BOOK I

I went down yesterday to the Piraeus with Glaucon the son of Ariston, that I might offer up my prayers to the goddess (Bendis, the Thracian Artemis.); and also because I wanted to see in what manner they would celebrate the festival, which was a new thing. I was delighted with the procession of the inhabitants; but that of the Thracians was equally, if not more, beautiful. When we had finished our prayers and viewed the spectacle, we turned in the direction of the city; and at that instant Polemarchus the son of Cephalus chanced to catch sight of us from a distance as we were starting on our way home, and told his servant to run and bid us wait for him. The servant took hold of me by the cloak behind, and said: Polemarchus desires you to wait.

Yesterday I went down to the Piraeus with Glaucon, son of Ariston. I wanted to offer prayers to the goddess Bendis, the Thracian Artemis. I also wanted to see how they would celebrate the festival. It was new. I enjoyed the city's procession. The Thracians' procession was equally beautiful, if not more so. After we finished our prayers and watched the spectacle, we turned back toward the city. At that moment Polemarchus, son of Cephalus, happened to see us from a distance as we were starting home. He told his servant to run and tell us to wait. The servant grabbed my cloak from behind and said, "Polemarchus wants you to wait."

I turned round, and asked him where his master was.

I turned around and asked him, "Where is your master?"

There he is, said the youth, coming after you, if you will only wait.

"There he is," the youth said. "He's coming after you if you'll only wait."

Certainly we will, said Glaucon; and in a few minutes Polemarchus appeared, and with him Adeimantus, Glaucon’s brother, Niceratus the son of Nicias, and several others who had been at the procession.

"Certainly we will," said Glaucon. A few minutes later Polemarchus arrived. With him came Adeimantus, Glaucon's brother, Niceratus, son of Nicias, and several others who had been at the procession.

Polemarchus said to me: I perceive, Socrates, that you and your companion are already on your way to the city.

Polemarchus said to me, "I see, Socrates, that you and your companion are already on your way to the city."

You are not far wrong, I said.

"You're not far off," I said.

But do you see, he rejoined, how many we are?

"But do you see how many of us there are?" he replied.

Of course.

"Of course."

And are you stronger than all these? for if not, you will have to remain where you are.

"Are you stronger than all of them? If not, you'll have to stay where you are."

May there not be the alternative, I said, that we may persuade you to let us go?

"Couldn't we try to persuade you to let us go?" I said.

But can you persuade us, if we refuse to listen to you? he said.

"But how can you persuade us if we refuse to listen?" he asked.

Certainly not, replied Glaucon.

"Certainly not," Glaucon said.

Then we are not going to listen; of that you may be assured.

"Then we will not listen. You can be sure of that."

Adeimantus added: Has no one told you of the torch-race on horseback in honour of the goddess which will take place in the evening?

Adeimantus added, "Didn't anyone tell you about the torch race on horseback in honor of the goddess tonight?"

With horses! I replied: That is a novelty. Will horsemen carry torches and pass them one to another during the race?

"With horses!" I said. "That's a novelty. Will horsemen carry torches and pass them to one another during the race?"

Yes, said Polemarchus, and not only so, but a festival will be celebrated at night, which you certainly ought to see. Let us rise soon after supper and see this festival; there will be a gathering of young men, and we will have a good talk. Stay then, and do not be perverse.

"Yes," said Polemarchus. "Not only that. There's a festival tonight you should see. Let's get up soon after supper and go. Young men will gather, and we'll have a good talk. Stay, then, and don't be stubborn."

Glaucon said: I suppose, since you insist, that we must.

Glaucon said, "If you insist, I suppose we must."

Very good, I replied.

"Very good," I said.

Accordingly we went with Polemarchus to his house; and there we found his brothers Lysias and Euthydemus, and with them Thrasymachus the Chalcedonian, Charmantides the Paeanian, and Cleitophon the son of Aristonymus. There too was Cephalus the father of Polemarchus, whom I had not seen for a long time, and I thought him very much aged. He was seated on a cushioned chair, and had a garland on his head, for he had been sacrificing in the court; and there were some other chairs in the room arranged in a semicircle, upon which we sat down by him. He saluted me eagerly, and then he said:—

We went with Polemarchus to his house. There we found his brothers Lysias and Euthydemus. With them were Thrasymachus the Chalcedonian, Charmantides the Paeanian, and Cleitophon, son of Aristonymus. Cephalus, Polemarchus's father, was there too. I had not seen him for a long time, and he looked very old. He sat on a cushioned chair and wore a garland on his head because he had been sacrificing in the court. Other chairs in the room were set in a semicircle, and we sat down beside him. He greeted me eagerly, and then he said:

You don’t come to see me, Socrates, as often as you ought: If I were still able to go and see you I would not ask you to come to me. But at my age I can hardly get to the city, and therefore you should come oftener to the Piraeus. For let me tell you, that the more the pleasures of the body fade away, the greater to me is the pleasure and charm of conversation. Do not then deny my request, but make our house your resort and keep company with these young men; we are old friends, and you will be quite at home with us.

"You don't come to see me, Socrates, as often as you should. If I could still go see you, I wouldn't ask you to come here. At my age I can barely get into the city, so you should come more often to the Piraeus. Let me tell you, as bodily pleasures fade, I enjoy conversation more and more. Don't refuse this. Make our house your regular place and spend time with these young men. We are old friends, and you'll feel right at home with us."

I replied: There is nothing which for my part I like better, Cephalus, than conversing with aged men; for I regard them as travellers who have gone a journey which I too may have to go, and of whom I ought to enquire, whether the way is smooth and easy, or rugged and difficult. And this is a question which I should like to ask of you who have arrived at that time which the poets call the ‘threshold of old age’—Is life harder towards the end, or what report do you give of it?

I replied, "There is nothing I like better, Cephalus, than talking with older men. I see them as travelers who have already made a journey I may have to take. I should ask them whether the road is smooth and easy or rough and difficult. I want to ask you, who have reached what the poets call the 'threshold of old age.' Is life harder toward the end, or how would you report it?"

I will tell you, Socrates, he said, what my own feeling is. Men of my age flock together; we are birds of a feather, as the old proverb says; and at our meetings the tale of my acquaintance commonly is—I cannot eat, I cannot drink; the pleasures of youth and love are fled away: there was a good time once, but now that is gone, and life is no longer life. Some complain of the slights which are put upon them by relations, and they will tell you sadly of how many evils their old age is the cause. But to me, Socrates, these complainers seem to blame that which is not really in fault. For if old age were the cause, I too being old, and every other old man, would have felt as they do. But this is not my own experience, nor that of others whom I have known. How well I remember the aged poet Sophocles, when in answer to the question, How does love suit with age, Sophocles,—are you still the man you were? Peace, he replied; most gladly have I escaped the thing of which you speak; I feel as if I had escaped from a mad and furious master. His words have often occurred to my mind since, and they seem as good to me now as at the time when he uttered them. For certainly old age has a great sense of calm and freedom; when the passions relax their hold, then, as Sophocles says, we are freed from the grasp not of one mad master only, but of many. The truth is, Socrates, that these regrets, and also the complaints about relations, are to be attributed to the same cause, which is not old age, but men’s characters and tempers; for he who is of a calm and happy nature will hardly feel the pressure of age, but to him who is of an opposite disposition youth and age are equally a burden.

"I'll tell you, Socrates," he said, "what I feel. Men my age gather together. We're birds of a feather, as the old saying goes. At our meetings my friends often say, 'I can't eat. I can't drink. The pleasures of youth and love are gone. There was a good time once, but that is over. Life is no longer life.' Some complain about slights from relatives. They speak sadly of all the troubles their old age has caused. But to me, Socrates, these people blame the wrong thing. If age were the cause, I and every other old man would feel the same. That is not my experience, nor that of others I have known. I remember the old poet Sophocles. When someone asked him, 'How does love fit with age, Sophocles? Are you still the man you were?' he replied, 'Peace. I am glad to have escaped what you mean. I feel as if I had escaped from a mad and violent master.' I've thought of those words many times since. They still ring true. Old age brings a deep calm and freedom. When passions lose their hold, as Sophocles said, we are freed not from one mad master but from many. The truth, Socrates, is that these regrets and complaints about relatives come from the same source. It is not old age. It is people's characters and tempers. A calm, happy person will hardly feel the pressure of age. But someone with the opposite disposition finds both youth and old age equally a burden."

I listened in admiration, and wanting to draw him out, that he might go on—Yes, Cephalus, I said: but I rather suspect that people in general are not convinced by you when you speak thus; they think that old age sits lightly upon you, not because of your happy disposition, but because you are rich, and wealth is well known to be a great comforter.

I listened in admiration and wanted to draw him out so he'd go on. "Yes, Cephalus," I said, "but I suspect most people won't be convinced by what you say. They think old age suits you not because of your cheerful nature, but because you are rich. Wealth is known to be a great comfort."

You are right, he replied; they are not convinced: and there is something in what they say; not, however, so much as they imagine. I might answer them as Themistocles answered the Seriphian who was abusing him and saying that he was famous, not for his own merits but because he was an Athenian: ‘If you had been a native of my country or I of yours, neither of us would have been famous.’ And to those who are not rich and are impatient of old age, the same reply may be made; for to the good poor man old age cannot be a light burden, nor can a bad rich man ever have peace with himself.

He replied, "You're right. They are not convinced. There is something in what they say, though not as much as they imagine. I might answer them as Themistocles answered a Seriphian who insulted him and said he was famous not for his own merits but because he was an Athenian. Themistocles replied, 'If you had been from my country, or I from yours, neither of us would have been famous.' The same answer applies to those who are poor and dread old age. For a good poor man, old age is no light burden, and a bad rich man can never have peace with himself."

May I ask, Cephalus, whether your fortune was for the most part inherited or acquired by you?

"May I ask, Cephalus, did you inherit most of your fortune, or did you earn it yourself?"

Acquired! Socrates; do you want to know how much I acquired? In the art of making money I have been midway between my father and grandfather: for my grandfather, whose name I bear, doubled and trebled the value of his patrimony, that which he inherited being much what I possess now; but my father Lysanias reduced the property below what it is at present: and I shall be satisfied if I leave to these my sons not less but a little more than I received.

"Acquired! Socrates, do you want to know how much I acquired? When it comes to making money, I'm halfway between my father and my grandfather. My grandfather, whose name I bear, doubled and tripled what he inherited. What he inherited is about what I have now. My father Lysanias reduced the estate to less than its present value. I'll be satisfied if I leave my sons not less than I received, but a little more."

That was why I asked you the question, I replied, because I see that you are indifferent about money, which is a characteristic rather of those who have inherited their fortunes than of those who have acquired them; the makers of fortunes have a second love of money as a creation of their own, resembling the affection of authors for their own poems, or of parents for their children, besides that natural love of it for the sake of use and profit which is common to them and all men. And hence they are very bad company, for they can talk about nothing but the praises of wealth.

"That's why I asked you the question," I replied. "I can tell you're indifferent about money. That trait is more common in people who inherit their fortunes than in those who earn them. Those who make their fortunes have a second love for money. They love it as something they've created, like an author loves a poem or a parent loves a child. Besides that, they still have the ordinary desire for money for use and profit, like everyone else. For that reason, they make poor company. They do nothing but praise wealth."

That is true, he said.

"That's true," he said.

Yes, that is very true, but may I ask another question?—What do you consider to be the greatest blessing which you have reaped from your wealth?

"Yes, that's true. May I ask another question? What do you consider the greatest blessing you've gained from your wealth?"

