians' code: they shall not devastate Greek land or burn Greek houses.

Agreed. And I think we'd also agree that these rules, like all our previous ones, are excellent.

But, Socrates, I have to say — if you keep going like this, you'll completely forget the other question you pushed aside at the beginning of this discussion: Is this whole system even possible? And if so, how? I'm perfectly willing to acknowledge that your plan, if it could be carried out, would do all sorts of good for the state. I'll even add what you've left out: your citizens would be the bravest warriors on earth. They'd never break ranks, because they all know each other and call each other "father," "brother," and "son." If the women fight alongside them — whether in the front lines or in reserve — as a terror to the enemy and as reinforcements when needed, they'd be absolutely invincible. And I fully acknowledge all the domestic advantages, too — as many as you'd like to name. But since I grant all of this, we don't need to talk about it anymore. Let's assume this state exists and move to the real question: Is it possible? How?

The minute I stop to catch my breath, you attack, I said. I've barely survived the first two waves, and you don't seem to realize that the third one — the biggest and heaviest — is about to crash over me. When you see and hear it, you'll be a lot more sympathetic. You'll understand why I was afraid and reluctant to state and examine a proposal this extraordinary.

The more you stall, he said, the more determined we are. Tell us how this state is possible. Now.

Let me start, I said, by reminding you how we got here. We came looking for justice and injustice.

True. But what of it?

Just this: if we discover what justice is, will we demand that the just man be absolutely and perfectly just in every detail? Or will we be satisfied with an approximation — a degree of justice closer to the ideal than what we find in other people?

The approximation will be enough.

Good. Because we've been investigating the nature of perfect justice and perfect injustice as ideals — models we can look at to judge our own happiness and misery by how closely we resemble them. We weren't trying to prove that these ideals could actually exist in practice.

True.

Would a painter be any worse at his art because, after creating a portrait of a perfectly beautiful person, he couldn't prove that such a person actually existed?

Not at all.

Well, weren't we creating the ideal of a perfect state?

We were.

And is our theory any less valid because we can't prove such a state could actually come into being?

Surely not.

That's the truth. But if you want me to try to show how — and under what conditions — this state is most likely to become real, I'll need you to grant me the same things you granted before.

What things?

Are ideals ever perfectly realized? Doesn't every word express more than the fact? Doesn't reality always, necessarily, fall short of the theory? What do you say?

I agree.

Then don't insist that I prove the actual state will match the ideal in every respect. If we can show how a city might be governed in a way that comes close to what we've described, you'll have to admit we've found the possibility you demanded. Isn't that enough?

Yes, it is.

Then let me try to identify what single flaw in existing states causes them to be governed so badly, and what's the smallest change that could bring a state into this better form. Ideally, one change. If not, two. If not, as few and as minor as possible.

Agreed, he said.

I think, I said, that there's one single change that could transform a state — though it's neither small nor easy. But it is possible.

What is it?

Now I come face to face with what I've been calling the greatest wave. But the words will be spoken, even if the wave breaks and drowns me in ridicule and contempt. Listen carefully.

Speak, he said.

I said: Unless philosophers become kings, or the kings and princes of this world acquire the spirit and power of philosophy — unless political greatness and wisdom are united in the same person, and all those lesser natures who chase one while ignoring the other are forced to step aside — cities will never be free from their afflictions. Nor will the human race. Only then will this state of ours have any chance of coming to life and seeing the light of day.

This, my dear Glaucon, is the thought I've been afraid to utter, because I knew how utterly outrageous it would sound. People have a hard time accepting that there's no other path to happiness — for individuals or for states.

Socrates, said Glaucon, do you realize what you've just said? That kind of statement is going to make a lot of very respectable people — figuratively speaking — rip off their coats, grab the nearest weapon, and charge at you full speed, ready to do serious damage. If you don't prepare a defense and get ready to fight, they're going to "slice you to ribbons with their sharp wits." And I'm not joking.

You're the one who got me into this, I said.

And I was right to do it. But don't worry — I'll do everything I can to help you out of it. All I can offer is goodwill, good advice, and maybe — just maybe — the ability to answer questions better than someone else. Not much, but it's all I've got. With that kind of backup, you'd better do your best to show the skeptics you're right.

I should try, I said, since you're offering such generous support. If we're going to have any chance of escaping the mob, we need to explain exactly what we mean when we say philosophers should rule. We need to make clear which natures are born for philosophy and leadership, and which are born to follow rather than lead.

Then let's have the definition, he said.

Follow me, I said, and I hope I can explain this clearly enough.

I'm sure you remember — so I won't belabor the point — that a true lover, if he deserves the name, loves the whole of what he loves, not just a part.

Actually, I don't understand. Could you remind me?

I said: I'd expect that response from someone else, but a man of your romantic experience really ought to know this. Every young person in the bloom of youth stirs something in a true lover's heart — they all seem worthy of his affection. Isn't that how you treat attractive people? One has a snub nose — you call his face "charming." Another has a hooked nose — you say he has a "regal" look. Someone with a nose that's neither? He has "perfect proportions." Dark-skinned? "Manly." Fair? "A child of the gods." And that pale complexion some people call "honey-gold" — who do you think invented that term if not a lover, making up pretty words because he can forgive anything on the face of youth? In short, there's no excuse you won't make, nothing you won't say, to avoid losing a single flower that blooms in the springtime of youth.

If you want me to play the authority on love for the sake of the argument, he said, I'll go along with it.

And what about lovers of wine? Same pattern, isn't it? They'll seize any excuse to drink any wine at all.

True.

And ambitious men? If they can't command an army, they'll settle for commanding a squad. If the truly important people won't honor them, they'll accept flattery from nobodies — but they must have honor of some kind.

Exactly.

So let me ask again: when we say someone desires a whole class of things, we mean they desire all of it — not just some?

Yes, the whole class.

Then may we say this about the philosopher: he's a lover not of part of wisdom, but of all of it?

Yes, all of it.

And someone who dislikes learning — especially a young person who can't yet tell what's worth knowing and what isn't — we wouldn't call him a philosopher or a lover of knowledge. Just as we wouldn't call someone who refuses food "hungry" — we'd say he has a bad appetite.

Very true.

But someone who has a taste for every kind of knowledge, who's eager to learn and never satisfied — that person we can fairly call a philosopher?

Glaucon said: in that case, you'll find a lot of strange people qualifying as philosophers. The lovers of spectacles, for example — they're delighted to learn new things, so they'd have to count. And the musical enthusiasts — a bizarre bunch to find among philosophers. They're the last people on earth who'd willingly attend a philosophical discussion. But they run around to every festival of Dionysus, town or country, determined to hear every chorus. They've practically rented out their ears. Are we going to call all of these people — and everyone with similar hobbies, and all the practitioners of minor crafts — philosophers?

Certainly not, I said. They're only an imitation.

Then who are the true philosophers? he asked.

Those who are lovers of the vision of truth, I said.

That sounds right, he said, but what do you mean by it?

I'd have trouble explaining it to just anyone. But I'm sure you'll grant me this.

What?

That since beauty and ugliness are opposites, they're two distinct things.

Of course.

And since they're two, each of them is one?

Yes, that follows.

The same goes for justice and injustice, good and evil, and every other quality. Taken individually, each is one. But through their various combinations with actions, bodies, and each other, each appears to be many.

Right.

And this is the distinction I'm drawing between the lovers of spectacle — the practical, art-loving crowd — and the people I'm talking about, who alone deserve the title "philosopher."

How so?

The lovers of sights and sounds, I said, are fond of beautiful tones, colors, shapes, and all the things crafted from them. But their minds can't grasp the nature of Beauty itself — absolute Beauty.

That's true.

And how few are those who can reach the vision of Beauty itself!

Very few.

Now consider: someone who recognizes beautiful things but doesn't recognize Beauty itself — who, even when someone tries to lead him to it, can't follow — is such a person awake or dreaming? Think about it. Isn't dreaming precisely this: mistaking the likeness for the real thing, whether you're asleep or awake?

I'd certainly say that person is dreaming.

But take the opposite case — someone who recognizes that Beauty itself exists, who can distinguish the Form from the things that participate in it, who doesn't confuse the particular things with the Form or the Form with the particular things — is that person awake or dreaming?

He's wide awake.

And wouldn't we say that the mind of the one who knows has knowledge, while the mind of the one who merely believes has opinion?

Yes.

But what if the person with mere opinion gets upset and challenges us? Can we soothe him somehow, gently win him over, without letting on that there's something seriously wrong with his thinking?

We should certainly try.

All right, let's figure out what to say to him. We'll start by assuring him that if he does know something, we're happy for him — no one's trying to take anything away. But we'd like to ask him a question. Does a person who knows something know something real, or something unreal? (You answer for him.)

He knows something real.

Something that is, or something that is not?

Something that is. Because how could something that doesn't exist be known?

So we're confident — from every angle we can examine it — that what fully and completely is can be fully and completely known, while what absolutely is not is absolutely unknowable?

Completely confident.

Good. But what if there's something that both is and is not — something whose nature lies between pure being and absolute non-being?

Then it would fall between the two.

And if knowledge corresponds to being, and ignorance necessarily corresponds to non-being, then for this in-between thing, we'd need to find a corresponding in-between faculty — something between knowledge and ignorance, if such a thing exists?

Yes.

Do we recognize the existence of opinion?

Of course.

Is it the same faculty as knowledge, or different?

Different.

So opinion and knowledge deal with different subject matter, corresponding to their different capacities?

Yes.

Knowledge deals with what is — with being — and knows it for what it is. But before I go further, let me set up a framework.

What kind of framework?

I'll start by defining "faculties" as a class. Faculties are the powers in us — and in all things — that enable us to do what we do. Sight and hearing, for example, are faculties. Is that clear?

Perfectly clear.

Here's my view about them. I can't see a faculty — it has no color, no shape, no physical feature I can use to tell one from another. The only way I can distinguish between faculties is by looking at two things: what they deal with, and what they produce. If two faculties deal with the same subject and produce the same result, I call them the same. If they differ in either, I call them different. How about you?

Same.

Now — would you say that knowledge is a faculty? Or would you put it in some other category?

It's a faculty — the most powerful of all faculties.

And is opinion also a faculty?

Certainly. It's the faculty by which we form opinions.

But you acknowledged earlier that knowledge and opinion aren't the same thing?

Of course — how could any reasonable person confuse something infallible with something that makes mistakes?

Exactly. So we're both quite sure they're distinct.

We are.

And if they're distinct faculties, they must deal with distinct subjects?

Necessarily.

Knowledge deals with being — with what is real — and knows its nature?

Yes.

While opinion simply... opines?

Yes.

Does opinion know the same things knowledge knows? Is the subject of opinion identical to the subject of knowledge?

Impossible, he said. We just proved that if faculties are different, their subjects must be different too. Since opinion and knowledge are clearly different faculties, their subjects can't be the same.

So if being is the subject of knowledge, then something else must be the subject of opinion?

Yes, something else.

Is non-being the subject of opinion? But wait — can there even be an opinion about what doesn't exist? Think about it: when someone has an opinion, isn't it always an opinion about something? Can you have an opinion about nothing?

Impossible.

So someone who has an opinion has an opinion about some one thing?

Yes.

But non-being isn't "some thing" — it's, properly speaking, nothing?

Right.

And we said that ignorance necessarily corresponds to non-being, and knowledge to being?

Correct.

So opinion deals with neither being nor non-being?

Neither.

Then it can't be either knowledge or ignorance?

It seems not.

But does it go beyond either of them? Is it clearer than knowledge or darker than ignorance?

Neither.

Then opinion strikes you as darker than knowledge but brighter than ignorance?

Yes — and not by a small margin.

And it falls between them?

Yes.

Then opinion is intermediate?

Without question.

But weren't we saying earlier that if something turned out to both be and not be at the same time, it would lie in the interval between pure being and absolute non-being? And that the faculty corresponding to it would be neither knowledge nor ignorance, but something between them?

Yes.

And we've now found something between them — what we call opinion?

We have.

So what remains is to find the object that participates equally in being and non-being — that can't properly be called either one purely — and when we find it, we can rightly call it the subject of opinion. We'll assign the extremes to the extreme faculties and the middle to the middle one.

Exactly.

With all this established, here's what I'd say to the gentleman who denies that Beauty itself exists — who believes only in the multiplicity of beautiful things — the lover of sights who can't stand being told that Beauty is one, or that Justice is one, or that anything has a single nature. I'd say to him: "My good friend, of all these beautiful things, is there even one that won't also appear ugly from some angle? Of all these just things, is there one that won't also seem unjust? Of all these holy things, one that won't also seem unholy?"

No, he said. They inevitably appear both beautiful and ugly, just and unjust, holy and unholy.

And things that are double — can't they equally be called half? Doubles of one thing, halves of another?

Exactly.

And things we call great, small, heavy, light — won't they always be as rightly described by the opposite term?

True. Each of them will always be both.

Then can any of these many particular things be said to be this rather than not to be this?

They're like those trick riddles people tell at dinner parties, he said, or the children's puzzle about the eunuch throwing something at the bat — what did he throw it with, and what was the bat sitting on? These individual things are like that: riddling, ambiguous. You can't pin them down as being or not being, or as both, or as neither.

Then what do we do with them? I asked. Where can we put them except between being and non-being? They're clearly not more real than being or more unreal than non-being.

That's exactly right.

So it seems we've discovered that the many conventional beliefs people hold about beauty and everything else are tossing around in some zone halfway between pure being and pure non-being.

We have.

And we agreed earlier that anything of this kind would be the subject of opinion, not knowledge — caught and held by the intermediate faculty.

That's what we said.

So those who see many beautiful things but never see Beauty itself — who can't follow a guide who points the way to it — who see many instances of justice but never Justice itself — these people have opinions but not knowledge?

That's certain.

But those who see the absolute and eternal and unchanging — they have knowledge, not merely opinion?

That can't be denied either.

The first group loves and embraces the objects of opinion. The second loves and embraces the objects of knowledge. And the first group — remember? — are the ones who delight in sweet sounds and beautiful sights but refuse to acknowledge the existence of absolute Beauty.

Yes, I remember.

Then are we wrong to call the first group lovers of opinion rather than lovers of wisdom? Will they be angry with us for describing them this way?

I'll tell them they shouldn't be angry. No one should be angry at what's true.

But those who love the truth in each and every thing — those are the ones who deserve to be called lovers of wisdom. Philosophers.

Book VI

The Sun and the Divided Line

And so, Glaucon, after a long and winding road, the true philosophers and the fakes have finally come into view.

I don't think there was a shorter route, he said.

I suppose not, I said. Though I do think we'd have gotten a clearer picture of both if we'd been able to focus on just this one question, without all the other issues still waiting for us — questions anyone who wants to understand how the just life differs from the unjust life has to work through.

What's the next question? he asked.

The one that follows naturally, I said. Since only philosophers can grasp what's eternal and unchanging, while people who wander among shifting, unstable things are not philosophers — which group should rule our state?

And how do we decide that? he asked.

Whichever group is better at guarding the laws and institutions of our state — let them be our guardians.

There's no question, I said, that a guard who needs to keep watch over something should have eyes rather than no eyes?

No question at all.

And wouldn't you say that people are basically blind if they have no knowledge of what each thing truly is — no clear pattern in their souls — and can't look at absolute truth the way a painter looks at a model? If they can't refer back to that original to set the standards for beauty, goodness, and justice in this world — or guard and preserve those standards once they're set — wouldn't you call such people blind?

That's pretty much their condition, he replied.

So should we make these people our guardians, when there are others who match them in experience, who are just as virtuous in every way, and who also know the truth of each thing?

There's no reason to reject people who have this greatest of all great qualities, he said. They should always have first place — unless they fall short in some other respect.

Then let's figure out, I said, how they can combine this quality with the others.

By all means.

First, as we said at the start, we need to understand the philosopher's nature. And once we agree on that, I think we'll also see that these qualities can come together in one person — and that only people who have them all should rule the state.

What do you mean?

Let's start with this: philosophical minds are always drawn to the kind of knowledge that reveals eternal reality — the kind that doesn't shift with the tides of creation and destruction.

Further, I said, let's agree that they love all of true reality. They won't voluntarily give up any part of it, whether great or small, more prestigious or less — just like we said about lovers and ambitious people.