One, he said, of which I could not expect easily to convince others. For let me tell you, Socrates, that when a man thinks himself to be near death, fears and cares enter into his mind which he never had before; the tales of a world below and the punishment which is exacted there of deeds done here were once a laughing matter to him, but now he is tormented with the thought that they may be true: either from the weakness of age, or because he is now drawing nearer to that other place, he has a clearer view of these things; suspicions and alarms crowd thickly upon him, and he begins to reflect and consider what wrongs he has done to others. And when he finds that the sum of his transgressions is great he will many a time like a child start up in his sleep for fear, and he is filled with dark forebodings. But to him who is conscious of no sin, sweet hope, as Pindar charmingly says, is the kind nurse of his age:

"One," he said, "I could not expect to convince others easily. For, Socrates, let me tell you, when a man thinks he is near death, fears and worries come into his mind that he never had before. Stories of an underworld and the punishments there for deeds done here used to be a joke to him. Now he is tormented by the thought they might be true. Either because of age, or because he is actually getting closer to that other place. He sees these things more clearly. Suspicions and alarms crowd around him. He begins to think about the wrongs he has done to others. If he finds his wrongs add up to a lot, he will often, like a child, wake up in fear. He is filled with dark forebodings. But for someone who feels no guilt, sweet hope is the kind nurse of his age, as Pindar charmingly says."

‘Hope,’ he says, ‘cherishes the soul of him who lives in justice and holiness, and is the nurse of his age and the companion of his journey;—hope which is mightiest to sway the restless soul of man.’

"Hope," he says, "nurtures the soul of anyone who lives in justice and holiness. It is the nurse of their life and a companion on their journey. Hope is the strongest power to move the restless human soul."

How admirable are his words! And the great blessing of riches, I do not say to every man, but to a good man, is, that he has had no occasion to deceive or to defraud others, either intentionally or unintentionally; and when he departs to the world below he is not in any apprehension about offerings due to the gods or debts which he owes to men. Now to this peace of mind the possession of wealth greatly contributes; and therefore I say, that, setting one thing against another, of the many advantages which wealth has to give, to a man of sense this is in my opinion the greatest.

"How admirable his words are! I don't mean this about everyone. For a good man, a great blessing of wealth is that he never had a reason to deceive others. He did not need to cheat anyone, either on purpose or by mistake. When he dies and goes to the world below, he isn't worried about offerings owed to the gods. He has no debts to other people. Wealth helps give this peace of mind. Weighing everything, of all the benefits wealth brings, this is the greatest for a sensible person."

Well said, Cephalus, I replied; but as concerning justice, what is it?—to speak the truth and to pay your debts—no more than this? And even to this are there not exceptions? Suppose that a friend when in his right mind has deposited arms with me and he asks for them when he is not in his right mind, ought I to give them back to him? No one would say that I ought or that I should be right in doing so, any more than they would say that I ought always to speak the truth to one who is in his condition.

"Well said, Cephalus," I replied. "But what is justice? Is it just telling the truth and paying your debts? Is that all? Even that has exceptions. Suppose a friend, while he was of sound mind, left arms with me for safekeeping. Later he asks for them back when he is not of sound mind. Should I give them back? No one would say I should. Nor would anyone say I should always tell the truth to someone in that condition."

You are quite right, he replied.

"You're absolutely right," he said.

But then, I said, speaking the truth and paying your debts is not a correct definition of justice.

"But speaking the truth and paying your debts is not a proper definition of justice," I said.

Quite correct, Socrates, if Simonides is to be believed, said Polemarchus interposing.

"That's quite right, Socrates, if we can believe Simonides," interjected Polemarchus.

I fear, said Cephalus, that I must go now, for I have to look after the sacrifices, and I hand over the argument to Polemarchus and the company.

"I'm afraid," said Cephalus, "I must go now. I have to look after the sacrifices. I'll leave the discussion to Polemarchus and the others."

Is not Polemarchus your heir? I said.

"Isn't Polemarchus your heir?" I said.

To be sure, he answered, and went away laughing to the sacrifices.

"Of course," he said. He laughed as he walked away toward the sacrifices.

Tell me then, O thou heir of the argument, what did Simonides say, and according to you truly say, about justice?

"So tell me, heir to the argument. What did Simonides say? What did he really mean about justice?"

He said that the repayment of a debt is just, and in saying so he appears to me to be right.

"Repaying a debt is just," he said. I think he was right.

I should be sorry to doubt the word of such a wise and inspired man, but his meaning, though probably clear to you, is the reverse of clear to me. For he certainly does not mean, as we were just now saying, that I ought to return a deposit of arms or of anything else to one who asks for it when he is not in his right senses; and yet a deposit cannot be denied to be a debt.

"I would hate to doubt the word of such a wise and inspired man. But his meaning, though probably clear to you, is not clear to me. He certainly cannot mean that. I should not return a deposit of arms or anything else to someone asking while not in their right mind. Still, a deposit is clearly a debt."

True.

"That's true."

Then when the person who asks me is not in his right mind I am by no means to make the return?

"So if the person asking isn't in his right mind, I shouldn't give it back?"

Certainly not.

"Certainly not."

When Simonides said that the repayment of a debt was justice, he did not mean to include that case?

"When Simonides said that repaying a debt is justice, he didn't mean to include this case, did he?"

Certainly not; for he thinks that a friend ought always to do good to a friend and never evil.

"Certainly not," he said. "He thinks a friend should always do good to a friend and never do harm."

You mean that the return of a deposit of gold which is to the injury of the receiver, if the two parties are friends, is not the repayment of a debt,—that is what you would imagine him to say?

"Do you mean he would say that returning a gold deposit that harms the receiver is not repaying a debt? Even if the two are friends?"

Yes.

"Yes."

And are enemies also to receive what we owe to them?

"And should we also give our enemies what we owe them?"

To be sure, he said, they are to receive what we owe them, and an enemy, as I take it, owes to an enemy that which is due or proper to him—that is to say, evil.

"To be sure," he said, "they should receive what we owe them. An enemy, I think, owes another enemy what is proper to him. In other words, harm."

Simonides, then, after the manner of poets, would seem to have spoken darkly of the nature of justice; for he really meant to say that justice is the giving to each man what is proper to him, and this he termed a debt.

"Simonides, then, in the way poets speak, seems to have spoken obscurely about justice. He really meant that justice is giving each person what belongs to them. He called that a debt."

That must have been his meaning, he said.

"That must have been what he meant," he said.

By heaven! I replied; and if we asked him what due or proper thing is given by medicine, and to whom, what answer do you think that he would make to us?

"Good heavens!" I replied. "Suppose we asked him what medicine is supposed to do and who should get it. What answer do you think he'd give us?"

He would surely reply that medicine gives drugs and meat and drink to human bodies.

"He would surely say, 'Medicine gives drugs, food, and drink to the human body.'"

And what due or proper thing is given by cookery, and to what?

"And what proper thing does cooking give, and to what?"

Seasoning to food.

Seasoning for food.

And what is that which justice gives, and to whom?

"And what does justice give, and to whom?"

If, Socrates, we are to be guided at all by the analogy of the preceding instances, then justice is the art which gives good to friends and evil to enemies.

"Socrates, if we follow the earlier examples, justice is the art of doing good to friends and harm to enemies."

That is his meaning then?

"Is that what he means, then?"

I think so.

"I think so."

And who is best able to do good to his friends and evil to his enemies in time of sickness?

"Who is best able to help his friends and harm his enemies when he is ill?"

The physician.

"The doctor."

Or when they are on a voyage, amid the perils of the sea?

"Or when they're on a voyage, facing the dangers of the sea?"

The pilot.

The pilot.

And in what sort of actions or with a view to what result is the just man most able to do harm to his enemy and good to his friend?

"What actions, and for what purpose, allow a just man to harm his enemy and benefit his friend most?"

In going to war against the one and in making alliances with the other.

"We go to war against one and make alliances with the other."

But when a man is well, my dear Polemarchus, there is no need of a physician?

"But when a man is healthy, my dear Polemarchus, he does not need a doctor, does he?"

No.

"No."

And he who is not on a voyage has no need of a pilot?

"And someone not on a voyage doesn't need a pilot?"

No.

"No."

Then in time of peace justice will be of no use?

"So in peacetime justice will be useless?"

I am very far from thinking so.

"I don't think that at all."

You think that justice may be of use in peace as well as in war?

"Do you think justice is useful in peacetime as well as in war?"

Yes.

"Yes."

Like husbandry for the acquisition of corn?

"Like farming to grow grain?"

Yes.

"Yes."

Or like shoemaking for the acquisition of shoes,—that is what you mean?

"Or do you mean shoemaking to get shoes?"

Yes.

"Yes."

And what similar use or power of acquisition has justice in time of peace?

"And what use, or ability to acquire, does justice have in peacetime?"

In contracts, Socrates, justice is of use.

"Socrates, justice is useful in contracts."

And by contracts you mean partnerships?

"By 'contracts,' do you mean partnerships?"

Exactly.

"Exactly."

But is the just man or the skilful player a more useful and better partner at a game of draughts?

"But who makes a better, more useful partner at a game of checkers: the just man or the skilled player?"

The skilful player.

The skillful player.

And in the laying of bricks and stones is the just man a more useful or better partner than the builder?

"When laying bricks and stones, is a just person a better or more useful partner than the builder?"

Quite the reverse.

"Far from it."

Then in what sort of partnership is the just man a better partner than the harp-player, as in playing the harp the harp-player is certainly a better partner than the just man?

"Then in what kind of partnership is the just man a better partner than the harp player? In playing the harp, the harp player is clearly a better partner than the just man."

In a money partnership.

In a financial partnership.

Yes, Polemarchus, but surely not in the use of money; for you do not want a just man to be your counsellor in the purchase or sale of a horse; a man who is knowing about horses would be better for that, would he not?

"Yes, Polemarchus, but surely not when it comes to money. You wouldn't want a just man to be your counselor in buying or selling a horse. Someone who knows about horses would be better for that, wouldn't he?"

Certainly.

"Of course."

And when you want to buy a ship, the shipwright or the pilot would be better?

"And when you want to buy a ship, who is better, the shipwright or the pilot?"

True.

"True."

Then what is that joint use of silver or gold in which the just man is to be preferred?

"So what kind of shared use of silver or gold would make us prefer the just man?"

When you want a deposit to be kept safely.

"If you want a deposit kept safe."

You mean when money is not wanted, but allowed to lie?

"Do you mean when money isn't wanted, but is left lying around?"

Precisely.

"Exactly."

That is to say, justice is useful when money is useless?

"So you mean justice is useful only when money is useless?"

That is the inference.

"That's the conclusion."

And when you want to keep a pruning-hook safe, then justice is useful to the individual and to the state; but when you want to use it, then the art of the vine-dresser?

"And when you want to keep a pruning hook safe, justice is useful to the individual and the state. But when you want to use it, don't you need the vine-dresser's skill?"

Clearly.

Clearly.

And when you want to keep a shield or a lyre, and not to use them, you would say that justice is useful; but when you want to use them, then the art of the soldier or of the musician?

"If you want to keep a shield or a lyre and never use them, you call that justice being useful. But if you want to use them, isn't it the skill of the soldier or the musician?"

Certainly.

"Certainly."

And so of all other things;—justice is useful when they are useless, and useless when they are useful?

"And so it's the same with everything else. Justice is useful when the other things are useless, and useless when they are useful?"

That is the inference.

"That's the inference."

Then justice is not good for much. But let us consider this further point: Is not he who can best strike a blow in a boxing match or in any kind of fighting best able to ward off a blow?

"Then justice isn't much use. But consider this. Isn't the one who throws the hardest punch in boxing also the one best at warding off a blow? The same holds in any fight."

Certainly.

"Certainly."

And he who is most skilful in preventing or escaping from a disease is best able to create one?

"And the person most skilled at preventing or avoiding disease is also the best at causing it?"

True.

"True."

And he is the best guard of a camp who is best able to steal a march upon the enemy?

"Is the best camp guard the one who can most easily take the enemy by surprise?"

Certainly.

"Certainly."

Then he who is a good keeper of anything is also a good thief?

"Then someone who is a good keeper of anything is also a good thief?"

That, I suppose, is to be inferred.

"I suppose that's what we should infer."

Then if the just man is good at keeping money, he is good at stealing it.

"So if the just man is good at keeping money, he's good at stealing it."

That is implied in the argument.

"That's implied by the argument."

Then after all the just man has turned out to be a thief. And this is a lesson which I suspect you must have learnt out of Homer; for he, speaking of Autolycus, the maternal grandfather of Odysseus, who is a favourite of his, affirms that

"Then, after all, the just man is shown to be a thief. I suspect you learned this from Homer. He is speaking of Autolycus, Odysseus's maternal grandfather and a favorite of his, and says:"

‘He was excellent above all men in theft and perjury.’

"He was better than anyone at theft and perjury."

And so, you and Homer and Simonides are agreed that justice is an art of theft; to be practised however ‘for the good of friends and for the harm of enemies,’—that was what you were saying?

"So you, Homer, and Simonides agree that justice is an art of theft. But it is to be practiced 'for the good of friends and for the harm of enemies.' Is that what you meant?"

No, certainly not that, though I do not now know what I did say; but I still stand by the latter words.

"No, certainly not that. I don't know now what I said. But I still stand by those last words."

Well, there is another question: By friends and enemies do we mean those who are so really, or only in seeming?

"Well, there's another question. When we say 'friends' and 'enemies,' do we mean those who really are, or only those who seem to be?"

Surely, he said, a man may be expected to love those whom he thinks good, and to hate those whom he thinks evil.

"Surely," he said, "a person will love those he thinks are good and hate those he thinks are evil."

Yes, but do not persons often err about good and evil: many who are not good seem to be so, and conversely?

"Yes, but don't people often make mistakes about good and evil? Many who aren't good seem to be, and the reverse is true?"

That is true.

"That's true."

Then to them the good will be enemies and the evil will be their friends? True.

"So the good will be their enemies, and the evil will be their friends?" "True."

And in that case they will be right in doing good to the evil and evil to the good?

"So would they be right to do good to the wicked and harm the good?"

Clearly.

"Clearly."

But the good are just and would not do an injustice?

"But good people are just and would not commit injustice?"

True.

"True."

Then according to your argument it is just to injure those who do no wrong?

"So, by your argument, it's just to harm people who have done nothing wrong?"

Nay, Socrates; the doctrine is immoral.

"No, Socrates. The doctrine is immoral."

Then I suppose that we ought to do good to the just and harm to the unjust?

"So I suppose we should do good to the just and harm the unjust?"

I like that better.

"I like that better."

But see the consequence:—Many a man who is ignorant of human nature has friends who are bad friends, and in that case he ought to do harm to them; and he has good enemies whom he ought to benefit; but, if so, we shall be saying the very opposite of that which we affirmed to be the meaning of Simonides.

"But consider the consequence. Many people who don't understand human nature have bad friends. In that case they should harm those friends. They also have good enemies whom they should help. If so, we'd be saying the exact opposite of what we claimed Simonides meant."

Very true, he said: and I think that we had better correct an error into which we seem to have fallen in the use of the words ‘friend’ and ‘enemy.’

"That's right," he said. "I think we should correct a mistake we've made in using the words 'friend' and 'enemy'."

What was the error, Polemarchus? I asked.

"What was the mistake, Polemarchus?" I asked.

We assumed that he is a friend who seems to be or who is thought good.

"We assumed he was a friend who seemed good or was thought to be good."

And how is the error to be corrected?

"So how should we correct the error?"

We should rather say that he is a friend who is, as well as seems, good; and that he who seems only, and is not good, only seems to be and is not a friend; and of an enemy the same may be said.

"We should say a friend is someone who is truly good, not just someone who only seems so. A person who merely seems good, but is not, only appears to be a friend and is not one. The same applies to an enemy."

You would argue that the good are our friends and the bad our enemies?

"So you'd say the good are our friends and the bad our enemies?"

Yes.

"Yes."

And instead of saying simply as we did at first, that it is just to do good to our friends and harm to our enemies, we should further say: It is just to do good to our friends when they are good and harm to our enemies when they are evil?

"And instead of simply saying, as we did at first, that justice is doing good to our friends and harm to our enemies, shouldn't we put it like this? Justice is doing good to our friends when they are good. It is harming our enemies when they are evil?"

Yes, that appears to me to be the truth.

"Yes, that seems true to me."

But ought the just to injure any one at all?

"But should a just person ever harm anyone?"

Undoubtedly he ought to injure those who are both wicked and his enemies.

"Clearly he should harm those who are both wicked and his enemies."

When horses are injured, are they improved or deteriorated?

"When horses are injured, do they get better or worse?"

The latter.

The second one.

Deteriorated, that is to say, in the good qualities of horses, not of dogs?

"Do you mean they have deteriorated in the good qualities of horses, not of dogs?"

Yes, of horses.

"Yes, about horses."

And dogs are deteriorated in the good qualities of dogs, and not of horses?

"So dogs are losing the good qualities that make them dogs, but the horses are not?"

Of course.

"Of course."

And will not men who are injured be deteriorated in that which is the proper virtue of man?

"Won't people who are harmed lose the very virtue that makes them human?"

Certainly.

Of course.

And that human virtue is justice?

"So human virtue is justice?"

To be sure.

"Certainly."

Then men who are injured are of necessity made unjust?

"So do people who are harmed inevitably become unjust?"

That is the result.

"That's the result."

But can the musician by his art make men unmusical?

"But can a musician by his art make people unmusical?"

Certainly not.

"No, certainly not."

Or the horseman by his art make them bad horsemen?

"Or does the horseman, by his skill, make them poor riders?"

Impossible.

"Impossible."

And can the just by justice make men unjust, or speaking generally, can the good by virtue make them bad?

"Can the just, by acting justly, make people unjust? Or, more generally, can the good, by being virtuous, make them bad?"

Assuredly not.

"Certainly not."

Any more than heat can produce cold?

"Is that any more likely than heat producing cold?"

It cannot.

"It cannot."

Or drought moisture?

"Or is it drought or moisture?"

Clearly not.

"Clearly not."

Nor can the good harm any one?

"And the good can't harm anyone?"

Impossible.

"That's impossible."

And the just is the good?

"Is justice the same as the good?"

Certainly.

"Of course."

Then to injure a friend or any one else is not the act of a just man, but of the opposite, who is the unjust?

"So harming a friend or anyone else is not something a just person does. It's what an unjust person does."

I think that what you say is quite true, Socrates.

"I think what you say is quite true, Socrates."

Then if a man says that justice consists in the repayment of debts, and that good is the debt which a just man owes to his friends, and evil the debt which he owes to his enemies,—to say this is not wise; for it is not true, if, as has been clearly shown, the injuring of another can be in no case just.

"If someone says, 'Justice is repaying debts. Good is the debt a just person owes to his friends. Evil is the debt he owes to his enemies,' that claim is unwise. It is not true. As we have shown, harming another can never be just."

I agree with you, said Polemarchus.

"I agree with you," said Polemarchus.

Then you and I are prepared to take up arms against any one who attributes such a saying to Simonides or Bias or Pittacus, or any other wise man or seer?

"Then you and I are ready to take up arms. Against anyone who credits such a saying to Simonides, Bias, Pittacus, or any other wise man or seer?"

I am quite ready to do battle at your side, he said.

"I'm ready to fight by your side," he said.

Shall I tell you whose I believe the saying to be?

"Shall I tell you who I think said that?"

Whose?

"Whose?"

I believe that Periander or Perdiccas or Xerxes or Ismenias the Theban, or some other rich and mighty man, who had a great opinion of his own power, was the first to say that justice is ‘doing good to your friends and harm to your enemies.’

"I think Periander, or Perdiccas, or Xerxes, or Ismenias the Theban was the first to say this. Or maybe it was some other rich, powerful man who had a high opinion of his own strength. He said, 'Justice is doing good to your friends and harm to your enemies.' "

Most true, he said.

"Very true," he said.

Yes, I said; but if this definition of justice also breaks down, what other can be offered?

"Yes," I said. "But if this definition of justice also fails, what else can we offer?"

Several times in the course of the discussion Thrasymachus had made an attempt to get the argument into his own hands, and had been put down by the rest of the company, who wanted to hear the end. But when Polemarchus and I had done speaking and there was a pause, he could no longer hold his peace; and, gathering himself up, he came at us like a wild beast, seeking to devour us. We were quite panic-stricken at the sight of him.

Several times during the discussion Thrasymachus tried to take control of the argument. The group shut him down because they wanted to hear the end. After Polemarchus and I finished speaking, a pause fell. He could not keep silent any longer. He gathered himself and lunged at us like a wild beast, trying to devour us. We were terrified at the sight of him.

He roared out to the whole company: What folly, Socrates, has taken possession of you all? And why, sillybillies, do you knock under to one another? I say that if you want really to know what justice is, you should not only ask but answer, and you should not seek honour to yourself from the refutation of an opponent, but have your own answer; for there is many a one who can ask and cannot answer. And now I will not have you say that justice is duty or advantage or profit or gain or interest, for this sort of nonsense will not do for me; I must have clearness and accuracy.

He shouted to the whole group, "What madness has seized you, Socrates? And why, you fools, do you keep backing down to one another? If you really want to know what justice is, you must not only ask questions. You must also answer them. And don't try to win praise by refuting someone else. Have your own answer instead. Many can ask and cannot answer. Now I won't let you say that justice is duty, or advantage, or profit, or gain, or self-interest. That kind of nonsense won't do for me. I want clarity and exactness."

I was panic-stricken at his words, and could not look at him without trembling. Indeed I believe that if I had not fixed my eye upon him, I should have been struck dumb: but when I saw his fury rising, I looked at him first, and was therefore able to reply to him.

"I was terrified by his words. I couldn't look at him without trembling. I think if I hadn't looked him straight in the eye, I would have been speechless. Seeing his anger rise, I forced myself to look at him first. That let me answer him."

Thrasymachus, I said, with a quiver, don’t be hard upon us. Polemarchus and I may have been guilty of a little mistake in the argument, but I can assure you that the error was not intentional. If we were seeking for a piece of gold, you would not imagine that we were ‘knocking under to one another,’ and so losing our chance of finding it. And why, when we are seeking for justice, a thing more precious than many pieces of gold, do you say that we are weakly yielding to one another and not doing our utmost to get at the truth? Nay, my good friend, we are most willing and anxious to do so, but the fact is that we cannot. And if so, you people who know all things should pity us and not be angry with us.

"Thrasymachus," I said, my voice trembling, "don't be hard on us. Polemarchus and I may have made a small mistake in our argument, but it wasn't intentional. If we were searching for a piece of gold, you wouldn't think we were giving in to one another and missing it. So why, when we're searching for justice, something more valuable than many pieces of gold, do you say we're weakly yielding to each other? Why do you say we're not doing our best to get at the truth? No, my good friend. We are eager and anxious to do our best, but we can't. You, who think you know everything, should pity us rather than be angry."

How characteristic of Socrates! he replied, with a bitter laugh;—that’s your ironical style! Did I not foresee—have I not already told you, that whatever he was asked he would refuse to answer, and try irony or any other shuffle, in order that he might avoid answering?

"How typical of Socrates!" he said with a bitter laugh. "That's your ironic style. Didn't I see this coming? Didn't I already tell you that whatever he was asked he would refuse to answer? He would use irony or any other trick to avoid answering."

You are a philosopher, Thrasymachus, I replied, and well know that if you ask a person what numbers make up twelve, taking care to prohibit him whom you ask from answering twice six, or three times four, or six times two, or four times three, ‘for this sort of nonsense will not do for me,’—then obviously, if that is your way of putting the question, no one can answer you. But suppose that he were to retort, ‘Thrasymachus, what do you mean? If one of these numbers which you interdict be the true answer to the question, am I falsely to say some other number which is not the right one?—is that your meaning?’—How would you answer him?

"You are a philosopher, Thrasymachus," I replied. "Think of this. If you ask someone what numbers make twelve, and you forbid answers like 'two times six', 'three times four', 'six times two', or 'four times three' because 'that sort of answer won't do for me', then no one can answer you. Now suppose he replies, 'Thrasymachus, what do you mean? If one of the answers you forbid is the true one, am I to give some other wrong number? Is that what you mean?' How would you answer him?"

Just as if the two cases were at all alike! he said.

"As if the two cases were anything alike!" he said.

Why should they not be? I replied; and even if they are not, but only appear to be so to the person who is asked, ought he not to say what he thinks, whether you and I forbid him or not?

"Why shouldn't they be?" I replied. "Even if they are not, and only seem so to the person asked. Should he not say what he thinks, whether you and I forbid him or not?"

I presume then that you are going to make one of the interdicted answers?