And if they're going to be what we described, is there another quality they need?

What quality?

Truthfulness. They'll never willingly let falsehood into their minds. They'll hate it. They'll love the truth.

Yes, that can safely be said of them.

"Can be" isn't strong enough, my friend. Say "must be." Because anyone who's passionately in love with something can't help loving everything that's connected to it.

Right, he said.

And is anything more closely connected to wisdom than truth?

How could there be?

Can the same person love wisdom and love falsehood?

Never.

So the true lover of learning must desire all truth, from his earliest years onward.

But then, as we know from experience, when someone's desires flow strongly in one direction, they're weaker in others — like a stream diverted into another channel.

Someone whose desires are channeled toward knowledge in all its forms will be absorbed in the pleasures of the mind. He'll barely feel bodily pleasures — if he's a genuine philosopher and not a fraud.

That's absolutely certain.

A person like that is bound to be self-controlled, not greedy. The things that drive other people to chase and hoard money have no hold on him.

There's another test of the philosophical nature we need to consider.

What's that?

There shouldn't be any pettiness in their soul. Nothing is more hostile to a mind that's always reaching for the whole of things, both divine and human, than small-mindedness.

Exactly right, he replied.

So how could someone with true greatness of mind — someone who contemplates all of time and all of existence — think that human life is such a big deal?

Or fear death?

Then cowardice and pettiness have no place in real philosophy?

None at all.

And someone who's well-balanced, not greedy, not petty, not a braggart, not a coward — could such a person ever be unjust or difficult to deal with?

Impossible.

So when you're looking at whether someone has a philosophical soul, even in youth, watch for this: are they just and gentle, or rude and antisocial?

There's another thing we should check.

What?

Whether they enjoy learning. Because nobody loves what causes them pain and frustration and barely any progress.

Certainly not.

And if someone is forgetful — if nothing they learn sticks — won't they end up like an empty jar?

Definitely.

They'll struggle in vain and end up hating themselves and the whole pointless exercise.

So a forgetful soul can't be counted among genuine philosophers. The philosopher must have a good memory.

And an unbalanced, ungraceful nature can only tend toward what's out of proportion.

Undoubtedly.

And do you think truth is closer to proportion or to disproportion?

To proportion.

So besides all these other qualities, we need a naturally well-proportioned and graceful mind — one that's drawn instinctively toward the true nature of each thing.

Now, don't all these qualities we've listed go together? Aren't they all necessary for a soul that's going to fully and perfectly participate in reality?

Absolutely necessary, he replied.

And wouldn't a pursuit that requires all these gifts — a good memory, quick learning, nobility, grace, and kinship with truth, justice, courage, and self-control — wouldn't that be a blameless pursuit?

Even the god of jealousy himself couldn't find fault with it, he said.

And to people like this, I said — once they've been perfected by years and education — and only to them, would you entrust the state.

Here Adeimantus broke in and said: Nobody can argue with what you're saying, Socrates. But here's what happens when you talk like this. Your listeners get a strange feeling. They sense they're being led astray at each step of the argument — a little nudge here, a little nudge there — because they're not skilled enough at asking and answering questions to push back in the moment. These little concessions pile up, and by the end of the discussion they find themselves completely overturned. All their former beliefs are upside down. It's like an amateur chess player who gets cornered by a stronger opponent — boxed in with no moves left. That's what happens here: they're boxed in by this game played with words instead of pieces. But the whole time, they feel they're actually right. Look — anyone listening could say: "Sure, I can't match you move for move in this argument. But when I look at the facts, I can see that the people who pursue philosophy — not just dabbling in it as part of their education when they're young, but making it their life's work into their later years — most of them turn into total oddballs, if not outright scoundrels. And even the best of them are made useless to society by the very studies you're praising so highly."

Well, I said, do you think the people who say this are wrong?

I can't tell, he replied. But I'd like to know what you think.

Here's my answer: I think they're completely right.

Then how can you say that cities will never be free from trouble until philosophers rule — when you admit that philosophers are useless?

You're asking a question, I said, that can only be answered with a parable.

Ah yes, Socrates — and parables are something you're definitely not accustomed to using, he said with a grin.

I see you're quite enjoying watching me wrestle with this, I said. But listen to the parable, and then you'll be even more amused by how thin my imagination is. Because the way the best people are treated in their own states is so terrible that nothing else compares to it. To make my case, I have to use a story — something stitched together from many pieces, like those mythical creatures you see in paintings, half-goat and half-stag.

Imagine a fleet of ships — or just one ship, really. The captain is taller and stronger than anyone else on board. But he's a bit deaf, a bit near-sighted, and his knowledge of navigation is about as limited as his eyesight. The sailors are fighting with each other over who should steer. Every single one of them thinks he has the right to take the helm, even though none of them has ever learned navigation and none of them can point to a teacher or a time when they studied it. In fact, they'll tell you navigation can't be taught — and they're ready to cut to pieces anyone who says it can.

So these sailors crowd around the captain, begging and pleading for him to hand over the helm. When they don't get their way and someone else does, they kill their rivals or throw them overboard. Then they drug the noble captain with wine or some narcotic — knock his senses out — stage a mutiny, take control of the ship, and help themselves to all the supplies. Eating, drinking, partying — they sail along exactly the way you'd expect.

And here's the key: the guy who's cleverest at getting the captain to hand over the ship — whether through persuasion or force — they call him "sailor," "pilot," "expert seaman." Anyone who isn't in on the scheme they call a useless daydreamer.

What they can't even begin to imagine is this: that a real navigator has to study the seasons, the sky, the stars, the winds — everything that belongs to his craft — if he's actually going to be qualified to command a ship. And that he'll steer it whether the others like it or not. The very idea that you could combine real expertise with actual authority over the helm — it's never crossed their minds. It's not part of their world.

Now, on a ship in this state of mutiny — run by these mutineers — how do you think the true navigator will be regarded? Won't they call him a stargazer? A windbag? A waste of space?

Of course, said Adeimantus.

Then you hardly need me to spell out the meaning of this parable, I said. You can see how it describes the philosopher's relationship to the state.

Take this story to the person who's surprised that philosophers get no respect in their cities. Explain it to him, and help him see that it would be far more surprising if they did.

And tell him this: he's right that the best philosophers are useless to society. But tell him to blame that uselessness on the people who refuse to use them — not on the philosophers themselves. It's not natural for a navigator to beg the sailors to let him steer. That's not how it works. And the old saying that "the wise should go knocking on the doors of the rich" — the clever person who came up with that was lying. The truth is: when you're sick, whether you're rich or poor, you go to the doctor. And when you need to be governed, you go to the person who knows how to govern. A ruler who's worth anything doesn't beg his subjects to be ruled by him. No — the rulers we have now are a different breed entirely. They're exactly like those mutinous sailors. And the real helmsmen — they're the ones the sailors dismiss as stargazers and good-for-nothings.

Precisely, he said.

So for these reasons, and among people like these, philosophy — the noblest pursuit of all — isn't likely to be respected by the opposing crowd. But the worst damage to philosophy isn't done by its opponents. It's done by its own so-called followers — the same people your critic was talking about when he said that most philosophers are total rogues and even the best are useless. And I agreed with him.

Yes?

And now we've explained why the good ones are useless?

True.

Then shall we go on to show that most of them getting corrupted is also inevitable — and that this isn't philosophy's fault either?

By all means.

Let's go back to our description of the true philosophical nature, taking turns asking and answering. Truth, as you'll remember, was his guiding star. He followed it always and in everything. If he didn't, he was a fraud who had nothing to do with real philosophy.

Yes, that's what we said.

Well, that one quality alone already puts him completely at odds with what people generally think of philosophers, doesn't it?

It certainly does, he said.

And don't we have a right to say in his defense that the true lover of knowledge is always striving toward what really is? That's his nature. He won't rest among the shifting multitude of particular things — which are only appearances. He pushes on. His desire stays sharp and unblunted until he reaches knowledge of the true nature of each thing, grasping it through the part of his soul that's fitted for such contact. And through that contact — drawing near to what truly is, merging with it — he gives birth to understanding and truth. Only then does he truly live and grow. Only then does his striving end.

Nothing could be a more accurate description, he said.

And will the love of lies be any part of a philosopher's nature? Won't he utterly despise falsehood?

He will.

And when truth leads the way, we can't expect anything bad from the company it keeps?

Impossible.

Justice and a healthy mind will come along, and self-control will follow right behind.

True, he replied.

And I don't need to line up the philosopher's virtues again — you'll remember that courage, greatness of spirit, quickness of mind, and a good memory were all part of his natural gifts. You objected that while nobody could deny all this in theory, anyone who looked at the actual people being described would see that some of them are clearly useless and most are thoroughly bad. That led us to ask why so many turn out badly. And that question brought us right back to defining what a true philosopher really is.

Now we need to examine how philosophical natures get corrupted. Why are so many ruined, and so few preserved? I'm talking about the ones we called useless but not wicked. And after that, we'll look at the pretenders — the people who imitate philosophy without being worthy of it. Through their inconsistency, they bring universal disgrace on philosophy and on all genuine philosophers.

What are these corrupting forces? he asked.

I'll try to explain. Everyone would agree that a nature with all the qualities we listed for a philosopher — that's a rare plant. You don't see it often among people.

Rare indeed.

And think of how many powerful forces there are to destroy it!

What forces?

Here's the strangest part: the philosopher's own virtues — courage, self-control, and the rest — every one of these admirable qualities actually works to corrupt and distract the soul that possesses them from philosophy.

That is strange, he replied.

Then add in all the so-called good things in life — beauty, wealth, physical strength, powerful family connections, political influence. You get the idea. These also have a corrupting and distracting effect.

I understand, he said. But I'd like to hear you be more precise about what you mean.

Grasp the principle as a whole, I said, and you'll see it clearly. Then all these earlier points won't seem strange at all.

How? he asked.

Think about it this way. With any seed or young plant — whether it's a plant or an animal — the better its natural quality, the more sensitive it is to bad conditions. The wrong soil, the wrong climate, the wrong nourishment — these hurt the strongest specimens the most. Because what's truly harmful is always a worse enemy to what's genuinely good than to what's mediocre.

That makes sense.

So the finest natures, when they end up in bad conditions, suffer more damage than average ones. The contrast is greater.

And wouldn't you say, Adeimantus, that the most gifted minds, when they get a bad education, turn out the worst? Great crimes and pure evil don't come from weak natures. They come from powerful ones that have been ruined. A feeble nature never produces anything truly great — either good or evil.

I think you're right about that.

So our philosopher follows the same pattern. He's like a plant: give him the right nourishment and he'll grow into every kind of excellence. But plant him in hostile soil, and he becomes the most poisonous weed of all — unless some divine power rescues him.

Now here's a question: do you really think, as people constantly claim, that young people get corrupted by Sophists? That a few private teachers do all the damage? Aren't the people making these complaints the biggest Sophists of all? Don't they educate everyone — young and old, men and women alike — and mold people exactly to their specifications?

When does this happen? he asked.

Whenever the crowd gathers together — at an assembly, a court hearing, a theater, an army camp, or any public gathering — and there's a great uproar. They cheer some things and boo others, wildly overdoing both. They shout and clap, and the walls and the whole place echo back the noise of their approval and disapproval, doubling it.

In a moment like that, what happens to a young person's heart? What kind of private education could possibly hold up against the flood of popular opinion? Won't he be swept away? Won't he end up adopting whatever the crowd calls good and bad? Won't he do what they do, become what they are?

Yes, Socrates, he said. He'd have no choice.

And yet, I said, there's an even greater force I haven't mentioned.

What's that?

The gentle persuasion of fines, property seizure, or death — which these popular educators, the public, use when their words aren't enough.

Yes, they certainly do. And they don't hold back.

So what private Sophist, what individual teacher, could possibly compete against all that?

None, he replied.

No, I said. Even to try would be insane. There never has been, and never will be, a different kind of character produced when virtue comes only from the training that public opinion provides. I'm speaking of human virtue only, my friend — we'll set aside anything more than human, as the saying goes. Because let me tell you: in the current state of politics, anything that's saved and turns out well is saved by the power of God. That's no exaggeration.

I completely agree, he replied.

Then let me take it one step further.

What are you going to say?

This: all those paid teachers — the ones the public calls Sophists and treats as enemies — they don't actually teach anything except the public's own opinions. The opinions formed in assemblies. That's their entire wisdom. It's as if someone were studying the moods and appetites of a huge, powerful beast that they're responsible for feeding. They'd learn exactly how to approach the animal, when it's dangerous and when it's gentle, what its different sounds mean, and what tones of voice — when someone else makes them — soothe or provoke it.

And suppose this person, after years of studying the beast, called this knowledge "wisdom" and organized it into a system and started teaching it — even though they had no real understanding of what any of these moods and desires actually are. They just label whatever the beast likes "good" and whatever it dislikes "bad." They call the beast's habits "just" and "noble" — having never understood what justice and nobility truly are, never grasped the enormous difference between what the beast happens to want and what's genuinely good. By heaven — wouldn't that be a remarkable educator?

Remarkable indeed.

Now tell me: is there any difference between this person and someone who thinks wisdom consists of figuring out what the masses approve of — whether in painting, music, or politics? Because when someone mingles with the crowd and puts their work before the public for judgment — when they make the masses their critics — they're forced to produce whatever the crowd praises. And the reasons people give for why something is good or honorable — have you ever heard any that weren't utterly ridiculous?

No, and I don't expect to.

You see the truth of what I'm saying? Then consider this: will the masses ever be brought to believe in absolute beauty — beauty itself — rather than the many beautiful things? Or in the absolute reality of any quality, rather than the many particular instances?

Never.

Then the masses can never be philosophical?

Impossible.

Which means philosophers will inevitably be criticized by the public?

Inevitably.

And by the individuals who hang around the mob and try to please them?

Obviously.

Given all this, do you see any way for the philosopher to be preserved in his calling? Remember what we said about him — that he had quickness and memory and courage and greatness of mind. We agreed these were the philosopher's natural gifts.

Now, won't someone like this be first among his peers in everything from childhood on — especially if his body matches his mind?

Certainly, he said.

And as he gets older, his friends and fellow citizens will want to use him for their own purposes?

No question.

They'll throw themselves at his feet with requests. They'll flatter him and fawn over him, because they want to lock in the power he'll someday possess.

That happens a lot, he said.

And what will someone like this do in such circumstances — especially if he's a citizen of a great city, rich, well-born, tall, and handsome? Won't he swell with limitless ambitions? Won't he start thinking he can run the affairs of Greeks and foreigners alike? Won't he puff himself up with vanity and empty pride?

He absolutely will.

Now, while he's in this state, suppose someone approaches him gently and tells him the truth: that he's a fool, that he needs to get real understanding, and that it can only be gotten through hard work. Do you think he'll listen easily? Under those conditions?

Not a chance.

And even if someone — through natural goodness or inborn common sense — manages to open his eyes a little, humbles himself, and lets philosophy take hold of him, what will his friends do? They'll see that they're about to lose the advantages they were counting on from his influence. Won't they do and say anything to stop him? Won't they try everything — private schemes, public lawsuits — to keep him from his better nature and to destroy his teacher's influence?

Without a doubt.

How could such a person ever become a philosopher?

He couldn't.

So we were right when we said that the very qualities that make someone a philosopher can actually divert him from philosophy — if he gets the wrong education. Just as much as wealth and all those other so-called blessings can.

We were absolutely right.

So that, my excellent friend, is how the ruin happens — how the natures best suited for the noblest pursuit get destroyed. And these natures, remember, are rare to begin with. This is the class that produces both the greatest evil and the greatest good for states and individuals — depending on which direction the current carries them. But a small nature never does anything truly great, whether to individuals or to states.

That's very true, he said.

And so philosophy is left abandoned, her marriage incomplete. Her rightful partners have deserted her. While they go off living false, unworthy lives, other people — seeing that she has no one to protect her — move in and dishonor her. They're the ones who produce all those accusations you mentioned: that some of philosophy's followers are worthless, and most deserve the harshest punishment.

That's certainly what people say.

And no wonder! Think of the mediocre little people who spot this territory lying open — a field full of impressive-sounding names and grand titles. Like prisoners escaping jail who duck into a temple for sanctuary, these people leap from their petty trades into philosophy. And the ones who make the jump are probably the cleverest at their own shabby crafts. Because even in her degraded condition, philosophy retains a dignity that no trade can match. And that attracts plenty of people whose natures are defective — whose souls are stunted and deformed by years of menial work, just as their bodies are bent by their trades.