"I suppose, then, you're going to give one of those forbidden answers?"

I dare say that I may, notwithstanding the danger, if upon reflection I approve of any of them.

"I think I can, despite the danger, if I approve any of them after thinking it over."

But what if I give you an answer about justice other and better, he said, than any of these? What do you deserve to have done to you?

"But what if I give you a different, better answer about justice than any of these?" he said. "What do you deserve to have happen to you?"

Done to me!—as becomes the ignorant, I must learn from the wise—that is what I deserve to have done to me.

"Do it to me. As someone ignorant, I must learn from the wise. That's what I deserve."

What, and no payment! a pleasant notion!

"What? No payment? That's a pleasant idea!"

I will pay when I have the money, I replied.

"I'll pay when I have the money," I replied.

But you have, Socrates, said Glaucon: and you, Thrasymachus, need be under no anxiety about money, for we will all make a contribution for Socrates.

"But you do, Socrates," said Glaucon. "And you, Thrasymachus, don't worry about money. We'll all chip in for Socrates."

Yes, he replied, and then Socrates will do as he always does—refuse to answer himself, but take and pull to pieces the answer of some one else.

"Yes," he replied, "and then Socrates will do as he always does. He will refuse to answer himself and pick apart someone else's answer."

Why, my good friend, I said, how can any one answer who knows, and says that he knows, just nothing; and who, even if he has some faint notions of his own, is told by a man of authority not to utter them? The natural thing is, that the speaker should be some one like yourself who professes to know and can tell what he knows. Will you then kindly answer, for the edification of the company and of myself?

I said, "My good friend, how can anyone who claims to know answer if they actually know nothing? Even if he has a faint idea, he may be told by an authority not to speak. It's only natural that the speaker should be someone like you. You say you know and can tell us what you know. Will you then kindly answer, for the benefit of everyone here and myself?"

Glaucon and the rest of the company joined in my request, and Thrasymachus, as any one might see, was in reality eager to speak; for he thought that he had an excellent answer, and would distinguish himself. But at first he affected to insist on my answering; at length he consented to begin. Behold, he said, the wisdom of Socrates; he refuses to teach himself, and goes about learning of others, to whom he never even says Thank you.

Glaucon and the others joined my request. Thrasymachus, anyone could see, was clearly eager to speak. He thought he had a great answer and would make himself look good. At first he pretended I should answer. Eventually he agreed to start. "See the wisdom of Socrates," he said. "He refuses to teach himself. He goes around learning from others and never even says 'Thank you.' "

That I learn of others, I replied, is quite true; but that I am ungrateful I wholly deny. Money I have none, and therefore I pay in praise, which is all I have; and how ready I am to praise any one who appears to me to speak well you will very soon find out when you answer; for I expect that you will answer well.

"That I learn from others," I replied, "is true enough. But I deny that I'm ungrateful. I have no money, so I pay with praise. Praise is all I have. You will soon see how quick I am to praise anyone who seems to speak well when you answer. I expect you will answer well."

Listen, then, he said; I proclaim that justice is nothing else than the interest of the stronger. And now why do you not praise me? But of course you won’t.

"Listen," he said. "I declare that justice is nothing but the interest of the stronger. So why don't you praise me? You won't, of course."

Let me first understand you, I replied. Justice, as you say, is the interest of the stronger. What, Thrasymachus, is the meaning of this? You cannot mean to say that because Polydamas, the pancratiast, is stronger than we are, and finds the eating of beef conducive to his bodily strength, that to eat beef is therefore equally for our good who are weaker than he is, and right and just for us?

"Let me make sure I understand you," I said. "You say justice is the interest of the stronger. What do you mean by that, Thrasymachus? You can't mean to say that because Polydamas, the pancratiast, is stronger than we are and finds that eating beef makes him stronger, eating beef is therefore also for our good. Are you saying it would be right and just for us?"

That’s abominable of you, Socrates; you take the words in the sense which is most damaging to the argument.

"That's awful of you, Socrates. You take the words in the sense that hurts the argument the most."

Not at all, my good sir, I said; I am trying to understand them; and I wish that you would be a little clearer.

"Not at all, my good sir," I said. "I'm trying to understand them. I wish you would be a little clearer."

Well, he said, have you never heard that forms of government differ; there are tyrannies, and there are democracies, and there are aristocracies?

"Well," he said, "haven't you heard that governments differ? There are tyrannies, democracies, and aristocracies."

Yes, I know.

"Yes, I know."

And the government is the ruling power in each state?

"So the government is the ruling power in each state?"

Certainly.

"Of course."

And the different forms of government make laws democratical, aristocratical, tyrannical, with a view to their several interests; and these laws, which are made by them for their own interests, are the justice which they deliver to their subjects, and him who transgresses them they punish as a breaker of the law, and unjust. And that is what I mean when I say that in all states there is the same principle of justice, which is the interest of the government; and as the government must be supposed to have power, the only reasonable conclusion is, that everywhere there is one principle of justice, which is the interest of the stronger.

"Different kinds of government, democratic, aristocratic, or tyrannical, make laws to serve their own interests. Those laws, made for the rulers' benefit, are what they hand down as justice to their subjects. Anyone who breaks them is punished as a lawbreaker and called unjust. This is what I mean when I say every state has the same idea of justice. It is the interest of the government. Governments are assumed to have power. The reasonable conclusion is that justice everywhere serves the interest of the stronger."

Now I understand you, I said; and whether you are right or not I will try to discover. But let me remark, that in defining justice you have yourself used the word ‘interest’ which you forbade me to use. It is true, however, that in your definition the words ‘of the stronger’ are added.

"I understand you now," I said. "I'll try to find out whether you're right or not. But notice that when you defined justice you used the word 'interest' yourself. You had forbidden me to use that word. That's true, but you added the words 'of the stronger.'"

A small addition, you must allow, he said.

"You must allow a small addition," he said.

Great or small, never mind about that: we must first enquire whether what you are saying is the truth. Now we are both agreed that justice is interest of some sort, but you go on to say ‘of the stronger’; about this addition I am not so sure, and must therefore consider further.

"Big or small, it doesn't matter. First we must ask whether what you are saying is true. We both agree that justice is some kind of interest. But you add that it is the interest of the stronger. I'm not sure about that and need to think it over."

Proceed.

"Go on."

I will; and first tell me, Do you admit that it is just for subjects to obey their rulers?

"I will. First, tell me, do you agree that it is just for subjects to obey their rulers?"

I do.

"I do."

But are the rulers of states absolutely infallible, or are they sometimes liable to err?

"But are the rulers of states absolutely infallible? Or do they sometimes make mistakes?"

To be sure, he replied, they are liable to err.

"Of course," he said, "they are likely to make mistakes."

Then in making their laws they may sometimes make them rightly, and sometimes not?

"Then when they make laws, sometimes they get them right and sometimes they do not?"

True.

"That's true."

When they make them rightly, they make them agreeably to their interest; when they are mistaken, contrary to their interest; you admit that?

"Whenever they make them correctly, they make them in their own interest. When they are mistaken, they make them against their interest. Do you agree?"

Yes.

"Yes."

And the laws which they make must be obeyed by their subjects,—and that is what you call justice?

"And the laws they make must be obeyed by their subjects. Is that what you call justice?"

Doubtless.

"No doubt."

Then justice, according to your argument, is not only obedience to the interest of the stronger but the reverse?

"So, by your argument, justice is not just obedience to the stronger's interest but its opposite?"

What is that you are saying? he asked.

"What are you saying?" he asked.

I am only repeating what you are saying, I believe. But let us consider: Have we not admitted that the rulers may be mistaken about their own interest in what they command, and also that to obey them is justice? Has not that been admitted?

"I am only repeating what you said, I think. Let us consider this. Have we not agreed that rulers may be mistaken about their own interests when they give orders? And that obeying them can still be just? Wasn't that admitted?"

Yes.

"Yes."

Then you must also have acknowledged justice not to be for the interest of the stronger, when the rulers unintentionally command things to be done which are to their own injury. For if, as you say, justice is the obedience which the subject renders to their commands, in that case, O wisest of men, is there any escape from the conclusion that the weaker are commanded to do, not what is for the interest, but what is for the injury of the stronger?

"Then you must also have agreed that justice is not for the interest of the stronger. This happens when rulers unintentionally order things that harm themselves. If, as you say, justice is the obedience that subjects give to their rulers, then consider this, O wisest of men. Can we escape the conclusion that the weaker are commanded to do not what benefits the stronger, but what harms them?"

Nothing can be clearer, Socrates, said Polemarchus.

"It couldn't be clearer, Socrates," Polemarchus said.

Yes, said Cleitophon, interposing, if you are allowed to be his witness.

"Yes," Cleitophon interrupted, "if you're allowed to be his witness."

But there is no need of any witness, said Polemarchus, for Thrasymachus himself acknowledges that rulers may sometimes command what is not for their own interest, and that for subjects to obey them is justice.

"But there's no need for any witness," said Polemarchus. "Thrasymachus himself admits that rulers sometimes command things that don't serve their own interests. He also says that when subjects obey them, that obedience is justice."

Yes, Polemarchus,—Thrasymachus said that for subjects to do what was commanded by their rulers is just.

"Yes, Polemarchus," Thrasymachus said. "It is just for subjects to do what their rulers command."

Yes, Cleitophon, but he also said that justice is the interest of the stronger, and, while admitting both these propositions, he further acknowledged that the stronger may command the weaker who are his subjects to do what is not for his own interest; whence follows that justice is the injury quite as much as the interest of the stronger.

"Yes, Cleitophon, but he also said that justice is the interest of the stronger. He admitted both points. He also acknowledged that the stronger could order his weaker subjects to act against his own interest. From this it follows that justice is an injury as well as the interest of the stronger."

But, said Cleitophon, he meant by the interest of the stronger what the stronger thought to be his interest,—this was what the weaker had to do; and this was affirmed by him to be justice.

"But," said Cleitophon, "by 'the interest of the stronger' he meant whatever the stronger thought was in his own interest. That was what the weaker had to do. He called that justice."

Those were not his words, rejoined Polemarchus.

"Those weren't his words," Polemarchus said.

Never mind, I replied, if he now says that they are, let us accept his statement. Tell me, Thrasymachus, I said, did you mean by justice what the stronger thought to be his interest, whether really so or not?

"Never mind," I said. "If he now says they are, let's accept his statement. Tell me, Thrasymachus," I added, "did you mean by 'justice' what the stronger think is in their interest, whether that's actually true or not?"

Certainly not, he said. Do you suppose that I call him who is mistaken the stronger at the time when he is mistaken?

"Certainly not," he said. "Do you suppose I would call someone who is mistaken stronger at the time he is mistaken?"

Yes, I said, my impression was that you did so, when you admitted that the ruler was not infallible but might be sometimes mistaken.

"Yes," I said. "That was my impression when you admitted the ruler was not infallible and could sometimes be wrong."

You argue like an informer, Socrates. Do you mean, for example, that he who is mistaken about the sick is a physician in that he is mistaken? or that he who errs in arithmetic or grammar is an arithmetician or grammarian at the time when he is making the mistake, in respect of the mistake? True, we say that the physician or arithmetician or grammarian has made a mistake, but this is only a way of speaking; for the fact is that neither the grammarian nor any other person of skill ever makes a mistake in so far as he is what his name implies; they none of them err unless their skill fails them, and then they cease to be skilled artists. No artist or sage or ruler errs at the time when he is what his name implies; though he is commonly said to err, and I adopted the common mode of speaking. But to be perfectly accurate, since you are such a lover of accuracy, we should say that the ruler, in so far as he is a ruler, is unerring, and, being unerring, always commands that which is for his own interest; and the subject is required to execute his commands; and therefore, as I said at first and now repeat, justice is the interest of the stronger.

"You argue like an informer, Socrates. Do you mean, for example, that someone who is wrong about the sick is a physician simply because he is wrong? Or that someone who makes a mistake in arithmetic or grammar is an arithmetician or grammarian at the moment of the mistake, in respect of the mistake? It’s true we say the physician or arithmetician or grammarian has made a mistake, but that is only a way of speaking. The fact is that neither the grammarian nor any other skilled person truly makes a mistake insofar as he is what his name implies. They do not err unless their skill fails them, and then they cease to be skilled. No artist, sage, or ruler errs when he is what his name implies. Still, people commonly say they err, and I used that common mode of speaking. But to be precise, since you like accuracy, we should say the ruler, insofar as he is a ruler, does not err. Being unerring, he always commands what is in his own interest. The subject is required to carry out his commands. So, as I said before and now repeat, justice is the interest of the stronger."

Indeed, Thrasymachus, and do I really appear to you to argue like an informer?

"Thrasymachus, do I really sound like an informer when I argue?"

Certainly, he replied.

"Certainly," he replied.

And do you suppose that I ask these questions with any design of injuring you in the argument?

"Do you think I ask these questions to hurt you in the argument?"

Nay, he replied, ‘suppose’ is not the word—I know it; but you will be found out, and by sheer force of argument you will never prevail.

"No," he replied. "'Suppose' is not the word. I know it. But you will be found out, and you will never prevail by sheer force of argument."

I shall not make the attempt, my dear man; but to avoid any misunderstanding occurring between us in future, let me ask, in what sense do you speak of a ruler or stronger whose interest, as you were saying, he being the superior, it is just that the inferior should execute—is he a ruler in the popular or in the strict sense of the term?

"I will not try, my friend. To avoid any misunderstanding between us, let me ask you this. When you call someone a ruler or the stronger, do you mean someone whose interest the inferior should carry out because he is superior? Do you mean 'ruler' in the ordinary sense, or in the strict sense of the word?"

In the strictest of all senses, he said. And now cheat and play the informer if you can; I ask no quarter at your hands. But you never will be able, never.

"In the strictest sense," he said. "Go ahead and cheat and be an informer if you can. I ask you for no mercy. But you will never succeed. Never."

And do you imagine, I said, that I am such a madman as to try and cheat, Thrasymachus? I might as well shave a lion.

"Do you really think," I said, "that I'm so mad as to try to cheat you, Thrasymachus? I might as well try to shave a lion."

Why, he said, you made the attempt a minute ago, and you failed.

"Why," he said. "You tried a minute ago and failed."

Enough, I said, of these civilities. It will be better that I should ask you a question: Is the physician, taken in that strict sense of which you are speaking, a healer of the sick or a maker of money? And remember that I am now speaking of the true physician.

"Enough of these courtesies," I said. "I'll ask you a question. Is the physician, in the strict sense you mean, a healer of the sick or a maker of money? Remember, I'm talking about the true physician."

A healer of the sick, he replied.

"A healer of the sick," he said.

And the pilot—that is to say, the true pilot—is he a captain of sailors or a mere sailor?

"And the pilot, that is to say the true pilot, is he a captain of sailors or just a sailor?"

A captain of sailors.

"A ship's captain."

The circumstance that he sails in the ship is not to be taken into account; neither is he to be called a sailor; the name pilot by which he is distinguished has nothing to do with sailing, but is significant of his skill and of his authority over the sailors.

"The fact that he sails on the ship shouldn't be considered. Nor should he be called a sailor. The title 'pilot' has nothing to do with sailing. It signifies his skill and his authority over the sailors."

Very true, he said.

"That's very true," he said.

Now, I said, every art has an interest?

"Now," I said, "doesn't every art have its own purpose?"

Certainly.

"Of course."

For which the art has to consider and provide?

"What must the art consider and provide?"

Yes, that is the aim of art.

"Yes, that's the purpose of art."

And the interest of any art is the perfection of it—this and nothing else?

"Is the aim of every art its perfection and nothing else?"

What do you mean?

"What do you mean?"

I mean what I may illustrate negatively by the example of the body. Suppose you were to ask me whether the body is self-sufficing or has wants, I should reply: Certainly the body has wants; for the body may be ill and require to be cured, and has therefore interests to which the art of medicine ministers; and this is the origin and intention of medicine, as you will acknowledge. Am I not right?

"I mean what I say, and I will illustrate it negatively by the example of the body. Suppose you asked me whether the body is self-sufficient or has needs. I would answer: certainly the body has needs. The body can fall ill and need curing. So it has interests that medicine attends to. That is the origin and purpose of medicine, as you will acknowledge. Am I not right?"

Quite right, he replied.

"That's right," he replied.

But is the art of medicine or any other art faulty or deficient in any quality in the same way that the eye may be deficient in sight or the ear fail of hearing, and therefore requires another art to provide for the interests of seeing and hearing—has art in itself, I say, any similar liability to fault or defect, and does every art require another supplementary art to provide for its interests, and that another and another without end? Or have the arts to look only after their own interests? Or have they no need either of themselves or of another?—having no faults or defects, they have no need to correct them, either by the exercise of their own art or of any other; they have only to consider the interest of their subject-matter. For every art remains pure and faultless while remaining true—that is to say, while perfect and unimpaired. Take the words in your precise sense, and tell me whether I am not right.

"But is medicine, or any other craft, flawed the way an eye can be blind or an ear deaf? Does one art need another to make up for such failures, like sight needs hearing? I mean, can an art itself be liable to those kinds of faults? Does every art require a supplementary art to serve its concerns, and then another, and another without end? Or do arts look only after their own concerns? Or do they need no help at all, neither from themselves nor from another? If they have no faults, they do not need correcting by their own practice or by any other. They only need to care for the interest of their subject. Every art stays pure and faultless as long as it stays true, that is, as long as it is perfect and unimpaired. Take my words in their exact sense and tell me if I am not right."

Yes, clearly.

"Yes, of course."

Then medicine does not consider the interest of medicine, but the interest of the body?

"So medicine doesn't act in its own interest, but in the interest of the body?"

True, he said.

"True," he said.

Nor does the art of horsemanship consider the interests of the art of horsemanship, but the interests of the horse; neither do any other arts care for themselves, for they have no needs; they care only for that which is the subject of their art?

The art of horsemanship does not look after its own interests. It looks after the horse's interests. No other art cares for itself either, because arts have no needs. They care only for the subject of their art.

True, he said.

"That's true," he said.

But surely, Thrasymachus, the arts are the superiors and rulers of their own subjects?

Surely, Thrasymachus, the arts are superior and rule their own subjects?

To this he assented with a good deal of reluctance.

He agreed to it, but only reluctantly.

Then, I said, no science or art considers or enjoins the interest of the stronger or superior, but only the interest of the subject and weaker?

Then I said, no science or art cares for the interests of the stronger or superior. They only care for the interests of the subject and the weaker?

He made an attempt to contest this proposition also, but finally acquiesced.

He tried to challenge the proposal. In the end, he gave in.

Then, I continued, no physician, in so far as he is a physician, considers his own good in what he prescribes, but the good of his patient; for the true physician is also a ruler having the human body as a subject, and is not a mere money-maker; that has been admitted?

"Then," I continued, "no doctor, as a doctor, looks out for his own benefit when he prescribes. He looks out for the patient's good. A true doctor is a ruler over the human body and not merely a money-maker. Isn't that agreed?"

Yes.

"Yes."

And the pilot likewise, in the strict sense of the term, is a ruler of sailors and not a mere sailor?

"And the pilot, in the strict sense of the word, is the ruler of the sailors. He is not merely a sailor?"

That has been admitted.

"That's been admitted."

And such a pilot and ruler will provide and prescribe for the interest of the sailor who is under him, and not for his own or the ruler’s interest?

"And will such a pilot and ruler serve the sailor under him, not his own or the ruler's interests?"

He gave a reluctant ‘Yes.’

He reluctantly said, "Yes."

Then, I said, Thrasymachus, there is no one in any rule who, in so far as he is a ruler, considers or enjoins what is for his own interest, but always what is for the interest of his subject or suitable to his art; to that he looks, and that alone he considers in everything which he says and does.

Then I said, "Thrasymachus, no one who rules, while acting as a ruler, thinks about or issues orders for their own benefit. They always focus on what benefits their subjects or what fits their craft. That is their aim. It is the only thing they consider in everything they say and do."

When we had got to this point in the argument, and every one saw that the definition of justice had been completely upset, Thrasymachus, instead of replying to me, said: Tell me, Socrates, have you got a nurse?

When we reached that point in the argument and everyone saw the definition of justice had been overturned, Thrasymachus did not answer me. He said, "Tell me, Socrates, do you have a nurse?"

Why do you ask such a question, I said, when you ought rather to be answering?

"Why are you asking that question?" I said. "Shouldn't you be answering it instead?"

Because she leaves you to snivel, and never wipes your nose: she has not even taught you to know the shepherd from the sheep.

"Because she leaves you to sniffle and never wipes your nose. She hasn't even taught you to tell a shepherd from a sheep."

What makes you say that? I replied.

"Why do you say that?" I asked.

Because you fancy that the shepherd or neatherd fattens or tends the sheep or oxen with a view to their own good and not to the good of himself or his master; and you further imagine that the rulers of states, if they are true rulers, never think of their subjects as sheep, and that they are not studying their own advantage day and night. Oh, no; and so entirely astray are you in your ideas about the just and unjust as not even to know that justice and the just are in reality another’s good; that is to say, the interest of the ruler and stronger, and the loss of the subject and servant; and injustice the opposite; for the unjust is lord over the truly simple and just: he is the stronger, and his subjects do what is for his interest, and minister to his happiness, which is very far from being their own. Consider further, most foolish Socrates, that the just is always a loser in comparison with the unjust. First of all, in private contracts: wherever the unjust is the partner of the just you will find that, when the partnership is dissolved, the unjust man has always more and the just less. Secondly, in their dealings with the State: when there is an income-tax, the just man will pay more and the unjust less on the same amount of income; and when there is anything to be received the one gains nothing and the other much. Observe also what happens when they take an office; there is the just man neglecting his affairs and perhaps suffering other losses, and getting nothing out of the public, because he is just; moreover he is hated by his friends and acquaintance for refusing to serve them in unlawful ways. But all this is reversed in the case of the unjust man. I am speaking, as before, of injustice on a large scale in which the advantage of the unjust is most apparent; and my meaning will be most clearly seen if we turn to that highest form of injustice in which the criminal is the happiest of men, and the sufferers or those who refuse to do injustice are the most miserable—that is to say tyranny, which by fraud and force takes away the property of others, not little by little but wholesale; comprehending in one, things sacred as well as profane, private and public; for which acts of wrong, if he were detected perpetrating any one of them singly, he would be punished and incur great disgrace—they who do such wrong in particular cases are called robbers of temples, and man-stealers and burglars and swindlers and thieves. But when a man besides taking away the money of the citizens has made slaves of them, then, instead of these names of reproach, he is termed happy and blessed, not only by the citizens but by all who hear of his having achieved the consummation of injustice. For mankind censure injustice, fearing that they may be the victims of it and not because they shrink from committing it. And thus, as I have shown, Socrates, injustice, when on a sufficient scale, has more strength and freedom and mastery than justice; and, as I said at first, justice is the interest of the stronger, whereas injustice is a man’s own profit and interest.

"You think the shepherd or cowherd cares for sheep or cattle for their sake, not for his or his master's. You also imagine that true rulers never see their subjects as sheep and do not study their own advantage day and night. Oh no. You are completely wrong about justice and injustice. You do not even see that justice and the just are really another person's good. Justice serves the ruler and the stronger. It is a loss for the subject and the servant. Injustice is the opposite. The unjust man rules over the simple and the just. He is stronger, and his subjects act for his benefit. They support his happiness, which is far from theirs. "Think, most foolish Socrates, how the just man always loses compared to the unjust. First, in private deals: when partners split up, the unjust partner always ends up with more and the just partner with less. Second, in public affairs: under a tax, the just pay more and the unjust pay less on the same income. When money is to be collected, the just gain nothing while the unjust gain a lot. Look at holding office. The just man may neglect his private affairs and suffer other losses and get nothing from the public because he is just. His friends may hate him for refusing unlawful favors. All this is reversed for the unjust man. "I mean injustice on a large scale, where its advantage is clearest. The highest form of injustice is tyranny. The tyrant is the happiest man, and those who suffer or refuse to do wrong are the most miserable. Tyranny uses fraud and force to take others' property, not bit by bit but wholesale. It takes both sacred and profane things, private and public. If a man did any one of those wrongs alone, he would be punished and disgraced. People who do such wrongs in specific cases are called robbers of temples, kidnappers, burglars, swindlers, and thieves. But when a man not only takes citizens' money but also makes them his slaves, he is no longer called those names. Instead, citizens and everyone who hears of his complete injustice call him happy and blessed. "People condemn injustice because they fear becoming its victims, not because they refuse to commit it. So, as I said, Socrates, large-scale injustice has more power, freedom, and control than justice. Justice is the interest of the stronger. Injustice is a person's own gain and advantage."