Isn't that unavoidable?

Aren't they just like a bald little tinker who's just gotten out of debtor's prison and come into a fortune? He takes a bath, puts on a new suit, decks himself out like a bridegroom — and goes off to marry his master's daughter, left poor and without protectors?

A perfect comparison.

And what kind of children will come from marriages like that? Won't they be low-quality and illegitimate?

There's no question.

And when people who are unworthy of education attach themselves to philosophy — a discipline far above them — what kind of ideas and opinions do they produce? Won't they generate nothing but sophistry — things that sound clever but have nothing genuine in them, nothing truly wise?

No doubt about it, he said.

So, Adeimantus, the genuine disciples of philosophy are just a tiny remnant. Maybe someone noble and well-educated, kept in philosophy's service by exile, who remains devoted to her because there's nothing around to corrupt him. Or maybe some great soul born in a small city, who looks down on local politics and ignores them. A gifted few might come from other professions that they rightly despise, and find their way to philosophy. And some are held back from leaving philosophy by something like my friend Theages' situation — everything in his life tempted him away from philosophy, but poor health kept him out of politics, so philosophy kept him. My own case — my inner sign, my divine voice — is hardly worth mentioning. It's been given to very few, if anyone, before me.

The people who belong to this small group have tasted how sweet and blessed a thing philosophy is. They've also seen enough of the madness of the masses. They know that virtually no politician is honest. They know there's no champion of justice they could fight alongside and survive. They're like someone who's stumbled into a pack of wild animals. They won't join in the savagery, but they can't fight the whole pack alone. They'd be killed before they could do any good for the city or their friends. So they calculate: they'd just be throwing their life away for nothing.

And so they hold their peace. They go their own way. They're like someone who ducks under a wall for shelter while a storm of dust and sleet rages past, driven by the wind. They watch the rest of humanity drowning in wickedness, and they're content just to keep their own life clean and free of injustice — and to depart, when the time comes, at peace and in good hope.

Yes, he said, and that would be no small accomplishment before they go.

A great accomplishment — but not the greatest. Not unless they find a state that suits them. Because in a state that truly fits, a philosopher would grow to his full stature and become the savior of his country as well as himself.

I think we've now explained sufficiently why philosophy has such a bad reputation. We've shown that the charges against her are unjust. Is there anything else you want to say about that?

No, nothing more on that subject, he replied. But I'd like to know: which of the governments that exist now do you think is suitable for philosophy?

None of them, I said. And that's exactly my complaint — not a single existing government is worthy of the philosophical nature. That's why it gets warped and corrupted. It's like an exotic plant sown in foreign soil: it loses its character and degenerates into something else entirely. But if philosophy ever found a state as perfect as she is, then you'd see that she truly is divine — and that everything else, human natures and institutions alike, is merely human.

And now I know you're about to ask: what is that perfect state?

No, he said. You're wrong. I was going to ask a different question: is it the state we've been building in this discussion, or some other one?

Yes, I replied — ours, in most respects. But remember, I said earlier that there would always need to be some living authority in the state who holds the same vision of the constitution that guided you as you were laying down the laws.

That was said, he replied.

Yes, but not satisfactorily. You all kept raising objections that showed the discussion would be long and difficult. And what still remains is the hardest part.

What's left?

The question of how philosophy can be practiced in a way that doesn't destroy the state. Because all great ventures involve risk. "The good is hard," as they say.

Still, he said, let's clear this up. Then we'll be done.

It won't be lack of will that holds me back, I said — only lack of ability, if anything. But you can judge my eagerness for yourselves. And notice how boldly I'm about to declare that states should pursue philosophy in a completely different way than they do now.

How so?

Right now, I said, the students of philosophy are too young. They're barely out of childhood, and they squeeze in philosophy around the practical business of making money and running a household. Even the ones considered most philosophical — when they get within sight of the really difficult part, meaning dialectic — they drop out. Later in life, if someone invites them to a lecture, they might go and consider it a big event. But they think philosophy is a side hobby, not their real business. And when they get old, their philosophical light goes out more completely than the sun of Heraclitus — because unlike his sun, it never reignites.

What should they do instead? he asked.

Exactly the opposite. When they're young, their studies and whatever philosophy they learn should be age-appropriate. During this period, as they're growing toward adulthood, the main focus should be on their bodies — building the physical foundation they'll need in the service of philosophy. As they mature and their minds ripen, intensify the training of their souls. And when their physical strength fades and they're past the age for military and civic duties — then let them roam free in philosophy and do nothing else of consequence. That is, if they're going to live well in this life and crown it with the same happiness in the next.

You really are serious about this, Socrates! he said. I believe you. But I suspect most of your audience will resist you even more fiercely — Thrasymachus least of all.

Don't start a fight between Thrasymachus and me, I said. We've just become friends — though really, we were never enemies. I'll keep trying until I either win him over, or at least do something useful that will serve him in some future life, when he encounters these same arguments again.

That's not exactly around the corner, he said.

It's nothing compared to eternity, I replied. But I'm not surprised the masses won't believe any of this. They've never seen what we're describing made real. What they've seen is a contrived imitation of philosophy — words artificially strung together — not a natural unity like what we're building here. They've never seen a human being who has been perfectly shaped, as far as humanly possible, into the likeness of virtue — both in word and in deed — ruling a city that reflects the same ideal. Not one such person, let alone many. Have they?

No, they haven't.

And they've rarely, if ever, heard the kind of free and noble discourse that comes from people who are genuinely pursuing truth for its own sake — with every power they have — rather than arguing for the sake of winning, the kind that only produces opinions and quarrels, whether in courts of law or in casual conversation.

They're strangers to that kind of talk, he said.

And this is what we foresaw. This is why truth forced us to say — however reluctantly — that neither cities nor individuals will ever be free from trouble until the small class of philosophers we described (the ones we called useless but not corrupt) are somehow compelled to take charge of the state — whether they want to or not — and until the state is compelled to obey them. Or until the current rulers, or their sons, are struck by a genuine, divinely inspired love of true philosophy. That either of these is impossible — I see no reason to believe that. If it were, we'd deserve to be laughed at as idle dreamers. Am I wrong?

You're not wrong.

Because if, in the endless course of time past — or right now, in some distant land beyond our knowledge — the perfected philosopher has been or is being compelled by some higher power to take charge of a state, then we're ready to insist, to the death, that this constitution of ours has existed, does exist, and will exist — whenever the spirit of philosophy reigns supreme. There's no impossibility here. It's difficult, certainly — we freely admit that.

I agree with you, he said.

But the multitude doesn't? I asked.

Probably not, he replied.

My friend, I said, don't attack the multitude. They'll change their minds — if instead of picking fights with them, you gently soothe them and remove their prejudice against education. Show them what philosophers truly are. Describe their character and their way of life, just as we've been doing. Then people will see that this isn't the kind of person they imagined. If they see philosophers in this new light, they'll form a completely different opinion. Who could be hostile to someone who loves them? Who that is gentle and free from envy could be jealous of someone without a jealous bone in their body? Let me answer for you: a few harsh people might still resist, but not the majority.

I quite agree, he said.

And don't you also think that the hostility most people feel toward philosophy comes from the pretenders? The ones who barge in uninvited and spend their time attacking people, picking fights, finding fault — always making the conversation about persons instead of ideas? Nothing could be less fitting for a philosopher.

It's completely unbecoming.

Because, Adeimantus, someone whose mind is fixed on true reality has no time to look down at the petty affairs of human life, or to get caught up in envy and malice and fighting with people. His eye is always directed toward things that are fixed and unchanging — things that neither harm each other nor are harmed, but exist in perfect order, governed by reason. He imitates these things. He tries to make himself like them, as much as he can. Or do you think it's possible to spend time in the company of something you admire without becoming like it?

Impossible.

So the philosopher, holding company with the divine order, becomes orderly and divine himself — as far as human nature allows. Though of course he'll still be criticized.

And if he's ever called upon to take what he sees in that higher realm and stamp it onto human nature — into individuals and communities alike — do you think he'll be a clumsy craftsman of justice, self-control, and every civic virtue?

Anything but clumsy.

And if the world comes to see that what we're saying about him is true, will they be angry at philosophy? Will they refuse to believe that no state can be happy unless its designers are artists who follow the divine pattern?

They won't be angry — if they understand, he said. But how exactly would these philosopher-artists go about their work?

They'll start by taking the state and the character of its people, as if it were a canvas, and wiping it clean. That's no easy task. But this is what sets them apart from every other kind of legislator: they won't touch either individual or state, and they won't write a single law, until they've either found or created a clean surface.

They'd be right to do that, he said.

Having cleared the canvas, they'll start sketching the outline of the constitution.

And as they work, I imagine they'll keep looking back and forth — up at absolute justice, beauty, and self-control, and down at the human copy they're creating. They'll mix and blend the elements of human life to produce the image of a true human being, guided by that quality which Homer — when he saw it in people — called "the form and likeness of God."

Very true, he said.

They'll erase one trait and paint in another, over and over, until they've made human character as close to godlike as it can possibly be.

No painter could produce a more beautiful picture, he said.

Well, I said, are we beginning to persuade those people who were rushing at us with pitchforks? The ones who were furious that we'd hand the state over to a "painter of constitutions"? Are they calming down a little, now that they've heard all this?

Much calmer — if they have any sense.

Because what objection is left? Will they deny that the philosopher loves truth and reality?

That would be unreasonable.

Or that his nature, as we've described it, is akin to what's highest and best?

They can't deny that either.

Or that such a nature, given the right conditions, won't produce someone perfectly good and wise — if anyone ever could be? Would they rather trust the people we rejected?

Surely not.

Then will they still be angry when we say that until philosophers rule, states and individuals will know no rest from trouble — and that the ideal state we've imagined will never become real?

I think they'll be less angry.

Shall we say they're not just less angry, but actually won over? That out of pure shame, if nothing else, they've come around?

By all means, he said.

Good. Then let's take it as settled. Now, will anyone deny that the sons of kings or princes might be born with philosophical natures?

No one would deny that.

And if such children were born, will anyone claim they'd inevitably be corrupted? Even we admit they'd be hard to save. But in the entire course of time, not a single one could survive? Who would dare say that?

Who indeed!

But look, I said — one would be enough. One philosopher with a city willing to obey him, and he could bring into reality the ideal state that everyone now considers impossible.

Yes, one is enough.

If the ruler established the laws and institutions we've described, it's surely possible that the citizens would be willing to obey.

Entirely possible.

And is it really so miraculous that others might approve of what we approve?

I think not.

And we've already shown, in everything we've discussed, that all of this — if it could be achieved — would be the best possible arrangement.

We have.

So the conclusion is: our laws, if enacted, would be the best — and enacting them, though difficult, is not impossible.

Agreed.

And so, with great effort, we've reached the end of one subject. But more remains. How will the saviors of our constitution be produced? Through what studies and pursuits? And at what ages should they take up each one?

I realize I was being clever earlier when I skipped over the tricky business of women, children, and the appointment of rulers — I knew these ideas would provoke hostility and would be hard to achieve. But that cleverness didn't actually help, because I had to discuss them anyway. The women and children question is settled. But the question of rulers needs to be tackled fresh.

We said, you'll remember, that rulers must be lovers of their country, tested by pleasures and pains, who never lose their patriotism through hardship, danger, or any crisis. Anyone who failed the test was to be rejected. But the person who came through pure every time — like gold refined in fire — was to be made ruler and given honors in life and after death. That's roughly what we said, before the argument turned aside and veiled her face, not wanting to stir up the question we're now facing.

I remember perfectly, he said.

Yes, my friend. I hesitated before to say what I must now say boldly: the perfect guardian must be a philosopher.

Let that be affirmed, he said.

And don't expect there to be many of them. The gifts we said were essential rarely grow together in one person. They usually come in fragments.

What do you mean?

Think about it. Quick intelligence, sharp memory, cleverness, mental agility — these qualities don't often come paired with a high-spirited, magnanimous temperament. People who have that kind of mental firepower tend to be restless and impulsive. Stability goes right out the window.

Very true, he said.

On the other hand, those steady, reliable natures you can count on — the ones who are immovable in battle, unshakeable by fear — they're equally immovable when it comes to learning. They go torpid. They yawn and fall asleep over any intellectual work.

That's true too.

But we said both sets of qualities were necessary for anyone who'd receive the higher education and share in governing.

We did.

And this combination is rare?

Very rare.

So the candidate must be tested not only in the labors, dangers, and pleasures we mentioned before, but also in many fields of study — to see whether the soul can handle the highest knowledge, or whether it'll break down under the strain, the way some people break down in physical training.

Yes, he said. You're right to test that. But what do you mean by "the highest knowledge"?

You may remember, I said, that we divided the soul into three parts and distinguished the natures of justice, self-control, courage, and wisdom.

If I'd forgotten that, he said, I wouldn't deserve to hear any more.

And do you remember the qualification we made before that discussion?

What qualification?

We said that seeing these virtues in their full perfection required a longer and more difficult path. At the end of that road, they'd appear clearly. But we could sketch out a rough version that was consistent with what we'd discussed so far. You all said that was good enough, and so we proceeded — in a way that seemed to me rather imprecise. But whether you were satisfied, that's your call.

Yes, he said. The others and I thought you gave us a fair account.

But my friend, I said, in matters like these, any account that falls short of the whole truth isn't really a fair measure. Nothing incomplete is the measure of anything. Though people are often content to stop there, thinking they've searched far enough.

That's not uncommon when people are lazy, he said.

Yes, I said. And that's the last fault a guardian of the state and its laws should have.

So the guardian, I said, must take the longer road. He must work just as hard at learning as at physical training. Otherwise he'll never reach the highest knowledge — the one that truly belongs to him.

Wait, he said. Is there knowledge higher than justice and the other virtues?

Yes, I said. And even the virtues themselves — we shouldn't settle for a rough sketch. We need the finished painting. It's absurd to lavish infinite care on trivial things to make them precise and clear, but then not think the most important truths deserve the same effort.

A noble thought! But you can't expect us not to ask: what is this highest knowledge?

Go ahead and ask, I said. But I'm sure you've heard the answer many times before. Either you don't understand me, or — more likely — you're just being difficult. Because you've often heard me say it: the Form of the Good is the highest knowledge. It's what makes everything else useful and beneficial. You can hardly be unaware that I was about to bring this up. And without it — as I've said before — no other knowledge or possession is worth anything. Do you think it does any good to possess everything in the world if you don't possess the Good? Or to understand everything except beauty and goodness?

Certainly not.

And you know that most people say the Good is pleasure, while the more sophisticated ones say it's knowledge?

Yes.

And you also know that the knowledge crowd can't explain what they mean. They end up having to say it's "knowledge of the Good."

How ridiculous! he said.

Very ridiculous, I said. They scold us for not knowing what the Good is, then turn around and explain it to us by using the word "good" — as if we suddenly know what that means when they say it.

Exactly.

And the pleasure camp is just as confused. They're forced to admit that some pleasures are bad.

Which means they're admitting that the same things are both good and bad.

Obviously.

So this question is tangled with enormous difficulties.

It is.

And here's something else: many people are willing to do, have, and appear to be what's just and honorable — even when it's not real. But when it comes to the Good, nobody is satisfied with appearances. Everyone wants the real thing. Appearances are worthless here.

Very true, he said.

So the Good — this thing that every soul pursues, this thing that is the goal of everything we do, this thing we sense is out there even though we can't quite pin down what it is, can't feel as certain about it as we do about other things, and end up losing whatever value those other things had because of our ignorance — should the best people in our state, the ones we entrust with everything, really be kept in the dark about something this important?

Absolutely not, he said.

I'm sure, I said, that a guardian who doesn't understand how justice and beauty are also good won't be much of a guardian. And I suspect that without knowing the Good, no one will truly understand justice and beauty at all.

That's a shrewd suspicion.

And if we have a guardian with this knowledge, our state will be perfectly ordered?

Of course, he replied. But tell me — do you think this supreme principle, the Good, is knowledge, or pleasure, or something else entirely?

Ha, I said. I knew a man of your refined taste wouldn't be satisfied with other people's opinions on this.