Thrasymachus, when he had thus spoken, having, like a bath-man, deluged our ears with his words, had a mind to go away. But the company would not let him; they insisted that he should remain and defend his position; and I myself added my own humble request that he would not leave us. Thrasymachus, I said to him, excellent man, how suggestive are your remarks! And are you going to run away before you have fairly taught or learned whether they are true or not? Is the attempt to determine the way of man’s life so small a matter in your eyes—to determine how life may be passed by each one of us to the greatest advantage?

Thrasymachus had finished speaking and seemed ready to leave. He had just drenched us with his words. The others wouldn't let him go. They insisted he stay and defend his position, and I added my own humble request that he remain. I said to him, "Thrasymachus, excellent man, how suggestive are your remarks! Are you going to run away before you've fairly shown or learned whether they're true? Is the attempt to determine how a person should live such a small matter to you? Isn't it worth finding how each of us can live to the greatest advantage?"

And do I differ from you, he said, as to the importance of the enquiry?

"Do I disagree with you," he said, "about the importance of the inquiry?"

You appear rather, I replied, to have no care or thought about us, Thrasymachus—whether we live better or worse from not knowing what you say you know, is to you a matter of indifference. Prithee, friend, do not keep your knowledge to yourself; we are a large party; and any benefit which you confer upon us will be amply rewarded. For my own part I openly declare that I am not convinced, and that I do not believe injustice to be more gainful than justice, even if uncontrolled and allowed to have free play. For, granting that there may be an unjust man who is able to commit injustice either by fraud or force, still this does not convince me of the superior advantage of injustice, and there may be others who are in the same predicament with myself. Perhaps we may be wrong; if so, you in your wisdom should convince us that we are mistaken in preferring justice to injustice.

I replied, "You seem not to care about us, Thrasymachus. Whether we live better or worse for not knowing what you claim to know matters little to you. Please, friend, don't keep your knowledge to yourself. We are a large group, and any help you give will be well rewarded. For my part, I openly admit I am not convinced. I don't believe injustice is more profitable than justice, even if wrongdoing goes unchecked. Even if some unjust person can succeed by fraud or force, that does not convince me that injustice is better. Others may share my view. We might be wrong. If we are, you in your wisdom should convince us. Show us why we are wrong to prefer justice to injustice."

And how am I to convince you, he said, if you are not already convinced by what I have just said; what more can I do for you? Would you have me put the proof bodily into your souls?

"How can I convince you," he said, "if you are not already convinced by what I just said? What more can I do for you? Would you have me put the proof bodily into your souls?"

Heaven forbid! I said; I would only ask you to be consistent; or, if you change, change openly and let there be no deception. For I must remark, Thrasymachus, if you will recall what was previously said, that although you began by defining the true physician in an exact sense, you did not observe a like exactness when speaking of the shepherd; you thought that the shepherd as a shepherd tends the sheep not with a view to their own good, but like a mere diner or banquetter with a view to the pleasures of the table; or, again, as a trader for sale in the market, and not as a shepherd. Yet surely the art of the shepherd is concerned only with the good of his subjects; he has only to provide the best for them, since the perfection of the art is already ensured whenever all the requirements of it are satisfied. And that was what I was saying just now about the ruler. I conceived that the art of the ruler, considered as ruler, whether in a state or in private life, could only regard the good of his flock or subjects; whereas you seem to think that the rulers in states, that is to say, the true rulers, like being in authority.

"Heaven forbid," I said. "I only ask that you be consistent. If you change your view, change openly and do not deceive us. I must point out, Thrasymachus, if you remember what was said before, that you started by defining the true physician precisely. But you were not equally precise when you spoke of the shepherd. You suggested a shepherd cares for sheep not for their own good, but like someone dining for pleasure. Or you compared him to a trader who raises sheep to sell, not to a shepherd. Yet the art of shepherding is concerned only with the good of the flock. A shepherd's job is to provide what is best for them, and the art is complete when it meets all its requirements. That is what I meant about the ruler. I thought the ruler's art, as ruler whether in a state or in private life, looks only to the good of those ruled. You, however, seem to think that rulers in states—the true rulers—enjoy being in authority."

Think! Nay, I am sure of it.

"Think! No, I'm sure of it."

Then why in the case of lesser offices do men never take them willingly without payment, unless under the idea that they govern for the advantage not of themselves but of others? Let me ask you a question: Are not the several arts different, by reason of their each having a separate function? And, my dear illustrious friend, do say what you think, that we may make a little progress.

"Then why do people never accept minor public offices willingly without pay? Is it because they believe they are ruling for others' benefit, not their own? Let me ask you: Aren't the different arts distinct because each has its own function? My dear friend, tell me what you think so we can make a little progress."

Yes, that is the difference, he replied.

"Yes, that's the difference," he replied.

And each art gives us a particular good and not merely a general one—medicine, for example, gives us health; navigation, safety at sea, and so on?

"And each art gives us a particular good, not just a general one. Medicine, for example, gives us health. Navigation gives us safety at sea, and so on?"

Yes, he said.

"Yes," he said.

And the art of payment has the special function of giving pay: but we do not confuse this with other arts, any more than the art of the pilot is to be confused with the art of medicine, because the health of the pilot may be improved by a sea voyage. You would not be inclined to say, would you, that navigation is the art of medicine, at least if we are to adopt your exact use of language?

"And the art of payment has the special function of giving pay. We should not confuse it with other arts. Nor should we confuse the pilot's art with medicine. A sea voyage might improve a pilot's health, but that does not make navigation the art of medicine. You wouldn't be inclined to say navigation is the art of medicine, would you? Not if we stick to your exact use of language."

Certainly not.

"Certainly not."

Or because a man is in good health when he receives pay you would not say that the art of payment is medicine?

"Or would you call the art of paying 'medicine' just because a man is healthy when he gets paid?"

I should not.

"I shouldn't."

Nor would you say that medicine is the art of receiving pay because a man takes fees when he is engaged in healing?

"You wouldn't call medicine the art of getting paid just because someone charges fees while treating patients, would you?"

Certainly not.

"Certainly not."

And we have admitted, I said, that the good of each art is specially confined to the art?

"So we've agreed," I said, "that the good of each art is limited to that art alone?"

Yes.

"Yes."

Then, if there be any good which all artists have in common, that is to be attributed to something of which they all have the common use?

"So, if there is any good that all artists share, is it due to something they all use?"

True, he replied.

"That's true," he said.

And when the artist is benefited by receiving pay the advantage is gained by an additional use of the art of pay, which is not the art professed by him?

"So when an artist benefits from being paid, is that advantage really from using the art of getting paid rather than from the art he practices?"

He gave a reluctant assent to this.

He reluctantly agreed to this.

Then the pay is not derived by the several artists from their respective arts. But the truth is, that while the art of medicine gives health, and the art of the builder builds a house, another art attends them which is the art of pay. The various arts may be doing their own business and benefiting that over which they preside, but would the artist receive any benefit from his art unless he were paid as well?

"Then the craftsmen do not get paid by their crafts alone. In truth, medicine brings health and building makes houses. Another skill accompanies them: the art of payment. Each craft does its job and benefits what it works on. Would the craftsman gain anything from his craft if he were not paid as well?"

I suppose not.

"I guess not."

But does he therefore confer no benefit when he works for nothing?

"But does he do no good when he works for nothing?"

Certainly, he confers a benefit.

"Certainly, he does him a favor."

Then now, Thrasymachus, there is no longer any doubt that neither arts nor governments provide for their own interests; but, as we were before saying, they rule and provide for the interests of their subjects who are the weaker and not the stronger—to their good they attend and not to the good of the superior. And this is the reason, my dear Thrasymachus, why, as I was just now saying, no one is willing to govern; because no one likes to take in hand the reformation of evils which are not his concern without remuneration. For, in the execution of his work, and in giving his orders to another, the true artist does not regard his own interest, but always that of his subjects; and therefore in order that rulers may be willing to rule, they must be paid in one of three modes of payment, money, or honour, or a penalty for refusing.

"Now, Thrasymachus, there is no longer any doubt that neither arts nor governments serve their own interests. As we said before, they rule for the benefit of their subjects, the weaker, not the stronger. They look after the good of those they govern, not the good of the rulers. That is why, my dear Thrasymachus, no one is willing to govern. No one wants to take on fixing problems that are not his concern without pay. In doing his work and giving orders, the true artist does not think of his own interest. He always considers the interest of his subjects. So, to make rulers willing to rule, they must be paid in one of three ways. Those are money, honor, or a penalty for refusing."

What do you mean, Socrates? said Glaucon. The first two modes of payment are intelligible enough, but what the penalty is I do not understand, or how a penalty can be a payment.

"What do you mean, Socrates?" said Glaucon. "The first two ways to pay are clear enough. But I don't understand the penalty, or how a penalty can be a payment."

You mean that you do not understand the nature of this payment which to the best men is the great inducement to rule? Of course you know that ambition and avarice are held to be, as indeed they are, a disgrace?

"You mean you don't understand what this payment is? For the best men, it is the main incentive to rule. You know that ambition and greed are considered a disgrace, and rightly so?"

Very true.

"That's true."

And for this reason, I said, money and honour have no attraction for them; good men do not wish to be openly demanding payment for governing and so to get the name of hirelings, nor by secretly helping themselves out of the public revenues to get the name of thieves. And not being ambitious they do not care about honour. Wherefore necessity must be laid upon them, and they must be induced to serve from the fear of punishment. And this, as I imagine, is the reason why the forwardness to take office, instead of waiting to be compelled, has been deemed dishonourable. Now the worst part of the punishment is that he who refuses to rule is liable to be ruled by one who is worse than himself. And the fear of this, as I conceive, induces the good to take office, not because they would, but because they cannot help—not under the idea that they are going to have any benefit or enjoyment themselves, but as a necessity, and because they are not able to commit the task of ruling to any one who is better than themselves, or indeed as good. For there is reason to think that if a city were composed entirely of good men, then to avoid office would be as much an object of contention as to obtain office is at present; then we should have plain proof that the true ruler is not meant by nature to regard his own interest, but that of his subjects; and every one who knew this would choose rather to receive a benefit from another than to have the trouble of conferring one. So far am I from agreeing with Thrasymachus that justice is the interest of the stronger. This latter question need not be further discussed at present; but when Thrasymachus says that the life of the unjust is more advantageous than that of the just, his new statement appears to me to be of a far more serious character. Which of us has spoken truly? And which sort of life, Glaucon, do you prefer?

"For this reason, I said, money and honor do not attract them. Good men don't want to demand pay openly for ruling and be called hirelings. Nor do they want to secretly take from public funds and be called thieves. They lack ambition and do not care about honor. So they must be forced to serve, and they must act out of fear of punishment. This, I think, explains why eagerness to take office, instead of waiting to be forced, is considered dishonorable. The worst part is that anyone who refuses to rule may end up ruled by someone worse. This fear, I believe, makes good people accept office, not because they want to, but because they cannot avoid it. They do not expect personal benefit or pleasure. They act out of necessity. They cannot entrust the job to anyone better, or even equal to themselves. If a city were made entirely of good people, avoiding office would be as contested as seeking it now. That would show clearly that a true ruler cares for his subjects' interest, not his own. Anyone who understood this would prefer to receive a favor rather than take on the burden of giving one. I am far from agreeing with Thrasymachus that justice is simply the interest of the stronger. We do not need to argue that now. But when Thrasymachus claims the unjust life is better than the just life, he makes a much more serious claim. Which of us is right? Glaucon, which life would you choose?"

I for my part deem the life of the just to be the more advantageous, he answered.

"As for me, I think a just life is more advantageous," he answered.

Did you hear all the advantages of the unjust which Thrasymachus was rehearsing?

"Did you hear all the advantages of being unjust that Thrasymachus was listing?"

Yes, I heard him, he replied, but he has not convinced me.

"Yes, I heard him," he replied. "He hasn't convinced me."

Then shall we try to find some way of convincing him, if we can, that he is saying what is not true?

"So should we find a way to convince him, if we can, that what he's saying is false?"

Most certainly, he replied.

"Absolutely," he replied.

If, I said, he makes a set speech and we make another recounting all the advantages of being just, and he answers and we rejoin, there must be a numbering and measuring of the goods which are claimed on either side, and in the end we shall want judges to decide; but if we proceed in our enquiry as we lately did, by making admissions to one another, we shall unite the offices of judge and advocate in our own persons.

I said, "If he makes a prepared speech and we list the benefits of being just, it becomes a back-and-forth. We must count and measure the goods each side claims. In the end we will need judges to decide. If we continue as we just did, admitting things to each other, we will act as both judge and advocate."

Very good, he said.

"Very good," he said.

And which method do I understand you to prefer? I said.

"Which method do you prefer?" I asked.

That which you propose.

"What you're proposing."

Well, then, Thrasymachus, I said, suppose you begin at the beginning and answer me. You say that perfect injustice is more gainful than perfect justice?

"All right then, Thrasymachus," I said. "Start at the beginning and answer me. You say that complete injustice is more profitable than complete justice?"

Yes, that is what I say, and I have given you my reasons.

"Yes, that's what I mean. I've already given you my reasons."

And what is your view about them? Would you call one of them virtue and the other vice?

"What do you think of them? Would you call one a virtue and the other a vice?"

Certainly.

"Of course."

I suppose that you would call justice virtue and injustice vice?

"I suppose you would call justice a virtue and injustice a vice?"

What a charming notion! So likely too, seeing that I affirm injustice to be profitable and justice not.

"What a charming idea! Very likely, since I say injustice is profitable and justice is not."

What else then would you say?

"What else would you say?"

The opposite, he replied.

"The opposite," he replied.

And would you call justice vice?

"And would you call justice a vice?"

No, I would rather say sublime simplicity.

"No, I'd rather call it sublime simplicity."

Then would you call injustice malignity?

"Then would you call injustice evil?"

No; I would rather say discretion.

"No. I would rather call it discretion."

And do the unjust appear to you to be wise and good?

"Do the unjust seem wise and good to you?"

Yes, he said; at any rate those of them who are able to be perfectly unjust, and who have the power of subduing states and nations; but perhaps you imagine me to be talking of cutpurses. Even this profession if undetected has advantages, though they are not to be compared with those of which I was just now speaking.

"Yes," he said. "At least those among them who can be completely unjust and can subdue states and nations. But maybe you think I'm talking about pickpockets. Even that trade, if it goes unnoticed, has advantages. They don't compare with the ones I was just talking about."

I do not think that I misapprehend your meaning, Thrasymachus, I replied; but still I cannot hear without amazement that you class injustice with wisdom and virtue, and justice with the opposite.

"I don't think I misunderstand you, Thrasymachus," I replied. "I am still amazed that you group injustice with wisdom and virtue, and justice with the opposite."

Certainly I do so class them.

"Yes, I do classify them that way."

Now, I said, you are on more substantial and almost unanswerable ground; for if the injustice which you were maintaining to be profitable had been admitted by you as by others to be vice and deformity, an answer might have been given to you on received principles; but now I perceive that you will call injustice honourable and strong, and to the unjust you will attribute all the qualities which were attributed by us before to the just, seeing that you do not hesitate to rank injustice with wisdom and virtue.

I said that you were on more solid, almost unanswerable ground. If you had agreed, as others do, that the injustice you call profitable is actually vice and deformity. We could then reply on accepted principles. Now I see you call injustice honorable and strong. You give the unjust the qualities we once attributed to the just. You do this because you do not hesitate to rank injustice with wisdom and virtue.

You have guessed most infallibly, he replied.

"You're absolutely right," he said.

Then I certainly ought not to shrink from going through with the argument so long as I have reason to think that you, Thrasymachus, are speaking your real mind; for I do believe that you are now in earnest and are not amusing yourself at our expense.

"Then I certainly should not shy away from continuing the argument. I will only press on if I have reason to think you, Thrasymachus, are speaking your real mind. I do believe you are serious now and not just having fun at our expense."

I may be in earnest or not, but what is that to you?—to refute the argument is your business.

"I may be serious or not. What does that matter to you? It's your job to refute the argument."

Very true, I said; that is what I have to do: But will you be so good as answer yet one more question? Does the just man try to gain any advantage over the just?

"That's true," I said. "That's what I have to do. But would you be willing to answer one more question? Does a just person try to gain any advantage over another just person?"

Far otherwise; if he did he would not be the simple amusing creature which he is.

"Far from it. If he were, he wouldn't be the simple, amusing creature he is."

And would he try to go beyond just action?

"Would he try to do more than act?"

He would not.

"He wouldn't."

And how would he regard the attempt to gain an advantage over the unjust; would that be considered by him as just or unjust?

"And how would he regard trying to get an advantage over the unjust? Would he see that as just or unjust?"

He would think it just, and would try to gain the advantage; but he would not be able.

"He would think it fair and try to take advantage. He would not be able to."

Whether he would or would not be able, I said, is not to the point. My question is only whether the just man, while refusing to have more than another just man, would wish and claim to have more than the unjust?

"Whether he could or could not, I said, is not the point. My question is this. Would a just man who refuses to have more than another just man want and claim more than the unjust?"

Yes, he would.

"Yes, he would."

And what of the unjust—does he claim to have more than the just man and to do more than is just?

"And what about the unjust man? Does he claim to have more than the just man and to do more than what is right?"

Of course, he said, for he claims to have more than all men.

"Of course," he said. "He claims to have more than anyone."

And the unjust man will strive and struggle to obtain more than the unjust man or action, in order that he may have more than all?

"So the unjust person will fight and struggle to get more than the just person, only so he can have more than everyone?"

True.

"True."

We may put the matter thus, I said—the just does not desire more than his like but more than his unlike, whereas the unjust desires more than both his like and his unlike?

"We can put it like this," I said. "A just person does not want more than people like him. He does want more than people unlike him. An unjust person wants more than both those like him and those unlike him. Isn't that so?"

Nothing, he said, can be better than that statement.

"Nothing can be better than that statement," he said.

And the unjust is good and wise, and the just is neither?

"So the unjust person is good and wise, and the just person is neither?"

Good again, he said.

"Good," he said again.

And is not the unjust like the wise and good and the just unlike them?

"Aren't the unjust like the wise and good, and the just unlike them?"

Of course, he said, he who is of a certain nature, is like those who are of a certain nature; he who is not, not.

"Of course," he said. "Someone with a certain nature will resemble others of that nature. Someone without it will not."

Each of them, I said, is such as his like is?

"Each of them," I said, "is like his own kind?"

Certainly, he replied.

"Certainly," he replied.

Very good, Thrasymachus, I said; and now to take the case of the arts: you would admit that one man is a musician and another not a musician?

"Very good, Thrasymachus," I said. "Now take the arts. You would admit that one man is a musician and another is not?"

Yes.

"Yes."

And which is wise and which is foolish?

"So which is wise and which is foolish?"

Clearly the musician is wise, and he who is not a musician is foolish.

"Clearly, the musician is wise. Anyone who is not a musician is foolish."

And he is good in as far as he is wise, and bad in as far as he is foolish?

"So he is good when he is wise, and bad when he is foolish?"

Yes.

"Yes."

And you would say the same sort of thing of the physician?

"Would you say the same about the physician?"

Yes.

"Yes."

And do you think, my excellent friend, that a musician when he adjusts the lyre would desire or claim to exceed or go beyond a musician in the tightening and loosening the strings?

"Do you think, my excellent friend, a musician tuning a lyre would want to be superior to another? Would he claim to be better at tightening and loosening the strings?"

I do not think that he would.

"I don't think he would."

But he would claim to exceed the non-musician?

"But would he claim to be better than a non-musician?"

Of course.

"Of course."

And what would you say of the physician? In prescribing meats and drinks would he wish to go beyond another physician or beyond the practice of medicine?

"And what about the physician? When he prescribes food and drink, does he try to go beyond what other physicians do? Or does he go beyond the proper limits of medicine?"

He would not.

"He wouldn't."

But he would wish to go beyond the non-physician?

"But would he want to go beyond the non-physician?"

Yes.

"Yes."

And about knowledge and ignorance in general; see whether you think that any man who has knowledge ever would wish to have the choice of saying or doing more than another man who has knowledge. Would he not rather say or do the same as his like in the same case?

"And about knowledge and ignorance in general. Think whether anyone with knowledge would ever want the option to say or do more than another knowledgeable person. Wouldn't he rather say or do the same as someone like him in the same situation?"

That, I suppose, can hardly be denied.

"I suppose that's hard to deny."

And what of the ignorant? would he not desire to have more than either the knowing or the ignorant?

"And what about the ignorant? Wouldn't he want more than either the knowledgeable or the ignorant?"

I dare say.

"I suppose so."

And the knowing is wise?

"So someone who knows is wise?"

Yes.

"Yes."

And the wise is good?

"So the wise person is good?"

True.

"True."

Then the wise and good will not desire to gain more than his like, but more than his unlike and opposite?

"So the wise and good won't want to be superior to people like them. They'll want to be superior to those unlike them, their opposites?"

I suppose so.

"I guess so."

Whereas the bad and ignorant will desire to gain more than both?

"Won't the bad and ignorant want to gain more than both?"

Yes.

"Yes."

But did we not say, Thrasymachus, that the unjust goes beyond both his like and unlike? Were not these your words?

"But didn't we say, Thrasymachus, that the unjust person goes beyond both those like him and those unlike him? Weren't those your words?"

They were.

"They were."

And you also said that the just will not go beyond his like but his unlike?

"And did you say that the just person will not go beyond what is like him but what is unlike?"

Yes.

"Yes."

Then the just is like the wise and good, and the unjust like the evil and ignorant?

"So the just person is like the wise and good, and the unjust person like the evil and ignorant?"

That is the inference.

"That's the conclusion."

And each of them is such as his like is?

"And each of them is like its counterpart?"

That was admitted.

"That was admitted."

Then the just has turned out to be wise and good and the unjust evil and ignorant.

"So the just person is wise and good. The unjust person is evil and ignorant."

Thrasymachus made all these admissions, not fluently, as I repeat them, but with extreme reluctance; it was a hot summer’s day, and the perspiration poured from him in torrents; and then I saw what I had never seen before, Thrasymachus blushing. As we were now agreed that justice was virtue and wisdom, and injustice vice and ignorance, I proceeded to another point:

Thrasymachus admitted all this, not smoothly as I put it now, but very reluctantly. It was a hot summer day, and he was sweating heavily. Then I saw something I had never seen before: Thrasymachus blushing. We had agreed that justice is virtue and wisdom, and that injustice is vice and ignorance. I moved on to another point:

Well, I said, Thrasymachus, that matter is now settled; but were we not also saying that injustice had strength; do you remember?

"Well," I said to Thrasymachus, "that matter is now settled. But weren't we also saying that injustice was powerful? Do you remember?"

Yes, I remember, he said, but do not suppose that I approve of what you are saying or have no answer; if however I were to answer, you would be quite certain to accuse me of haranguing; therefore either permit me to have my say out, or if you would rather ask, do so, and I will answer ‘Very good,’ as they say to story-telling old women, and will nod ‘Yes’ and ‘No.’

"Yes, I remember," he said. "But don't suppose I approve of what you are saying, or that I have no answer. If I were to answer, you would certainly accuse me of lecturing. Either let me finish, or, if you prefer to ask, do so. I will answer 'Very good,' as people say to old women who tell stories. I will nod 'Yes' and 'No.' "

Certainly not, I said, if contrary to your real opinion.

"Certainly not," I said. "If it goes against what you really think."