True, Socrates, he said. But someone who's spent a lifetime studying philosophy shouldn't always be quoting other people's views and never stating his own.

Well, does anyone have the right to speak with certainty about what he doesn't know?

Not with certainty, he said. But he can say what he thinks, as a matter of opinion.

And haven't you noticed, I said, that all opinions without knowledge are flawed? The best of them are blind. Do you think people who hold true beliefs but lack understanding are any different from blind people who happen to be walking down the right road?

And would you prefer what's blind and crooked and base, when others can offer you brightness and beauty?

Please, Socrates, said Glaucon, don't turn away now — not when you're so close to the finish line. If you can give us an explanation of the Good like the ones you gave us for justice, self-control, and the other virtues, we'll be satisfied.

Yes, my friend, and I'd be more than satisfied. But I'm afraid I'll fall flat on my face, and my clumsy enthusiasm will make me look ridiculous. No — let's not try to say what the Good actually is, at least not right now. That's more than I can manage. But I'm willing to tell you about the child of the Good — its offspring, the thing most like it. If you want to hear about that.

By all means, he said. Tell us about the child, and you can stay in our debt for the parent.

I do wish, I replied, that I could pay you the full account — the parent, not just the offspring. But take this as interest on the loan. Just be careful that I don't accidentally pay you in counterfeit, though I have no intention of deceiving you.

We'll be careful. Go ahead.

Good. But first I need to remind you of something we've discussed before — and on many other occasions.

What's that?

The old story: there are many beautiful things and many good things — many instances of each kind. We use the word "many" to describe them all.

True, he said.

And then there's beauty itself and goodness itself. For each thing that comes in many instances, there's a single Form — one unifying idea — which we call the essence of each.

Yes.

The many particulars are seen but not known. The Forms are known but not seen.

And what organ do we use to see visible things?

Sight, he said.

And we use hearing for sounds, and our other senses for their objects?

Of course.

But have you ever noticed that sight is by far the most elaborate and expensive of all the senses — the most complex piece of craftsmanship?

No, I never thought about that.

Well, think about this. Does hearing need some third element — something beyond the ear and the sound — for hearing to work?

No, nothing.

And the same is true of most, if not all, the other senses. They don't require any such addition?

Certainly not.

But sight is different. You do realize that even when you have eyes and there are colors to be seen, without some third element you won't see a thing?

What do you mean?

Think about it. You have eyes with the power of sight. Colors are there in front of you. But unless a third thing is present — something specifically designed for this purpose — the eyes will see nothing and the colors will remain invisible.

What is this third thing?

The thing you call light, I replied.

Right, he said.

So the bond between sight and visibility is something noble and extraordinary — far more precious than the bonds linking the other senses. Because light is no small thing.

No, he said. Far from it.

And which of the gods in the sky would you say is the lord of this power? Whose light is it that makes the eyes see perfectly and makes visible things appear?

The same one you and everyone else would name, he said. The sun.

Now consider the relationship between sight and the sun. The eye isn't the sun. Neither is the power of sight itself.

No.

But of all the sense organs, the eye is the most sun-like.

By far.

And the power the eye possesses — isn't it a kind of gift dispensed by the sun?

Yes.

So the sun isn't sight itself. But it's the source of sight — the thing that sight recognizes and depends on.

True, he said.

Now here's what I want you to understand: the sun is what I call the child of the Good. The Good produced the sun in its own likeness. What the Good is in the intelligible world — in relation to thought and the objects of thought — the sun is in the visible world, in relation to sight and the objects of sight.

Can you be a little more specific? he said.

You know, I said, that when you look at things in dim light — by moonlight or starlight — your eyes see poorly. They seem almost blind. No clarity at all.

Right.

But when you look at things the sun shines on, they see clearly. Sight is sharp and vivid.

Of course.

Now think of the soul the same way. When the soul rests on what's illuminated by truth and reality, it perceives, it understands, it's radiant with intelligence. But when it turns toward what's dim — the twilight zone of things that come into being and pass away — it can only form opinions. It fumbles around. One moment it thinks one thing, the next moment another. It seems to have no intelligence at all.

That's exactly how it is.

Now, the thing that gives truth to what's known and gives the knower the power to know — that is what I call the Form of the Good. It's the cause of knowledge and truth, insofar as truth is something we can know. And beautiful as both truth and knowledge are, you'll be right to think the Good is something even more beautiful than either. Just as light and sight are like the sun but aren't the sun, so knowledge and truth are like the Good but aren't the Good. The Good holds an even higher place of honor.

What an extraordinary beauty that must be, he said — if it produces both knowledge and truth but surpasses them in beauty! You surely don't mean pleasure?

God forbid, I replied. But consider the analogy from another angle.

What angle?

The sun doesn't just make things visible. It also gives them growth, nourishment, and existence — though the sun itself isn't existence.

Right.

In the same way, the Good doesn't just give things the power to be known. It gives them their very being and reality — though the Good itself isn't being. It surpasses being in dignity and power.

Glaucon burst out laughing: By the light of heaven — that's beyond anything!

That's your fault, I said. You made me say what I think.

And please keep going, he said. At the very least, finish the comparison with the sun — if there's anything left.

Oh, there's a great deal left, I said.

Then don't leave anything out, however small.

I'll do my best, I said. But I suspect a lot will have to be left out.

I hope not, he said.

Then picture this: two realms, two ruling powers. One presides over the intelligible world, the other over the visible world. I won't say "heaven" — I don't want you to think I'm playing word games. Do you have this distinction clearly in mind? The visible and the intelligible?

I do.

Good. Now imagine a line divided into two unequal sections. Divide each section again in the same ratio. The two main divisions represent the visible and the intelligible. Now compare the subdivisions in terms of clarity.

In the visible realm, the first and lower section consists of images — shadows, reflections in water, reflections on smooth and polished surfaces, and everything of that kind. Do you follow?

Yes, I follow.

The second section of the visible includes the actual things that cast those shadows and reflections — animals, plants, and everything that's made.

Got it.

Would you agree that these two sections differ in their degree of truth? That the image stands to the original as opinion stands to knowledge?

Absolutely.

Now consider how the intelligible realm is divided.

How?

Like this: in the lower section, the soul uses the objects from the visible realm as images. It works from assumptions — hypotheses — and instead of moving upward to a first principle, it moves downward toward a conclusion. In the higher section, the soul moves beyond hypotheses to a principle that stands above all assumptions. It doesn't use images at all. It proceeds through the Forms themselves, using only the Forms.

I don't quite follow, he said.

Let me try again. You'll understand better after some examples. You know that students of geometry, arithmetic, and the related sciences start by assuming certain things — odd and even numbers, various types of angles and figures, and so on. These are their hypotheses. They take them as given, obvious, needing no justification. They don't bother explaining them to themselves or anyone else. Starting from these assumptions, they work step by step until they reach a consistent conclusion.

Yes, he said, I know that.

And you know that although they draw visible figures and reason about them, they're not really thinking about those particular drawings. They're thinking about the ideal square, the ideal diagonal — the Forms that can only be seen with the mind's eye. The shapes they draw are just tools, images. What they're really after are the originals that only thought can grasp.

That's true.

This is what I meant by the lower section of the intelligible. The soul is forced to use hypotheses in its investigation. It can't rise above them to a first principle. Instead, it uses physical objects — which are themselves just copies of things at a higher level — as stepping-stones. These objects are treated as relatively clear and valuable compared to the shadows and reflections below them.

I understand, he said. You're talking about geometry and the mathematical sciences.

Exactly. Now, by the higher section of the intelligible, I mean what reason itself achieves through the power of dialectic. Here, hypotheses aren't treated as starting points — they're treated as what they really are: hypotheses, stepping-stones, launching pads into a realm that lies beyond all assumptions. Reason ascends to the first principle of everything. And once it grasps that principle, it follows the chain of what depends on it, descending step by step back to a conclusion — without ever relying on anything visible or sensory. It moves through Forms alone, from Forms to Forms, and ends in Forms.

I understand you, he replied — though not perfectly, because what you're describing sounds like an enormous undertaking. But I take your point: the knowledge that dialectic provides, in the realm of pure being, is clearer than the knowledge produced by the mathematical sciences. Those sciences work from hypotheses, and while their objects are grasped by understanding rather than by the senses, because they start from assumptions instead of ascending to a first principle, the mathematicians don't exercise the highest kind of reason — even though their objects would be fully knowable if a first principle were added. I think you'd call this mathematical kind of thinking "understanding" rather than "reason" — something between mere opinion and the highest knowledge.

You've grasped my meaning perfectly, I said. And now, corresponding to these four sections of the line, assign four states of mind. Reason for the highest. Understanding for the second. Belief for the third. And perception of images — conjecture — for the lowest. Arrange them in order, and recognize that each has a degree of clarity proportional to the degree of truth possessed by its objects.

I understand, he replied. I agree, and I accept your arrangement.

Book VII

The Allegory of the Cave

And now, I said, let me paint you a picture of what it means to be enlightened — and what it means to be in the dark.

Imagine human beings living in an underground cave. The cave has a long entrance open to the light, stretching the full length of the cavern. The people have been there since childhood, with their legs and necks chained so they can't move. They can only look straight ahead. The chains prevent them from turning their heads.

Behind them and above them, a fire is blazing at some distance. Between the fire and the prisoners, there's a raised walkway, and along it runs a low wall — like the screen that puppet-show performers put in front of themselves, the one they use to show their puppets over.

Can you picture this?

I can, he said.

Now picture people walking along behind that wall, carrying all sorts of objects that stick up over the top — statues, figures of animals, tools, all kinds of things made of wood and stone and other materials. Some of the carriers are talking. Others are silent.

You've described a strange scene, he said, and strange prisoners.

They're just like us, I replied. Think about it: these prisoners — could they see anything of themselves or of each other except the shadows that the fire throws on the wall in front of them?

How could they? he said. They've never been allowed to move their heads.

And the objects being carried behind them — they'd only see the shadows of those too?

Yes, he said.

And if the prisoners could talk to each other, wouldn't they assume that the names they gave to the shadows referred to the actual things passing by?

Naturally.

And suppose the cave had an echo that bounced sounds off the wall they were facing — whenever one of the people walking behind them spoke, wouldn't the prisoners be convinced the voice was coming from the shadow itself?

Absolutely, he replied.

For these prisoners, I said, truth would be literally nothing but shadows.

Without question.

Now watch what happens when a prisoner is set free and forced to confront reality.

Picture it: one of them is suddenly unchained. He's forced to stand up, turn around, and walk toward the fire. Every movement hurts. The glare is blinding. He can barely make out the real objects whose shadows he'd been watching his whole life.

And then imagine someone tells him: "Everything you saw before was an illusion. Now you're closer to reality. You're looking at actual things, and your vision is clearer than it's ever been."

What do you think he'd say? And imagine his guide is pointing to each object as it passes, demanding he name them — wouldn't he be completely confused? Wouldn't he think the shadows he used to see were more real than the objects being shown to him now?

Much more real, he said.

And if he were forced to look directly at the fire itself, wouldn't his eyes burn with pain? Wouldn't he turn away and retreat to the things he could actually see — the shadows — convinced that they were clearer and more real than anything this person was trying to show him?

Yes, he said.

And now imagine he's dragged out of the cave entirely. Picture it: someone grabs him and hauls him up the steep, rough passage — doesn't let go, doesn't stop — and drags him all the way out into the sunlight.

Wouldn't he be furious? Wouldn't his eyes be flooded with light, so dazzled he couldn't see a single one of the things that people up here call real?

Not at first, he said. Not right away.

No. He'd need time to adjust. At first, the easiest things to look at would be shadows. Then reflections — images of people and objects in water. After that, the objects themselves. Then he'd find it easier to gaze at the night sky — the moon, the stars, the vast glittering heavens — than to look at the sun or sunlight during the day.

Naturally.

And last of all, he'd be able to look at the sun itself. Not its reflection in water or on some other surface, but the sun — in its own place in the sky, as it actually is.

Yes.

And then he'd start reasoning about it. He'd figure out that this is the source of the seasons and the years, that it governs everything in the visible world, and that it's the ultimate cause of everything he and his fellow prisoners had ever seen — in a way, the cause of the shadows themselves.

Obviously, he said. He'd see the sun first, and then work out its significance.

And when he thought back to the cave — to his old home, and to the so-called "wisdom" of the place, and to his fellow prisoners — don't you think he'd feel lucky about how much his life had changed? Don't you think he'd pity them?

Deeply.

Now, suppose the prisoners had a tradition of giving honors to whoever was quickest at spotting the shadows as they passed, and whoever was best at remembering the order — which ones came first, which followed, which appeared together — and whoever could make the best predictions about what shadow was coming next. Do you think our freed man would envy these honors? Would he want to compete for prizes with the champion shadow-watchers? Or would he feel like Homer's hero and prefer to

"be a poor servant of a poor master"

and endure anything rather than go back to seeing the world the way they see it and living the way they live?

Yes, he said. I think he'd rather suffer anything than go back to that life.

Now imagine this, I said. Suppose he went back down into the cave and took his old seat. Coming suddenly out of the sunlight, wouldn't his eyes be filled with darkness?

Of course, he said.

And if he had to compete again with the prisoners who'd never left — compete at identifying and measuring the shadows — while his eyes were still adjusting, before his vision had settled (and it could take quite a while to get used to the dark again), wouldn't they ridicule him? Wouldn't they say he'd gone up and come back down with ruined eyes, and that the journey wasn't even worth attempting? And if anyone tried to set another prisoner free and lead him up to the light — if they could get their hands on that person, wouldn't they kill him?

No question, he said.

Now, Glaucon, I said, you need to connect this whole allegory to what we said before. The cave — that's the world we see with our eyes. The firelight inside it — that's the sun in our sky. And the journey upward, the ascent into the world above — that's the soul's rise into the realm of understanding, the intelligible world. That's my belief, anyway, for whatever it's worth — whether it's right or wrong, only God knows. But here's what I think: in the world of knowledge, the Form of the Good appears last of all, and it takes real effort to see it. But once you do see it, the conclusion is inescapable — this is the source of everything beautiful and right. In the visible world, it produces light and the sun that gives us light. In the intelligible world, it's the direct source of truth and reason. Anyone who wants to act wisely — whether in private life or in politics — must keep their eyes fixed on this.

I agree, he said, as far as I can follow you.

Then you shouldn't be surprised, I said, that people who've reached this vision don't want to come back down and deal with ordinary human affairs. Their souls are always straining toward the upper world. They want to stay there. And that's perfectly natural — if our allegory means anything at all.

Yes, perfectly natural.

And here's something else that shouldn't surprise you: if someone comes back from contemplating divine realities and stumbles around in the human world, making a fool of himself — if his eyes are still blinking, still adjusting to the darkness, and he's forced to argue in courtrooms or other public places about shadows, or about images of shadows, about justice as imagined by people who've never seen justice itself — should we really be surprised that he looks ridiculous?

Not at all, he replied.

But anyone with sense, I said, would remember that there are two kinds of blindness, from two different causes: coming out of the light into the dark, or coming out of the dark into the light. The same is true of the mind's eye, not just the body's. When you see someone whose vision is confused and weak, don't rush to laugh. First ask: has this soul come from a brighter life and been blinded by the unfamiliar darkness? Or has it come from deeper ignorance into greater light and been overwhelmed by the brilliance? You'd consider the first person fortunate, and pity the second. Or if you did want to laugh, there'd be more reason to laugh at the soul coming up from below into the light than at the one coming back down from the light into the cave.

That's a very fair distinction, he said.

And if I'm right, I said, then certain so-called educators must be wrong when they claim they can put knowledge into a soul that doesn't have it — like putting sight into blind eyes.

They do say exactly that, he replied.

But our argument shows something different. The power to learn, the capacity for knowledge — it's already there in everyone's soul. The whole soul just needs to be turned around, away from the world of becoming and toward the world of being — the way the whole body has to turn for the eye to move from darkness to light. The instrument of knowledge can't be turned by itself. The whole soul has to make the journey, learning gradually to bear the sight of reality — and ultimately, the brightest and best of all reality: the Good.

Yes.

And there must be some skill — some art — that can make this turning happen as efficiently as possible. Not an art of implanting sight. The sight is already there. It's just been pointed the wrong way, looking away from the truth.

Yes, he said. There must be such an art.

Now, the other so-called virtues of the soul — they're a lot like physical qualities. Even if you don't have them naturally, you can develop them through habit and practice. But wisdom is different. Wisdom has something divine in it. It never loses its power. It all depends on which direction it's pointed. Turned one way, it's useful and beneficial. Turned the other way, it's harmful and destructive.

Haven't you ever noticed this about clever rogues? Look at the sharp gleam in their eyes. Their intelligence is perfectly fine — their little souls see their way to their goals with perfect clarity. They're not blind at all. But their keen vision has been drafted into the service of evil, and the more clever they are, the more damage they do.

Very true, he said.

But imagine if these same natures had been cut free from the pleasures that weigh them down — the cravings for food, drink, and physical pleasure that hang on us like lead weights from birth, dragging the soul's gaze downward. If they'd been freed from all that and turned in the opposite direction, they'd see truth just as sharply as they now see the things they've chosen to pursue.

Very likely.

And here's another thing, I said — really a necessary conclusion from everything we've said: neither the uneducated, who've never seen truth, nor those who are allowed to spend their whole lives in study, will make good leaders. The first group fails because they have no single guiding star, no unifying aim to direct everything they do, public or private. The second group fails because they won't lift a finger voluntarily — they think they've already arrived at the Islands of the Blessed and can't be bothered with the real world.

Very true, he replied.

So here's our job, I said — as founders of this city. We have to compel the best minds to reach the knowledge we've said is the greatest of all. They must keep climbing until they arrive at the Good. But once they've made it to the top and seen what they need to see, we can't let them do what they'd naturally want to do.

What do you mean?

I mean stay up there. We can't allow that. They have to go back down into the cave, back among the prisoners, and share in their work and their life — honors and all, whether those honors are worth anything or not.

But isn't that unjust? he said. We'd be giving them a worse life when they could have a better one.

You've forgotten again, my friend, I said. The law isn't concerned with making any one class in the city exceptionally happy. It aims at happiness for the whole city. It holds the citizens together through persuasion and necessity, making each group share its benefits with the others. When the law produces people like this in the city, it doesn't do so in order to let them go wherever they please. It creates them to serve as a binding force — to hold the city together.

True, he said. I had forgotten.

Think about it, Glaucon. There won't be any injustice in requiring our philosophers to care for others and watch over them. We can explain it to them like this:

"In other cities, philosophers grow up on their own, without any help from the government. They're self-taught. And since they owe nothing to a state that never supported them, it's fair enough that they feel no obligation to serve it. But you — we brought you into the world to be leaders. Leaders of yourselves and leaders of the whole city. We've given you a better and more complete education than philosophers anywhere else receive. You're equipped to play a double role. So each of you, when your turn comes, must go back down to the cave where everyone else lives. Get used to the dark again. Once your eyes adjust, you'll see ten thousand times better than the people who live there permanently. You'll recognize every shadow for what it is, and know what real thing casts it, because you've seen beauty itself, justice itself, goodness itself. And so our city will be governed in waking reality, not in a dream — unlike most cities today, where leaders fight each other over shadows and grab for power, thinking that's the ultimate prize. The truth is, the best-governed city is always the one whose rulers are least eager to rule. And the worst-governed city is the one whose rulers want power the most."

Exactly right, he replied.

And do you think our students will refuse? When they hear this, will they turn down their share of political duty — especially since they get to spend most of their time together in the light of philosophy?

Impossible, he answered. They're just people, and the commands we're giving them are just. There's no doubt that each one will take office as a solemn duty — the opposite of how rulers behave today.

Yes, my friend, I said. And that's the key. You have to offer your future rulers a life that's better than political power. Only then will you have a well-governed city. Because only in a city like that will the rulers be truly rich — not in gold and silver, but in the things that make for a genuinely good life: virtue and wisdom. But if people come to politics poor and starving for personal advantage — if they think public office is where they'll find the real goods in life — good government becomes impossible. They'll fight over power, and the resulting civil war will destroy them and the whole city with them.

Absolutely true, he replied.

And the only life that properly looks down on political ambition is the life of true philosophy. Do you know of any other?

No, I really don't, he said.

And the people who govern shouldn't actually love the task. Because if they do, rival lovers of power will fight them for it.

No question.

So who should we compel to be guardians? The people who are wisest about governing and who would govern best, but who also have a different kind of life — a life better and more honorable than political life.

Exactly, he replied. Those are the ones. And I'd choose them myself.

Good. Then shall we figure out how to produce such guardians — how to bring them from darkness into light, the way some people are said to have ascended from the underworld to the realm of the gods?

By all means, he replied.

And this journey, I said, isn't a simple flip — like turning over a game piece. It's the turning of a soul from a day that's barely better than night to the true day of being. That ascent from below — that's what we're calling true philosophy.

Right?

So we need to ask: what kind of knowledge has the power to make this happen? What kind of study draws the soul from becoming to being?

And something else just occurred to me: remember, our young people are supposed to be warrior-athletes too.

Yes, that was established.

Then this knowledge we're looking for needs an additional quality.

What quality?

It has to be useful in war.

Yes, if possible.

Now, there were two parts to the education we set up earlier, weren't there?

There was physical training, which deals with the body — its growth and decay. So that falls under the world of becoming and change.

Right. So that's not what we're looking for.

What about music and the arts? They were part of our earlier program too.

Music, he said — as you'll remember — was the counterpart of physical training. It shaped the guardians through habit: harmony made them harmonious, rhythm made them rhythmical. But it didn't give them knowledge. The stories, whether fictional or true, had their own elements of rhythm and harmony. But there was nothing in music that pointed toward the kind of truth you're talking about now.

You remember that perfectly, I said. Music really doesn't have what we need. But then what subject does? Because we also ruled out all the practical crafts as too lowly.

Right, he said. But if we've excluded music, physical training, and the practical crafts, what's left?

Well, I said, if there's nothing specifically left from our earlier curriculum, we'll have to find something universal — something that cuts across all fields.

Like what?

Something that every art, every science, every kind of thinking makes use of. Something everyone has to learn as a basic part of education.

What is it?

The humble skill of telling one from two from three. In a word: number and calculation. Don't all arts and sciences depend on these?

Yes.

Including the art of war?

Absolutely.

You know, it's pretty funny when Palamedes shows up in the tragedies and proves that Agamemnon was a ridiculously incompetent general. Did you ever notice? Palamedes claims he invented numbers and used them to organize the ships and arrange the army at Troy — which implies they'd never been counted before. Meaning Agamemnon apparently couldn't count his own feet! What kind of general can't count?

A very strange one, he said, if that's really true.

So can we agree that a soldier needs to know arithmetic?

Absolutely, he said. He has to understand it to manage his troops at all. In fact, he has to understand it to be a human being.

Good. Now, do you see this subject the same way I do?

How do you see it?

I think arithmetic is exactly the kind of study we're looking for — one that naturally leads the mind to think, but that has never been properly understood or used. Its real purpose is to draw the soul toward being.

Can you explain what you mean? he said.

I'll try, I said. And I want you to think along with me. Tell me whether you agree or disagree as I work through which kinds of knowledge have this pulling-upward power — so we can be sure arithmetic is one of them.

Go ahead, he said.

Here's what I mean. Some things we perceive don't push the mind to think further, because our senses handle them just fine. But other things — our senses give us such contradictory information about them that the mind absolutely has to step in and investigate.

You're talking about optical illusions, he said — things that look different at different distances, or tricks of light and shadow.

No, I said, that's not what I mean at all.

Then what?

What I mean is this: some perceptions don't produce contradictions. The sense experience is consistent, so the mind isn't provoked to think. But others are inherently contradictory — the sense gives you opposite information at the same time — and that's what forces thought into action. Let me illustrate.

Here are three fingers — a little finger, a ring finger, and a middle finger.

All right.

Assume you're looking at them up close. Now here's the key point.

What is it?

Each of them is equally a finger — whether you look at the one in the middle or on the end, whether it's light or dark, thick or thin. It makes no difference. A finger is a finger. In these cases, the mind isn't compelled to ask, "Wait — what is a finger?" because sight never suggests that a finger is anything other than a finger.

True.

So there's nothing here that provokes or stimulates thought.

No, he said.

But what about their size — their bigness and smallness? Can sight handle that on its own? Does it matter that one finger is in the middle and another on the end? And what about touch — can it reliably tell you thick from thin, hard from soft? Don't all our senses work the same way here? The sense that registers hardness is the same sense that registers softness. And what it reports to the soul is that the very same thing feels both hard and soft.

You're exactly right, he said.

And the soul has to be puzzled by this, doesn't it? What does the sense of touch mean when it says something is both hard and soft? What does the sense of weight mean when it says something is both light and heavy?

Yes, he said. These messages are puzzling, and the soul needs to figure them out.

Exactly, I said. And this is where the soul naturally calls in reinforcements — calculation and thought. It wants to determine whether it's dealing with one thing or two.

Right.

And if it turns out to be two things, then each of them is one, and distinct.

Yes.

And if each is one and both are two, the soul will conceive of them as separate. Because if they weren't separate, it could only think of them as one.

Correct.

The eye saw both big and small, but all jumbled together. They weren't distinct.

Right.

But the thinking mind — trying to bring clarity to this confusion — was forced to do the opposite: to look at big and small as separate things, not blurred together.

True.

And isn't that where the question first arises: "What is bigness?" and "What is smallness?"

Exactly.

And that's how the distinction between the visible world and the intelligible world first emerges.

Yes.

That's what I was getting at before: some impressions provoke thought — the ones that present opposite qualities simultaneously. Others don't.

I understand, he said. I agree.

So which category do unity and number belong to?

I'm not sure, he replied.

Think about it, I said. Use what we just worked out. If "one" could be grasped perfectly well by sight alone — or by any sense — it wouldn't draw the mind toward being. Like the finger example: the mind isn't provoked. But when the senses present contradictions — when the same thing appears to be one and also many, the opposite of one — then thought wakes up. The soul gets restless, starts searching, and asks: "What is absolute unity?" This is how the study of the one has the power to turn the mind toward the contemplation of true being.

And this certainly happens with the number one, he said — we see the same thing as both one and infinitely many.

Right, I said. And what's true of one must be true of all numbers.

Yes.

And all arithmetic and calculation deal with number?

Obviously.

And they seem to lead the mind toward truth?

Yes, remarkably so.

Then arithmetic is exactly the kind of knowledge we're looking for. It has a double use: the soldier needs it to organize his troops, and the philosopher needs it to rise above the sea of change and grasp true being. The philosopher must be a mathematician.

True.

And our guardian is both soldier and philosopher.

Exactly.

So arithmetic is a subject our laws should require. And we must convince the future leaders of our city to study it — not as hobbyists, but until they can grasp the nature of numbers with pure thought alone. Not for buying and selling, like merchants and shopkeepers, but for war and for the soul itself — because it's the easiest path from the world of becoming to the world of truth and being.

Excellent, he said.

And you know, I said, now that we're discussing it — what a beautiful subject arithmetic is! It serves our purposes in so many ways, as long as you pursue it like a philosopher and not a shopkeeper.

How do you mean?

Arithmetic has an immensely elevating effect on the mind. It forces the soul to reason about abstract number and resists any attempt to drag in visible or tangible objects. You know how real mathematicians react if you try to divide the unit itself? They laugh at you. If you try to split it, they multiply it right back — making sure the one stays one and never disintegrates into fractions.

Very true.

Now imagine someone asked them: "Friends, what are these marvelous numbers you're reasoning about? You insist each unit is perfectly equal to every other, completely uniform, absolutely indivisible — what kind of numbers are these?" What would they say?

They'd say they're talking about numbers that can only exist in thought.

You see? This kind of knowledge truly deserves to be called necessary — it requires the use of pure intelligence to grasp pure truth.

Yes, that's unmistakable.

And have you noticed something else? People with a natural talent for calculation tend to be quick learners in every other subject too. Even people who aren't naturally sharp become much quicker after mathematical training, even if they get nothing else from it.

Very true, he said.

And it's hard to find a more demanding subject. Few others come close.

I agree.

So for all these reasons, arithmetic is the kind of knowledge our best minds should be trained in. It must not be neglected.

Then let's make it our first required subject. And next — should we look at the closely related science?

You mean geometry?

Exactly.

Well, he said, the parts of geometry relevant to warfare are obviously important. Setting up camp, occupying positions, closing up or extending a line of troops, executing maneuvers in battle or on the march — a general who knows geometry will be far better at all of it than one who doesn't.

True, I said, but for all that, you only need a little geometry — or arithmetic, for that matter. The real question is about the higher, more advanced geometry: does it help the soul see the Form of the Good? Because that's our test. Everything that compels the soul to turn toward that place — where the fullest perfection of being exists, which the soul must see by any means possible — that's what concerns us.

True, he said.

So: if geometry forces us to contemplate being, it's relevant. If it only deals with becoming, it isn't.

Agreed.

But here's the thing — anyone with even a basic knowledge of geometry knows that the way geometers actually talk is completely at odds with this lofty view.

How so?

They're always going on about practical operations — "squaring this," "extending that," "applying one thing to another" — as if the whole point were hands-on construction. They confuse the necessities of geometry with the needs of everyday life. But the real object of the entire science is knowledge — knowledge of what eternally is.

Certainly, he said.

Then we need to acknowledge something further?

What?

That the knowledge geometry aims at is knowledge of the eternal — not of anything that comes into being and passes away.

That, he replied, is easy to grant. It's true.

Then, my noble friend, geometry draws the soul toward truth. It creates the spirit of philosophy. It lifts up what we've shamefully allowed to sink down.

Nothing is more likely to have that effect.

Then we must insist as strongly as possible that the citizens of your beautiful city learn geometry. And the subject has side benefits too.

Like what? he said.

The military advantages you mentioned, for one. And in every field, as experience shows, someone who's studied geometry is infinitely quicker than someone who hasn't.

Infinitely, he agreed.

So geometry is our second subject?

Let's make it so, he replied.

And shall we make astronomy the third?

I'm strongly in favor, he said. Understanding the seasons, months, and years is as essential for a general as it is for a farmer or a sailor.

I'm amused, I said, by your concern about what people will think. You're so worried about looking like you're promoting useless studies! The truth is — though it's hard to get people to believe it — that every person has an eye of the soul. When this eye gets dimmed and ruined by other pursuits, these studies purify it and rekindle it. And that eye is worth more than ten thousand physical eyes, because it's the only one that can see truth.

Now, there are two kinds of people in the world: those who'll hear this and feel it as a revelation, and those who'll dismiss it as complete nonsense because they can't see any profit in it. You'd better decide right now which group you're talking to. Or, more likely, you'll say you're mainly doing this for your own sake — though you certainly won't begrudge others whatever benefit they get from it.

I'd prefer, he said, to carry on mainly for my own benefit.

Then let me back up, I said, because we've gotten the order wrong.

What mistake? he said.

After plane geometry, we jumped straight to astronomy — solids in motion — instead of first studying solids themselves. After the second dimension should come the third: the study of cubes and three-dimensional depth.

You're right, Socrates. But so little is known about that field.

For two reasons, I said. First, no government supports the research, so it doesn't get the energy it deserves — and the problems are genuinely hard. Second, students can't learn it without a guide. And guides are almost impossible to find. Even if you found one, the students as they are now — too arrogant — wouldn't listen to him. But if the state itself championed these studies and gave them prestige, students would flock to them, and the research would advance through continuous, dedicated effort. Even now, neglected and diminished as these studies are — with none of their practitioners able to explain their purpose — they still push forward by sheer natural charm. It wouldn't be surprising at all if, with state support, they blossomed into something magnificent.

Yes, he said. There is a remarkable charm in them. But I don't quite follow the change in order. You started with plane geometry —

Yes, I said.

— then put astronomy next, and now you're stepping back?

Exactly. I was in too much of a hurry. The embarrassing underdevelopment of solid geometry — which should naturally come next — made me skip past it and jump to astronomy, which is really the study of solids in motion.

True, he said.

So let's assume solid geometry will flourish once the state supports it, and move on. Astronomy is our fourth subject.

The right order, he replied. And now, Socrates — since you scolded me earlier for praising astronomy for the wrong reasons — let me try again in your spirit. I think everyone must see that astronomy forces the soul to look upward and leads us from this world to a higher one.

Everyone except me, I said. I don't see that at all.

What would you say, then?

I'd say that the way most people elevate astronomy into philosophy actually makes us look downward, not upward.

What do you mean? he asked.

You, I replied, have a charmingly lofty notion of what it means to study "things above." I bet you think that if someone threw his head back and studied the decorations on a ceiling, you'd say he was using his mind, not just his eyes. Maybe you're right and I'm a fool. But in my view, the only knowledge that makes the soul look upward is knowledge of being — of the invisible and eternal. Whether someone is gaping up at the sky or squinting down at the ground, if they're trying to learn some fact of the physical world, I deny they can truly learn — because nothing in the physical world is the proper object of knowledge. Their soul is looking downward, not upward, no matter which way their body is tilted — even if they're floating on their back in the ocean studying the sky.

I deserve that rebuke, he said. But then how should astronomy be studied, if not the way it's currently done?

I'll tell you, I said. The starry sky we see is beautiful — the most beautiful and perfect of all visible things. But precisely because it's visible, it falls infinitely short of the true reality: the true motions, the true speeds and true slownesses, moving in true number and true geometric figures. These can only be grasped by reason and intelligence — not by sight.

True, he replied.

So we should use the visible sky as a model — a pattern pointing toward that higher knowledge. Its beauty is like the beauty of diagrams drawn by a master artist: a skilled geometer would admire the artistry but would never dream of finding actual mathematical truth in them — the true equal, the true double, the true proportion.

No, he replied. That would be ridiculous.

A real astronomer would feel the same way looking at the stars. He'd admire the beauty of the heavens and recognize that their creator fashioned them as perfectly as visible things can be fashioned. But he'd never imagine that the physical ratios — night to day, day to month, month to year, star to star — could be eternal and perfectly exact. They're material, they're visible, and it would be absurd to obsess over pinning down their exact truth.

I completely agree, he said, now that you put it that way.

Then in astronomy, as in geometry, I said, we should work with problems and let the physical heavens be. Only then will we properly use the mind's natural gift for reason. Only then will the study be truly worthwhile.

That, he said, would demand far more from astronomers than what they do now.

Yes, I said. And everything else in our program will need the same kind of elevation, if our legislation is to be worth anything. But can you think of any other suitable study?

Not off the top of my head, he said.

Well, I said, motion doesn't come in just one form. It comes in many. Two of them are obvious — even to minds like ours. Others might require a sharper intelligence.

Which two?

The one we've been discussing — astronomy — is the first. The second is its counterpart.

What's that?

Think about it this way, I said. As the eyes are designed for astronomy, so the ears are designed for the study of harmony. These are sister sciences — the Pythagoreans say so, and we agree with them. Right, Glaucon?

Yes, he replied.

And since it's a complex subject, I said, we should go and learn from the Pythagoreans. They can tell us about the further applications of these sciences. But through all of this, we must never lose sight of our real goal.

Which is?

The perfection that all knowledge ought to reach — and that our students must attain and not fall short of. The same thing applies in harmonics as in astronomy. The teachers of harmony — just like the astronomers — waste their labor when they limit themselves to what can be heard.

By heaven, yes! he said. It's practically a comedy watching them. They talk about their "condensed intervals" and lean in close to the strings, practically pressing their ears against them like people trying to eavesdrop through a wall. One faction claims they can detect a note between two others and have found the smallest possible interval, the basic unit of measurement. The other faction insists the two notes sound the same. Both groups put their ears ahead of their minds.

You mean, I said, those experts who torture the strings and rack them on the pegs. I could extend the metaphor — talk about the accusations they level against the strings, the charges of being too eager or too reluctant to sound — but I'll spare you. What I mean is that these people aren't the ones I'm talking about. I'm talking about the Pythagoreans, the ones we said we'd consult about harmony. Because even they make the same mistake as the astronomers: they study the numbers in the harmonies they can hear, but they never get to the real problems — they never ask why some numbers are inherently harmonious and others aren't.

That, he said, sounds like superhuman knowledge.

Useful knowledge, I replied — if you pursue it for the sake of the beautiful and the Good. Pursued in any other spirit, it's useless.

Very true, he said.

And here's the crucial point, I said. All of these studies are valuable only when they reach the stage where they connect with each other — when you can see how they relate to one another and to the nature of being. Pursued in isolation, they're not worth much.

I believe it, he said. But you're describing an enormous project, Socrates.

What — the prelude? I said. Don't you realize that all of this is just the prelude? Just the warm-up before the main performance? Surely you wouldn't say a skilled mathematician is automatically a dialectician?

Certainly not, he said. I've hardly ever met a mathematician who could actually reason.

Then can people who can't give and receive reasons have the kind of knowledge we're demanding?

Impossible.

And here, Glaucon, I said, we've finally arrived at the main theme — the hymn of dialectic itself. It belongs to the realm of pure thought, but our image of sight will help us understand it. Remember how we described sight gradually ascending — first looking at shadows, then reflections, then real objects, and finally the sun itself? That's what happens in dialectic. When a person sets out to discover what each thing truly is, using reason alone, without any help from the senses, and keeps going through sheer intelligence until they grasp what the Good itself is — they've reached the summit of the intellectual world, just as the person who sees the sun has reached the summit of the visible world.

Exactly, he said.

And this journey — this is what you'd call dialectic?

Yes.

Now think about the allegory again. The prisoners are freed from their chains. They're turned from shadows to the shapes that cast them, and then to the firelight. They're brought up out of the cave into the sunlight. At first they can't look at the animals, plants, and sunlight directly — they can only see reflections in water, divine shadows of real things, not the shadows of shadow-images cast by a fire that's itself only an image compared to the sun. This entire process — the power of the studies we've described to lift the soul's highest faculty to the contemplation of what's best in all of existence — is comparable to raising the body's keenest sense to the sight of the brightest thing in the physical world.

I agree with what you're saying, he replied, though it's hard to accept — and yet, from another angle, hard to deny. Still, this isn't something we can settle in one conversation. We'll need to come back to it again and again. So for now, let's assume our conclusion holds, and move from the prelude to the main theme. Tell me: what is the nature of dialectic? What are its divisions? And what paths lead to it? Because those paths lead to our final destination — the place where the journey ends and the traveler can rest.

Dear Glaucon, I said, you won't be able to follow me all the way there — though I'd do my best. If you could, you'd see not just an image but the truth itself, or at least what I believe to be the truth. Whether it actually is the truth, I won't venture to say. But something like truth — of that, I'm confident.

No doubt, he replied.

And I have to remind you: only dialectic can reveal this truth, and only to someone who has mastered the earlier studies.

You can be as confident of that as of anything.

And no one could seriously argue that there's any other method that can systematically determine what each thing truly is, in its own nature. All the other arts are concerned with human desires and opinions, or with making and maintaining physical things. As for the mathematical sciences — geometry and the rest — they do have some contact with true being, as we said. But they're only dreaming about reality. They can never see it with waking eyes, because they rely on assumptions they can't examine or justify. When you don't know your own starting point, and your conclusion and every step in between is built on things you don't fully understand — how can you call that patchwork of convention real knowledge?

You can't, he said.

Dialectic, then — and dialectic alone — goes straight to the first principle. It's the only discipline that does away with assumptions in order to reach solid ground. When the eye of the soul is literally buried in the muck, dialectic gently draws it upward. And it uses the disciplines we've been discussing as helpers and assistants in this work of conversion. We call them "sciences" by custom, but they really deserve a different name — something between opinion and true knowledge. Earlier, we called this level "understanding." But why argue over names when we have such important realities to consider?

Why indeed, he said, as long as the name expresses the idea clearly enough.

So we're satisfied, as before, with four divisions: two for intellect and two for opinion. The first division is knowledge; the second is understanding. The third is belief; the fourth is perception of shadows. Opinion deals with the world of becoming; intellect deals with the world of being. And the proportion runs:

As being is to becoming, so is intellect to opinion.

And as intellect is to opinion, so is knowledge to belief, and understanding to the perception of shadows.

But the further subdivision of these categories — that would take us far too long.

As far as I can follow, he said, I agree.

And would you also agree, I said, that the dialectician is someone who grasps the essence of each thing? And someone who can't do this — who can't grasp the essence and can't explain it to others — to that degree lacks real understanding?

How could I deny it? he said.

And the same goes for the Good. Unless someone can define the Form of the Good through rational argument — can separate it from everything else, as if in battle, fighting through every objection, determined to test it by reality rather than by opinion, and never stumbling at any step — unless they can do all that, you'd say they don't really know the Good, or any other good thing. If they grasp anything at all, it's only a shadow, apprehended through opinion rather than knowledge. They're sleepwalking through this life, and before they ever wake up here, they'll arrive in the world below and fall asleep forever.

I'd agree with every word of that, he said.

And surely you wouldn't let the children of your ideal city — if it ever becomes real — you wouldn't let your future rulers be like posts standing in the ground, with no reason in them, given authority over the most important matters?

Certainly not.

Then you'll make a law requiring them to receive the kind of education that equips them for the highest skill of all: the skill of asking and answering questions.

Yes, he said. You and I together will make that law.

Dialectic, then, as you'd agree, is the capstone of all the sciences. It stands above them all. No other study can properly be placed higher. The nature of knowledge can go no further.

I agree, he said.

But we still need to decide: who gets this education, and how it's to be structured?

Yes, clearly.

You remember how we chose our rulers before?

Of course, he said.

We should choose the same kind of people. The steadiest. The bravest. And, as far as possible, the best-looking. But beyond noble and spirited temperaments, they need to have natural gifts that suit this kind of education.

And what gifts are those?

Mental sharpness. The ability to learn quickly. Because intellectual work exhausts the mind more than physical training exhausts the body. The labor is entirely the mind's own — it can't be shared with the body.

Very true, he replied.

And they need excellent memories. They have to be tireless and love hard work in every form. Otherwise they'll never endure the combination of intense physical training and intense intellectual study that we're going to demand.

They'll certainly need natural gifts, he said.

And here's the problem with philosophy today: the people studying it aren't the right people. That's what I said before, and it's why philosophy has fallen into disgrace. Her true children should be the ones taking her hand — not pretenders.

What do you mean?

First, a student of philosophy must not be lame in their effort — energetic in some areas and lazy in others. You know the type: someone who loves the gym, loves hunting, loves all physical activity, but hates the work of learning, listening, and investigating. Or the reverse: someone brilliant with books but sluggish about everything else.

Absolutely, he said.

And regarding truth — isn't a soul equally crippled if it hates deliberate lying and can't stand it when others lie, but tolerates ignorance in itself and doesn't mind wallowing in the muck of not-knowing, like a pig in the mud, without any shame at being caught out?

Absolutely.

And regarding self-control, courage, generosity, and every other virtue — we need to carefully distinguish the genuine from the counterfeit. Because when individuals and states lack this discernment, they unwittingly choose as rulers or friends people who are defective in some essential virtue — who are, in a sense, crippled.

Very true, he said.

We need to be careful about all of this. If the people we introduce to this vast system of education and training are sound in body and mind, justice herself will have no complaint against us. We'll be the saviors of the state. But if we select the wrong people, the result will be the exact opposite — and we'll drown philosophy in an even greater flood of ridicule than she endures now.

That would be shameful, he said.

It certainly would, I said. Though I may be making myself a bit ridiculous right now, getting so worked up.

How so?

I forgot we were just having a conversation and got a little too passionate. When I looked at philosophy and saw how shamefully she's been trampled, I couldn't help feeling angry at the people responsible. My anger made me too intense.

It didn't seem that way to me, he said. I was listening.

Well, it felt that way to me. But here's an important point: in our earlier selection we chose older men. We can't do that here. We can't listen to Solon when he says you can learn many things as you grow old — you can't learn much better than you can run. Youth is the time for extraordinary effort.

Then arithmetic and geometry and all the foundational subjects that prepare for dialectic should be introduced in childhood — but not as compulsory drudgery.

Why not?

Because a free person shouldn't learn anything like a slave. Physical exercise done under compulsion doesn't harm the body. But knowledge forced into the mind won't stick.

True.

So don't use force, I said. Let early education be a kind of play. That way you'll also be better able to discover each child's natural ability.

That's a very sensible approach, he said.

And you remember that we said the children should be taken to observe battles from horseback — brought close, when it was safe, and given a taste of war, like young hunting dogs getting their first taste of blood?

Yes, I remember.

The same principle applies across the board. In every area — physical challenges, lessons, danger — whoever shows the most natural ability should be placed on a select list.

At what age?

When their required physical training is over. Those two or three years of intensive athletics are basically useless for anything else — sleep and exercise are enemies of learning. And physical performance is itself one of the most important tests we put them through.

Certainly, he replied.

After that, at age twenty, the selected group will be promoted. The subjects they learned without any particular order during childhood will now be drawn together. They'll begin to see how these disciplines relate to each other and to the nature of reality.

Yes, he said. That's the only kind of knowledge that truly lasts.

And it's also the ultimate test of dialectical talent, I said. The person who can see things as a connected whole is a natural dialectician. The one who can't, isn't.

I agree.

These are the things you need to watch for. The students who show the greatest ability in this kind of synthesis — and who are also the steadiest in learning, in military duty, and in every other responsibility — when they reach thirty, you select them from the larger group, elevate them to even greater honors, and test them through dialectic to see which of them can let go of their eyes and their other senses and travel with truth toward being itself.

And here, my friend, you need to be very careful.

Why so careful?

Don't you see the damage dialectic has already done?

What damage? he said.

Its students are infected with lawlessness.

True, he said.

But is it really so surprising? Can you make allowances for them?

What kind of allowances?

Think of it this way, I said. Imagine a boy raised in a wealthy family — a big, important family surrounded by flatterers. When he grows up, he discovers that the people he calls his parents aren't really his parents. But he can't find out who his real parents are. Can you guess how he'd behave toward the flatterers and his supposed parents — first while he still believes they're his family, and then after he learns the truth? Or should I guess for you?

Please do.

While he's still in the dark, I think he'd respect his father and mother and supposed relatives more than the flatterers. He'd be less likely to neglect them, less likely to say or do anything against them, less likely to disobey them on important matters.

That makes sense.

But once he discovers the truth, his respect for them would fade. He'd become more attached to the flatterers. Their influence would grow. He'd start living by their rules, spending time with them openly. And unless he had an unusually good character, he'd stop caring about his supposed parents and relatives altogether.

That's all very likely. But how does this apply to students of philosophy?

Like this. We all grow up with certain principles about justice and honor. We were raised under their authority. We obey them and respect them — like parents.

True.

But there are also opposing forces — pleasures that flatter and attract the soul. People with any decency resist these and continue following the principles they were raised with.

Yes.

Now, along comes the spirit of questioning. Someone asks: "What is honorable? What is just?" The young person answers the way they were taught. But then arguments come at them from every direction, refuting their answers, turning them inside out — until they're driven to believe that what they called honorable is no more honorable than dishonorable, and what they called just is no more just than unjust. And the same for everything else they once valued. What happens then?

They'll obviously stop respecting and obeying those principles.

And when they no longer think those principles are honorable or natural — but haven't yet found the truth — what life will they turn to? The one that flatters their desires, naturally.

Naturally.

From law-keeper to lawbreaker.

Inevitably.

This, I said, is perfectly natural for students of philosophy as I've described them — and, as I said, very understandable.

Yes, he said. And pitiable, too.

And this is exactly why we need to be so careful about introducing dialectic to our thirty-year-olds.

Yes.

One essential precaution: they must not taste dialectic too young. You've probably noticed how young people behave when they first discover argument. They treat it like a game. They argue for the fun of it. They imitate the people who refute them by refuting everyone in sight — like puppies that love nothing more than pulling and tearing at anyone who comes near.

Yes, he said. They love nothing better.

And after they've won many arguments and lost many, they quickly end up believing in nothing at all. As a result, both they and philosophy itself get a terrible reputation with everyone else.

Too true, he said.

But an older person won't fall into this trap. They'll model themselves on someone who's genuinely searching for truth rather than someone who's arguing for sport. Their greater maturity will bring honor to the pursuit instead of disgracing it.

Very true.

And wasn't this exactly why we insisted that students of philosophy must have orderly, stable temperaments — not just anyone who wanders in?

Exactly.

Now suppose, I said, that the study of philosophy replaces physical training and continues intensively for twice as long. Will that be enough?

Would you say six years or four? he asked.

Let's say five, I replied. After that, they have to go back down into the cave. They must hold military commands and whatever other offices are appropriate for young people. This gives them real-world experience, and it tests whether they'll stay true when pulled in every direction by temptation — or whether they'll flinch.

And how long does this stage last?

Fifteen years, I answered. And when they reach fifty — those who have survived and distinguished themselves in every test, in every field of knowledge and every kind of action — the time has finally come. They must raise the eye of their soul to the universal light that illuminates all things. They must gaze upon the Good itself. And using it as a pattern, they must spend the rest of their lives ordering the city, its citizens, and themselves. They'll devote most of their time to philosophy, but when their turn comes, they'll take on the burden of political leadership and govern for the public good — not as though they're performing some grand heroic act, but simply as a duty. They'll train the next generation to be like themselves, leave them as guardians in their place, and then depart to the Islands of the Blessed. The city will honor them with public memorials and sacrifices — as demigods, if the oracle at Delphi approves, or at the very least as blessed and divine beings.

You've sculpted some beautiful rulers, Socrates — like a master sculptor.

And rulers of both sexes, Glaucon. Don't imagine that anything I've said applies only to men. It applies equally to women, insofar as their natures are capable.

You're right, he said, since we decided they'd share in everything equally with men.

Well then, I said — would you agree that what we've said about the city and its government isn't just a daydream? It's difficult, yes, but not impossible — though only in the way we've described: when true philosopher-kings are born in a city, one or more of them, who despise the honors that people currently value — considering them petty and worthless — who prize justice above all things, who regard it as the greatest and most essential of all values, who serve it faithfully, and who are prepared to strengthen and elevate its principles as they set their own city in order.

And how would they begin?

They would send every citizen over the age of ten out into the countryside. Then they would take charge of the children — children untouched by the habits of their parents — and raise them according to their own principles and laws. The principles we've been describing. This is the quickest and easiest way for the city and its constitution to achieve happiness, and for the nation that adopts this constitution to flourish.

Yes, he said. That would be the best way. And I think, Socrates, that you've given an excellent account of how such a constitution might actually come into being — if it ever does.

Then we've said enough about the perfect city, I said, and about the kind of person who embodies it. It's not hard to see what that person would look like.

Not hard at all, he replied. And I agree with you — nothing more needs to be said.

Book VIII

The Decline of States

And so, Glaucon, we've arrived at the conclusion that in the ideal state, wives and children are to be shared in common. Education, warfare, peacetime pursuits — all shared. And the best philosophers and the bravest warriors are to be their kings.

That, Glaucon replied, has been agreed.

Yes, I said. And we've further agreed that the rulers, once appointed, will settle their soldiers in communal housing of the kind we described — nothing private, nothing individually owned. And about their property, you remember what we decided?

Yes, he said. No one was to have any of the ordinary possessions that most people have. They were to be warrior-athletes and guardians, receiving from the other citizens nothing but their maintenance — no annual salary — and they were to look after themselves and the entire state.

True, I said. And now that we've finished this part of the discussion, let's find the point where we got sidetracked, so we can pick up the original thread.

There's no difficulty there, he said. You were implying then, just as you are now, that you'd finished describing the state. You said such a state was good, and that the man who corresponded to it was good too — even though, as it turns out, you had even better things to say about both the state and the individual. And you said that if this was the true form of government, then all the others were flawed. Of those flawed forms, you said there were four main types, and that their defects — along with the defects of the individuals who correspond to them — were worth examining. Once we'd seen all the types and agreed on which was the best and which the worst, we were going to ask whether the best was also the happiest and the worst the most miserable. I asked you what the four forms of government were, and then Polemarchus and Adeimantus jumped in. You started over, and that's how we ended up where we are now.

Your memory, I said, is perfect.

Then, like a wrestler, he replied, you need to get back into the same position. Let me ask the same questions, and you give me the answer you were about to give me then.

I will, if I can, I said.

I'd particularly like to hear about those four constitutions you mentioned.

That question is easy to answer, I said. The four governments I was talking about, at least the ones with clear names, are: first, the Cretan and Spartan system, which is universally admired; second, what's called oligarchy — that one gets much less approval and is riddled with problems; third, democracy, which naturally follows oligarchy but is very different from it; and finally tyranny, the great and notorious form, which differs from all the rest and is the fourth and worst disorder a state can suffer. I can't think of any other constitution with a truly distinct character. There are hereditary lordships and petty principalities that are bought and sold, and various other intermediate forms. But these are hard to classify and can be found among Greeks and non-Greeks alike.

Yes, he replied, we certainly hear of many strange forms of government out there.

You know, I said, that governments are as varied as the people who make them up, right? There have to be as many types of the one as there are of the other. We can't suppose that states are made of oak and rock rather than human beings — the human characters in them tip the scale and pull everything else along.

Yes, he said. States are what their people are. They grow out of human character.

Then if there are five types of constitution, there must be five types of individual mind as well?

Certainly.

We've already described the man who corresponds to aristocracy — the one we rightly call just and good.

We have.

Then let's move on to the inferior types: the competitive, ambitious man who corresponds to the Spartan system; then the oligarchic man, the democratic man, and the tyrannical man. Let's set the most just person side by side with the most unjust, and once we see them clearly, we'll be able to compare how happy or miserable each one is — the person who lives a life of pure justice versus the person who lives a life of pure injustice. That will complete our investigation. And then we'll know whether we should pursue injustice, as Thrasymachus recommended, or whether we should follow the argument and choose justice instead.

Absolutely, he said. We have to do this.

Shall we follow our old method, which we adopted for the sake of clarity — starting with the state first and then moving to the individual? We'll begin with the government of honor. I don't have a name for it other than "timocracy" — or maybe "timarchy." We'll compare it with the corresponding individual, then consider oligarchy and the oligarchic man, then turn to democracy and the democratic man. And finally, we'll visit the city of tyranny and look into the tyrant's soul, and try to reach a solid conclusion.

That approach sounds excellent, he said.

First, then, I said, let's ask how timocracy — the government of honor — arises out of aristocracy, the government of the best. One thing is clear: all political revolutions start with divisions within the ruling power itself. A government that's truly united, no matter how small, can't be overthrown.

Very true, he said.

So how will our city be destabilized? How will the two classes — the auxiliaries and the rulers — come into conflict, either with each other or within their own ranks? Shall we, like Homer, call upon the Muses to tell us "how discord first arose"? Shall we imagine them putting on a mock-serious tone, teasing us like children while pretending to be deadly earnest?

How would they address us? he asked.

Something like this: "A city built on these principles can hardly be shaken. But since everything that has a beginning also has an end, even a constitution like yours won't last forever. Eventually it will dissolve. And here's how that dissolution works: In plants that grow from the earth and in animals that walk upon it, fertility and barrenness of both soul and body follow cycles. These cycles are short for short-lived creatures and long for long-lived ones. But when it comes to human fertility and the right time for bearing children, all the wisdom and education of your rulers won't be enough. The proper timing will escape them, no matter how smart they are. They'll bring children into the world at the wrong moment.

"Now, what's divinely born has a cycle governed by a perfect number. But the cycle of human birth is governed by a number involving first increases by squaring and cubing, producing three intervals and four terms of similar and dissimilar numbers, numbers that wax and wane, all made commensurate and harmonious with each other. The base of three, combined with four, when multiplied by five and raised to the third power, yields two harmonies. The first is a square — one hundred times a hundred. The other is an oblong figure with one side equal to the first, made up of a hundred squares on the near-rational diagonal of five (seven squared is forty-nine, times a hundred makes forty-nine hundred), each reduced by one — or alternatively, reduced by two perfect squares of the irrational diagonal — plus a hundred cubes of three (twenty-seven hundred). Adding these gives eight thousand. This number represents a geometric figure that governs good and bad births.

"When your guardians don't understand this law and bring brides and grooms together at the wrong time, the children won't be gifted or fortunate. The best of them will still be appointed as successors, but they'll be unworthy of their parents' positions. When they take power as guardians, they'll start neglecting us — the Muses. First they'll undervalue the arts and education. Then gymnastic training will decline too. And so your young people will become less cultivated. The next generation of rulers will lack the ability to test the different metals in your population — the gold, silver, bronze, and iron races, as Hesiod described them. Iron will get mixed with silver, bronze with gold. The result will be inequality, imbalance, and irregularity, which always and everywhere breed hatred and war. This, the Muses declare, is the origin of discord — wherever it arises. And that is their answer to us."

Yes, he said, and we can assume they're telling the truth.

Well, of course they are, I said. How can the Muses speak falsely?

And what do the Muses say next? he asked.

When discord arose, I said, the two races were pulled in opposite directions. The iron and bronze types fell to acquiring money, land, houses, gold, and silver. But the gold and silver types, who didn't care about money and had true riches in their own nature, gravitated toward virtue and the old ways. There was a struggle between them. In the end, they compromised: they divided the land and houses among individual owners, and they enslaved the people they'd previously protected as free citizens — turning them into subjects and servants. From then on, the rulers devoted themselves to war and to keeping watch over their new subjects.

I think you've got the origin of the change exactly right, he said.

And this new government that emerges — it'll be a form halfway between oligarchy and aristocracy?

Yes.

That's how the change happens, I said. But after the change, how will they proceed? Obviously, since the new state is a middle ground between oligarchy and the ideal state, it'll partly resemble one and partly the other, with some features all its own.

True, he said.

In the honor paid to rulers, in the warrior class keeping away from farming, crafts, and trade, in the practice of communal meals, in the emphasis on physical training and military preparation — in all these ways, the new state will look like the old one.

Yes.

But in being afraid to let philosophers hold power — because the kind of simple, earnest philosophers they need no longer exist, replaced by people of mixed and complicated character — and in turning instead to spirited, less intellectual types who are naturally built for war rather than peace, and in prizing military tactics and strategy, and in waging wars without end — in these ways, the new state will have its own distinctive character.

Yes, I said. And men of this type will be greedy for money, like people in oligarchies. They'll have a fierce, secret craving for gold and silver, which they'll hoard in hidden vaults and private strongboxes — little nests for their treasures — where they'll spend lavishly on their wives or on anyone else they please.

That's absolutely right, he said.

And they're tight-fisted in public because they have no legitimate way to acquire the money they're obsessed with. They'll spend other people's money on their desires, sneaking their pleasures and running from the law like children running from their father. They were raised not by persuasion but by force, because they neglected the true Muse — the companion of reason and philosophy — and honored physical training over education.

Without a doubt, he said, the government you're describing is a mixture of good and evil.

There is a mixture, I said. But one thing stands out above all: the spirit of competition and ambition. And that comes from the dominance of the spirited element in these people.

Exactly, he said.

So that's the origin and character of this state, sketched in outline. A more detailed picture isn't necessary — a sketch is enough to show the type of the most just and the most unjust. Going through every possible state and every type of person would be an endless task.

Very true, he replied.

Now what kind of man corresponds to this form of government? How did he come into being, and what's he like?

I think, said Adeimantus, that in his competitive spirit, he's not unlike our friend Glaucon.

Maybe, I said. He might be like Glaucon in that one respect. But in other ways he's very different.

How so?

He'd be more assertive and less educated, though still a friend of culture. He'd be a good listener but no great speaker. Someone like this tends to be harsh with slaves — unlike the truly educated person, who has too much self-respect for that. He'd be courteous to free citizens and remarkably obedient to authority. He loves power and honors, and claims the right to rule — not because he's articulate or has any other intellectual qualification, but because he's a soldier who's proven himself in battle. He's also a lover of athletics and hunting.

Yes, he said, that's the character type that matches timocracy.

When he's young, a man like this will look down on money. But as he gets older, he'll be more and more attracted to it, because there's a streak of greed in him. He isn't single-mindedly devoted to virtue, because he's lost his best guardian.

Who was that? asked Adeimantus.

Philosophy, I said — tempered with the arts. Philosophy is the only thing that takes up residence in a person's soul and protects their virtue throughout life.

Good, he said.

So that's the timocratic young man, I said, and he's the mirror of the timocratic state.

Exactly.

Here's how he comes into being. He's often the young son of a brave father who lives in a badly governed city. His father refuses the honors and offices and avoids the courts and all public controversy. He's ready to give up his rights rather than deal with the hassle.

And how does the son turn out?

It starts when he hears his mother complaining that her husband has no position in the government, which means she has no standing among the other women. She sees her husband isn't especially interested in money, and instead of battling it out in the courts or the assembly, he takes whatever comes his way calmly. She notices that he's always lost in his own thoughts and treats her with considerable indifference. All of this annoys her, and she tells her son that his father is only half a man and much too easygoing — plus all the other complaints women are so fond of rehearsing.

Yes, said Adeimantus, they give us plenty of those, and the complaints are just like the women who make them.

And you know, I said, that the old family servants chime in too, talking privately to the boy in the same vein. If they see someone who owes the father money or is mistreating him in some way, and the father won't pursue it, they tell the boy that when he grows up, he should stand up to people like that and be more of a man than his father. Step outside, and he hears and sees the same thing everywhere: people who mind their own business are called simpletons and get no respect, while the busybodies are honored and applauded.

The result? The young man hears all of this, sees his father's way of life up close, compares him to others, and gets pulled in two directions. His father waters and nourishes the rational part of his soul, but everyone else encourages the spirited and appetitive parts. He's not bad by nature, but he's been keeping bad company. Caught between these opposing forces, he settles on a middle ground: he surrenders the kingdom within himself to the middle principle — competitiveness and passion — and becomes arrogant and ambitious.

You've described his origin perfectly, he said.

Then we now have the second form of government and the second type of character, I said.

We do.

Next, let's look at another man who, as Aeschylus says, "is set against another state" — or rather, following our plan, let's start with the state.

By all means.

I believe oligarchy comes next.

And what kind of government do you call oligarchy?

A government based on property qualifications — where the rich hold power and the poor are shut out.

I understand, he replied.

Should I start by describing how the change from timocracy to oligarchy happens?

Yes.

Well, I said, you don't need much insight to see how one turns into the other.

How?

The piling up of gold in private hands is what ruins a timocracy. People invent illegal ways to spend their money. What do they or their wives care about the law?

Not much, he said.

And then one person, seeing another getting rich, tries to outdo him. Before long, the whole population becomes obsessed with money.

That sounds right.

And the richer they get, the more they value wealth and the less they value virtue. When you put riches and virtue on a scale, one always rises as the other falls.

True.

And the more a state honors wealth and wealthy people, the more it dishonors virtue and the virtuous.

Clearly.

And people cultivate whatever is honored and neglect whatever isn't.

Obviously.

And so, in the end, instead of loving competition and glory, they become lovers of trade and money. They honor and admire the rich, put them in charge, and look down on the poor.

That's what they do.

Then they pass a law that sets a minimum amount of property as the qualification for citizenship. The threshold is higher or lower depending on how exclusive the oligarchy is. Anyone whose property falls below the line is cut off from any share in government. They enforce these changes by force of arms — or by intimidation, if that does the trick first.

Very true.

And that, broadly speaking, is how oligarchy gets established.

Yes, he said. But what are the characteristics of this system, and what are the defects we were talking about?

First, I said, think about the nature of this property qualification. What would happen if we chose ship captains based on their wealth, and refused to let a poor man steer even if he were the best pilot?

You mean they'd wreck the ship, he said.

Yes. And isn't the same true of governing anything?

I'd imagine so.

Including a city?

Especially a city, he said — since governing a city is the greatest and hardest task of all.

So that's the first major flaw of oligarchy.

Right. And here's another one just as bad.

What's that?

The inevitable split: an oligarchic state isn't one state but two — a state of the rich and a state of the poor, living in the same place, constantly conspiring against each other.

That's at least as bad, he said.

And here's another ugly feature: for the same reason, they can't wage war effectively. Either they arm the common people, in which case they're more afraid of their own soldiers than of the enemy, or they don't call them up, in which case they go into battle as the oligarchs they are — too few to fight, just as they're too few to govern. And on top of that, their love of money makes them unwilling to pay for a war.

How disgraceful!

And remember what we said before: under this kind of system, the same people end up doing everything — farming, trading, fighting — all at once. Does that seem right to you?

Not at all.

There's yet another evil — maybe the worst of all — and this state is the first where it appears.

What is it?

A man can sell everything he owns, and someone else can buy it all up. After the sale, the seller goes on living in the city, but he's no part of it anymore. He's not a tradesman, not a craftsman, not a cavalryman, not a soldier — just a poor, helpless creature.

Yes, he said, that's an evil that first shows up in this kind of state.

And oligarchy certainly doesn't prevent it. You get both extremes — enormous wealth and utter poverty — side by side.

True.

But think about this: back when this man was wealthy and spending freely, was he actually any more useful to the city? He seemed to be part of the ruling class, but in truth he was neither ruler nor subject. He was just a spendthrift.

Exactly, he replied. He seemed to be a ruler, but he was just burning through his money.

Can we say he's like a drone in a house — the way a drone is a plague in the hive?

Exactly, Socrates.

And God has made the flying drones all stingless, Adeimantus. But the walking drones — the human kind — come in two varieties. Some are stingless, and some have terrible stings. The stingless ones end up as paupers in their old age. The ones with stingers? They become the criminal class.

Very true, he said.

So here's a rule: wherever you find paupers in a state, you can bet that nearby, hidden away, there are also thieves, pickpockets, temple robbers, and criminals of every kind.

Right.

And in oligarchies, do you find paupers?

Yes, he said. Almost everyone who isn't a ruler is a pauper.

Then we can safely say there are plenty of criminals too — armed and dangerous rogues that the authorities keep in check by force?

Certainly.

And we'd attribute the existence of such people to lack of education, bad upbringing, and a corrupt constitution?

Yes.

Such, then, is the nature of oligarchy and such are its evils. And there may be many more besides.

Very likely.

Then let's move on from oligarchy — the government where rulers are chosen for their wealth. Let's consider the nature and origin of the individual who corresponds to this state.

By all means.

Doesn't the timocratic man turn into the oligarchic man something like this?

How?

The timocratic man has a son. At first, the son emulates his father and follows in his footsteps. But then one day he watches his father crash against the state like a ship on a hidden reef. Everything is lost. His father might have been a general or some other high-ranking officer who gets dragged into court on trumped-up charges by informers and is either put to death, exiled, or stripped of his citizenship and all his property.

That's very plausible, he said.

The son has witnessed all of this. He's ruined. Fear has taught him to knock ambition and passion headfirst off the throne of his soul. Humbled by poverty, he turns to moneymaking and, through penny-pinching, hard labor, and miserly savings, he scrapes together a fortune. Don't you think he'll then seat the greedy, acquisitive part of himself on that empty throne and let it play king — decked out in crown and chain and sword?

Absolutely, he replied.

And once he's enthroned the desire for money, he makes reason and spirit sit on the ground like slaves, one on each side. He won't let reason think about anything except how to turn a little money into more money. And he won't let spirit admire or aspire to anything except wealth and wealthy people — nothing matters but getting rich and figuring out how to get richer.

Of all transformations, he said, none is faster or more certain than the conversion of an ambitious young man into a greedy one.

And the greedy man, I said — that's the oligarchic type?

Yes, he said. At least, the individual he evolved from is like the state that oligarchy evolved from.

Let's see if they really resemble each other.

First: they both place supreme value on wealth?

Yes.

And both are stingy and hardworking. The oligarchic man satisfies only his bare necessities and won't spend a penny on anything else. He suppresses all other desires as unprofitable.

Right.

He's a shabby character who pinches pennies on everything and builds up his nest egg. The masses actually admire this type. Isn't he a true mirror of the state he represents?

I think so, he said. At any rate, money is the supreme value for both the man and the state.

You'll notice he's not a cultivated person, I said.

No, he said. If he were, he'd never have made a blind god the director of his life's chorus, or given Wealth the place of highest honor.

Excellent! I said. But consider this: precisely because he lacks cultivation, he harbors drone-like desires inside him — the kind a pauper or a criminal would have — desires that are forcibly kept down by his general self-discipline.

You want to know where to find proof of his hidden corruption?

Where should I look?

Watch what happens when he's put in charge of an orphan's estate, or any situation where he has a great opportunity to cheat.

Ah.

Then you'll see clearly enough. In his ordinary dealings, where his reputation for honesty is on the line, he keeps his bad impulses in check — but not because he's genuinely convinced they're wrong, and not because he's tamed them through reason. It's purely out of necessity and fear. He's scared of losing what he has.

Exactly.

In fact, my friend, whenever he gets a chance to spend someone else's money, you'll find those drone-like desires alive and well inside him.

Yes, he said, and strong ones too.

So this man is at war with himself. He's two people, not one. But generally, his better desires manage to prevail over his worse ones.

True.

For these reasons, he'll be more respectable than most people. But the true virtue of a soul that's unified and harmonious? That will be far away and will never come near him.

I'd expect so.

And the miser makes an embarrassing competitor whenever there's a prize to be won or some other public honor at stake. He won't spend his money on the contest for glory — too afraid of waking up his expensive appetites and calling them in as allies. He fights with only a fraction of his resources, oligarch-style, and typically loses the prize but keeps his money.

That's exactly right.

So can we still doubt that the miser and the moneymaker is the perfect match for the oligarchic state?

No doubt at all.

Next comes democracy. We still need to examine how it originates and what it looks like. Then we'll examine the democratic man and put him up for judgment.

That's our method, he said.

Well, I said, how does the change from oligarchy to democracy happen? Isn't it something like this? The whole goal of oligarchy is to get as rich as possible — an insatiable desire.

Go on.

The rulers know their power depends on their wealth. So they refuse to pass laws restraining the extravagance of the spendthrift youth — because they profit from their ruin. They lend them money at interest and buy up their estates, getting richer and more powerful in the process.

Of course.

Now, here's something you can't get around: the love of wealth and the spirit of self-discipline can't coexist in the same state to any significant degree. One or the other has to give way.

That's pretty clear.

So in oligarchies, thanks to the spread of recklessness and extravagance, even people from good families often end up bankrupt.

Yes, that happens a lot.

And yet they stay in the city. There they are — bitter, armed, and dangerous. Some are in debt, some have lost their citizenship, some are in both predicaments at once. They hate the people who acquired their property. They hate everyone else too. They're itching for revolution.

That's exactly right.

Meanwhile, the moneylenders stoop as they walk and pretend not even to notice the people they've already ruined. They sink their stingers — that is, their money — into the next unsuspecting victim, collecting interest upon interest, breeding a whole family of returns from the original sum. And so they multiply both drones and paupers throughout the state.

Yes, he said, there are plenty of both — that's for certain.

The crisis flares up like a fire, and they refuse to put it out — either by limiting how people can use their own property, or by another remedy.

What other remedy?

The next best thing, and one that has the advantage of forcing citizens to watch their character: make a rule that everyone enters into voluntary contracts at their own risk. There'd be far less predatory lending, and the evils we've been talking about would shrink dramatically.

Yes, they would.

But as things stand, the rulers — driven by the motives I've described — treat their subjects badly. Meanwhile, they and their allies, especially the young men of the ruling class, live in luxury and idleness, both physically and mentally. They do nothing and can't resist either pleasure or pain.

Right.

They care only about making money and are as indifferent to genuine virtue as any pauper.

Completely indifferent.

Now picture what happens when these rulers and their subjects come face to face. Maybe they're traveling together, or on a pilgrimage, or serving as fellow soldiers or sailors. And in a moment of actual danger — where the poor can't be looked down on — what does the tough, sun-weathered poor man think when he's standing next to some pale, soft, overfed rich man, watching him wheeze and flounder? How can he avoid the obvious conclusion: "People like him are only rich because nobody has the guts to take their money"? And when they meet in private, won't they say to each other, "Our so-called leaders are useless"?

Yes, he said, I'm well aware that's exactly how they talk.

And just as a diseased body only needs the slightest push from outside to fall ill — and sometimes breaks down even without any external trigger — the same is true of a weakened state. The smallest provocation can bring on full-blown crisis. One faction brings in allies from an oligarchic state, the other from a democratic one, and the city falls sick and goes to war with itself — sometimes even without any external cause at all.

Yes, certainly.

And then democracy is born. The poor conquer their opponents. They slaughter some, banish others, and give the rest an equal share of freedom and political power. Offices are typically filled by lottery.

Yes, he said, that's how democracy comes about — whether by armed revolution or because fear drives the other side to withdraw.

Now, what's their way of life? What kind of government do they have? Because as the government is, so the man will be.

Clearly, he said.

First of all: aren't they free? Isn't the city overflowing with freedom and free speech — a place where you can say and do whatever you want?

That's what they say, he replied.

And where there's that kind of freedom, every individual can obviously arrange his own life however he pleases.

Obviously.

So in this kind of state you'll find the greatest variety of human types.

You will.

This, then, is probably the most beautiful of all states — like a multicolored garment spangled with every kind of flower. Just as women and children find a riot of colors the most charming thing in the world, plenty of people will look at this state — spangled with every kind of character and way of life — and declare it the most beautiful of all.

Yes, my good sir, he said. And there's no better place to go shopping for a government.

Exactly! Because of the freedom that reigns there, you'll find a complete assortment of constitutions on display. Anyone who wants to found a state — the way we've been doing — should visit a democracy the way you'd visit a bazaar. Browse the selection and pick out whatever suits you. Then go home and build your state.

He'll certainly have plenty of models to choose from, he said.

And there's no requirement, I said, for you to govern in this state, even if you're perfectly capable of it. No requirement to be governed, unless you feel like it. No requirement to go to war when the rest go to war, or to keep the peace when others keep the peace, unless that's what you want. And if some law forbids you from holding office or sitting on a jury, you can go right ahead and hold office and sit on juries anyway, if the mood strikes you. Isn't this way of life, for the moment, supremely delightful?

For the moment, yes, he said.

And isn't their leniency toward convicted criminals sometimes quite charming? Have you noticed how, in a democracy, people who've been sentenced to death or exile just stick around and walk the streets? They parade around like heroes, and nobody notices or cares.

Yes, he replied, I've seen many such cases.

And look at the easygoing spirit of democracy, I said — the way it just doesn't care. It tramples on all those noble principles we laid down so solemnly when we were founding our city. We said that no one — except someone with exceptional natural gifts — could ever become a truly good person without being surrounded by beauty from childhood and making it a lifelong study. Democracy kicks all of that aside without a second thought. It doesn't care about the background or training of its politicians. Someone claims to be a friend of the people? Good enough — give him honors!

Yes, she is of noble spirit, he said.

These and other similar features are what define democracy: a charming form of government, full of variety and disorder, handing out a kind of equality to equals and unequals alike.

We know her well, he said.

Now let's consider what kind of individual matches this system — or rather, as we did with the state, let's first consider how he comes into being.

Very good, he said.

Doesn't it go like this? He's the son of the miserly oligarchic father, who trained him in his own habits.

Right.

And like his father, he keeps his spending urges under control by force — the desires that are about spending money rather than making it, the ones we call unnecessary.

Yes.

For the sake of clarity, shall we define which pleasures are necessary and which are unnecessary?

Let's do that.

Necessary pleasures are the ones we can't get rid of, and whose satisfaction actually benefits us. We're right to call them necessary, because nature has made us want things that are both beneficial and essential — we can't help it.

We're not wrong to call them necessary.

No, we're not.

And the desires we can get rid of — if we train ourselves from youth — whose presence does no good and in some cases does harm? If we call all of these unnecessary, wouldn't that be right?

Perfectly right.

Let's pick an example of each kind, so we have a clear picture.

Good idea.

The desire for basic food — plain food and simple seasonings, enough for health and strength — that's necessary, isn't it?

I'd say so.

The pleasure of eating is necessary in two ways: it's good for us, and it's essential for staying alive.

Right.

But condiments are only necessary insofar as they're good for health.

True.

And the desire that goes beyond this — for fancier food and luxuries, desires that could be trained out of a person in youth, and that are harmful to both body and soul in the pursuit of wisdom and virtue — those we can fairly call unnecessary?

Absolutely.

And can't we say that the unnecessary desires are the ones that drain money, while the necessary ones actually help us produce it?

Yes.

And the same goes for sexual desires and all other pleasures?

It does.

And the drone we were talking about — he's the one bloated with unnecessary desires and pleasures, enslaved to them. While the person governed only by necessary desires is the thrifty oligarchic type?

Exactly.

Now let's see how the democratic man grows out of the oligarchic one. Here's how it usually works, I suspect.

Tell me.

A young man has been raised the way we described — in a crude, penny-pinching household. Then he gets a taste of the drones' honey. He falls in with fierce, clever people who can supply him with every kind of pleasure and variety. That's the moment the oligarchic principle inside him starts transforming into the democratic one, don't you think?

Inevitably.

And just as the city changed through an alliance of outside forces with one faction inside, the young man is changed by a class of desires invading from outside to support the desires already within him — like calling to like, kin helping kin.

Absolutely.

And if there's any force that supports the oligarchic principle inside him — a father's influence, perhaps, or relatives who advise and scold him — then a kind of civil war breaks out in his soul, faction against faction. He goes to war with himself.

That's how it has to be.

Sometimes the democratic forces retreat, and some desires die out while others are banished. A spirit of self-restraint enters the young man's soul, and order is restored.

Yes, he said, that does sometimes happen.

But then, after the old desires have been driven out, new ones spring up — desires that are related to the old ones. And because the father figure in him doesn't know how to educate them properly, they grow fierce and multiply.

Yes, he said, that's usually what happens.

These desires draw him back to his old companions. They breed and multiply in secret.

Right.

Eventually they seize the citadel of the young man's soul, which they find empty — vacant of real learning, solid pursuits, and honest ideas, the things that stand guard in the minds of people the gods truly favor.

Nothing better could stand guard, he agreed.

And in their place, false and boastful ideas and pretensions march up and take over.

No doubt about it.

And so the young man returns to lotus-eater land, setting up camp there for all the world to see. If his friends send reinforcements to the oligarchic part of him, those self-important pretensions slam the gates shut. They won't let the rescue party in. They won't even listen to the fatherly advice of older men who try to counsel him privately. There's a battle, and the pretensions win. Then modesty — which they rename "stupidity" — is thrown out in disgrace. Self-control — which they call "cowardice" — is dragged through the mud and banished. Moderation and disciplined spending? "Provincial" and "small-minded," they say. And with the help of a mob of worthless appetites, they drive them all beyond the border.

Yes, he said, with enthusiasm.

And when they've emptied and swept clean the soul of their new recruit — this young man being initiated into their grand mysteries — the next step is to bring in the replacements. In marches arrogance, calling itself "good breeding." Anarchy, calling itself "freedom." Wastefulness, calling itself "magnificence." Shamelessness, calling itself "courage." They come with garlands on their heads and a whole parade behind them, singing their own praises.

That's exactly how it goes.

And so the young man passes out of his original nature — the one trained in the school of necessity — and into the freedom and excess of useless, unnecessary pleasures.

Yes, he said, the transformation is obvious.

After this, he lives on, spending his money and time and energy on unnecessary pleasures just as much as necessary ones. If he's lucky, and doesn't go completely off the rails, then once the wild years pass and the fever of youth cools down, he might let some of the banished virtues back in. He won't surrender entirely to their replacements. He'll try to find a balance, giving himself over to whichever pleasure shows up first — and when he's had enough of that one, he moves on to the next. He doesn't look down on any of them. He treats them all equally.

Very true, he said.

And he refuses to listen to any voice of reason. If someone tells him that some pleasures come from good and noble desires, and others from base ones, and that he should cultivate the first kind and resist the second — he just shakes his head and says they're all the same, one's as good as another.

Yes, he said, that's exactly how he is.

Right, I said. He lives day to day, indulging whatever appetite strikes him. One day he's drinking heavily and listening to music. The next day he's on a water-only diet, trying to lose weight. Then he takes up exercise. Then he does nothing at all, loafing around and ignoring everything. Then he's living the life of a philosopher. Often he's into politics, jumping up and saying and doing whatever pops into his head. If he admires a soldier, he's off in that direction. If it's a businessman — then that's his new thing. His life has no order, no discipline, no governing principle. And he calls this scattered existence joy and freedom and happiness. So he goes on.

Yes, he replied — his life is all liberty and equality.

Yes, I said. His life is colorful and multifaceted, a sampler of every kind of life. He's the match for that beautiful, multicolored state we described. Many men and women will take him as their role model, and many constitutions and ways of living are contained within him.