Yes, he said, I will, to please you, since you will not let me speak. What else would you have?

"Yes," he said. "I'll do it to please you, since you won't let me speak. What else do you want?"

Nothing in the world, I said; and if you are so disposed I will ask and you shall answer.

"Nothing in the world," I said. "If you're willing, I'll ask and you'll answer."

Proceed.

"Go ahead."

Then I will repeat the question which I asked before, in order that our examination of the relative nature of justice and injustice may be carried on regularly. A statement was made that injustice is stronger and more powerful than justice, but now justice, having been identified with wisdom and virtue, is easily shown to be stronger than injustice, if injustice is ignorance; this can no longer be questioned by any one. But I want to view the matter, Thrasymachus, in a different way: You would not deny that a state may be unjust and may be unjustly attempting to enslave other states, or may have already enslaved them, and may be holding many of them in subjection?

"Then I'll repeat the question I asked before so our examination of justice and injustice can proceed properly. It was claimed that injustice is stronger and more powerful than justice. But now justice has been equated with wisdom and virtue. If injustice is ignorance, justice is clearly stronger than injustice. No one can deny that. Still, I want to look at the matter another way, Thrasymachus. You wouldn't deny that a state can be unjust. Could it try to enslave other states unjustly, or might it already have enslaved them and hold many under its control?"

True, he replied; and I will add that the best and most perfectly unjust state will be most likely to do so.

"True," he replied. "I will add that the best and most utterly unjust state is most likely to do this."

I know, I said, that such was your position; but what I would further consider is, whether this power which is possessed by the superior state can exist or be exercised without justice or only with justice.

"I know," I said, "that is your position. I want to consider whether the superior state's power can exist without justice. Or whether it can only be exercised with justice."

If you are right in your view, and justice is wisdom, then only with justice; but if I am right, then without justice.

"If you're right in your view and justice is wisdom, then only with justice. But if I'm right, then without justice."

I am delighted, Thrasymachus, to see you not only nodding assent and dissent, but making answers which are quite excellent.

"I'm delighted, Thrasymachus, to see you not only nodding yes and no, but giving excellent answers."

That is out of civility to you, he replied.

"I'm only being polite to you," he replied.

You are very kind, I said; and would you have the goodness also to inform me, whether you think that a state, or an army, or a band of robbers and thieves, or any other gang of evil-doers could act at all if they injured one another?

"You're very kind," I said. "Would you tell me whether a state, an army, or a band of robbers could act at all? Could any other group of wrongdoers act if they harmed one another?"

No indeed, he said, they could not.

"No, they couldn't," he said.

But if they abstained from injuring one another, then they might act together better?

"But if they stopped harming one another, wouldn't they be able to act together better?"

Yes.

"Yes."

And this is because injustice creates divisions and hatreds and fighting, and justice imparts harmony and friendship; is not that true, Thrasymachus?

"And this is because injustice creates division, hatred, and conflict, and justice brings harmony and friendship. Isn't that so, Thrasymachus?"

I agree, he said, because I do not wish to quarrel with you.

"I agree," he said. "I don't want to argue with you."

How good of you, I said; but I should like to know also whether injustice, having this tendency to arouse hatred, wherever existing, among slaves or among freemen, will not make them hate one another and set them at variance and render them incapable of common action?

"That's very kind," I said. "But I also want to know this. Injustice tends to arouse hatred wherever it exists. Whether among slaves or free people, won't it make them hate one another? Won't it set them at odds and prevent them from acting together?"

Certainly.

"Of course."

And even if injustice be found in two only, will they not quarrel and fight, and become enemies to one another and to the just?

"And even if injustice appears in only two people, won't they quarrel and fight? Won't they become enemies of one another and of the just?"

They will.

"They will."

And suppose injustice abiding in a single person, would your wisdom say that she loses or that she retains her natural power?

"And suppose injustice lives in a single person. Would you say she loses her natural power or keeps it?"

Let us assume that she retains her power.

"Let's assume she keeps her power."

Yet is not the power which injustice exercises of such a nature that wherever she takes up her abode, whether in a city, in an army, in a family, or in any other body, that body is, to begin with, rendered incapable of united action by reason of sedition and distraction; and does it not become its own enemy and at variance with all that opposes it, and with the just? Is not this the case?

"Isn't the power of injustice the same wherever it settles? If it takes hold in a city, an army, a family, or any group, that group cannot act together. It causes strife and division. Doesn't it then become its own enemy and clash with things that oppose it and with what is just? Isn't that the case?"

Yes, certainly.

"Yes, of course."

And is not injustice equally fatal when existing in a single person; in the first place rendering him incapable of action because he is not at unity with himself, and in the second place making him an enemy to himself and the just? Is not that true, Thrasymachus?

"Isn't injustice just as fatal when it exists in a single person? First, it makes him unable to act because he is not united with himself. Second, it turns him into an enemy of himself and of the just. Isn't that true, Thrasymachus?"

Yes.

"Yes."

And O my friend, I said, surely the gods are just?

"Oh, my friend," I said. "Surely the gods are just?"

Granted that they are.

"I'll grant that they are."

But if so, the unjust will be the enemy of the gods, and the just will be their friend?

"But if that's the case, won't the unjust be enemies of the gods, and the just be their friends?"

Feast away in triumph, and take your fill of the argument; I will not oppose you, lest I should displease the company.

"Enjoy your triumph and have your fill of the argument. I won't oppose you because I don't want to upset the company."

Well then, proceed with your answers, and let me have the remainder of my repast. For we have already shown that the just are clearly wiser and better and abler than the unjust, and that the unjust are incapable of common action; nay more, that to speak as we did of men who are evil acting at any time vigorously together, is not strictly true, for if they had been perfectly evil, they would have laid hands upon one another; but it is evident that there must have been some remnant of justice in them, which enabled them to combine; if there had not been they would have injured one another as well as their victims; they were but half-villains in their enterprises; for had they been whole villains, and utterly unjust, they would have been utterly incapable of action. That, as I believe, is the truth of the matter, and not what you said at first. But whether the just have a better and happier life than the unjust is a further question which we also proposed to consider. I think that they have, and for the reasons which I have given; but still I should like to examine further, for no light matter is at stake, nothing less than the rule of human life.

"Well then, go on with your answers, and let me finish my meal. We have already shown that the just are clearly wiser, better, and more capable than the unjust. We also showed that the unjust cannot cooperate. In fact, saying that evil men can all act energetically together isn't strictly true. If they had been completely evil, they would have turned on one another. Clearly, some trace of justice remained in them. That allowed them to join forces. If there had not been, they would have harmed each other as well as their victims. They were only half-villains in their schemes. If they had been fully villainous and utterly unjust, they would have been totally unable to act together. That, I believe, is the truth, not what you said at first. Whether the just live better, happier lives than the unjust is a separate question. We also set out to examine it. I think they do, for the reasons I gave. Still, I want to look at it more closely, since this is no small matter. It concerns nothing less than how people should live."

Proceed.

"Go on."

I will proceed by asking a question: Would you not say that a horse has some end?

"I'll begin by asking a question. Wouldn't you say a horse has some purpose?"

I should.

"I should."

And the end or use of a horse or of anything would be that which could not be accomplished, or not so well accomplished, by any other thing?

"Isn't the purpose or use of a horse, or of anything, what nothing else can do? Or at least what nothing else can do as well?"

I do not understand, he said.

"I don't understand," he said.

Let me explain: Can you see, except with the eye?

"Let me explain. Can you see anything except with your eyes?"

Certainly not.

"Certainly not."

Or hear, except with the ear?

"Or can you hear anything except with your ears?"

No.

"No."

These then may be truly said to be the ends of these organs?

"So can we truly call these the purposes of these parts?"

They may.

"They can."

But you can cut off a vine-branch with a dagger or with a chisel, and in many other ways?

"But can't you cut off a vine branch with a dagger, with a chisel, or in many other ways?"

Of course.

"Of course."

And yet not so well as with a pruning-hook made for the purpose?

"But wouldn't it work better with a pruning hook made for the job?"

True.

"True."

May we not say that this is the end of a pruning-hook?

"Can we not say that this is the end of a pruning hook?"

We may.

"We can."

Then now I think you will have no difficulty in understanding my meaning when I asked the question whether the end of anything would be that which could not be accomplished, or not so well accomplished, by any other thing?

"Now I think you won't have any trouble understanding what I meant. I asked whether the end of anything is what no other thing could do, or could not do as well."

I understand your meaning, he said, and assent.

"I understand what you mean," he said. He agreed.

And that to which an end is appointed has also an excellence? Need I ask again whether the eye has an end?

"And whatever has a purpose also has excellence. Do I need to ask again whether the eye has a purpose?"

It has.

"It has."

And has not the eye an excellence?

"Doesn't the eye have its own excellence?"

Yes.

"Yes."

And the ear has an end and an excellence also?

"So the ear has a purpose and an excellence as well?"

True.

"True."

And the same is true of all other things; they have each of them an end and a special excellence?

"And the same is true of all other things. Each one has an end and its own excellence, doesn't it?"

That is so.

"That's true."

Well, and can the eyes fulfil their end if they are wanting in their own proper excellence and have a defect instead?

"Well, can the eyes fulfill their purpose if they lack their proper excellence? What if they are defective instead?"

How can they, he said, if they are blind and cannot see?

"How can they," he asked, "if they are blind and cannot see?"

You mean to say, if they have lost their proper excellence, which is sight; but I have not arrived at that point yet. I would rather ask the question more generally, and only enquire whether the things which fulfil their ends fulfil them by their own proper excellence, and fail of fulfilling them by their own defect?

"Do you mean to say that if they have lost their proper excellence, which is sight? I'm not there yet. I'd rather ask a more general question. I only want to ask whether things that fulfill their ends do so by their own proper excellence. Do they fail to fulfill them because of their own defect?"

Certainly, he replied.

"Certainly," he said.

I might say the same of the ears; when deprived of their own proper excellence they cannot fulfil their end?

"I could say the same about the ears. When they are deprived of their natural excellence, can they fulfill their purpose?"

True.

"True."

And the same observation will apply to all other things?

"Will the same observation apply to everything else?"

I agree.

"I agree."

Well; and has not the soul an end which nothing else can fulfil? for example, to superintend and command and deliberate and the like. Are not these functions proper to the soul, and can they rightly be assigned to any other?

"Well, doesn't the soul have an end that nothing else can fulfill? For example, to oversee and command. To deliberate and do similar things. Aren't these functions proper to the soul? Can they rightly be assigned to anything else?"

To no other.

"To no one else."

And is not life to be reckoned among the ends of the soul?

"And isn't life one of the ends of the soul?"

Assuredly, he said.

"Certainly," he said.

And has not the soul an excellence also?

"And doesn't the soul have excellence too?"

Yes.

"Yes."

And can she or can she not fulfil her own ends when deprived of that excellence?

"And can she, or can she not, achieve her goals when deprived of that excellence?"

She cannot.

"She can't."

Then an evil soul must necessarily be an evil ruler and superintendent, and the good soul a good ruler?

"So an evil soul must be an evil ruler and overseer. And a good soul must be a good ruler?"

Yes, necessarily.

"Yes, certainly."

And we have admitted that justice is the excellence of the soul, and injustice the defect of the soul?

"So we've agreed that justice is what makes the soul excellent, and injustice is its defect?"

That has been admitted.

"That's been admitted."

Then the just soul and the just man will live well, and the unjust man will live ill?

"So the just soul and the just man will live well, and the unjust man will live badly?"

That is what your argument proves.

"That's what your argument proves."

And he who lives well is blessed and happy, and he who lives ill the reverse of happy?

"Is one who lives well blessed and happy, and one who lives badly the opposite, unhappy?"

Certainly.

"Certainly."

Then the just is happy, and the unjust miserable?

"So the just person is happy, and the unjust person is miserable?"

So be it.

"Very well."

But happiness and not misery is profitable.

"But happiness, not misery, is what is truly beneficial."

Of course.

"Of course."

Then, my blessed Thrasymachus, injustice can never be more profitable than justice.

"Then, my dear Thrasymachus, injustice can never be more profitable than justice."

Let this, Socrates, he said, be your entertainment at the Bendidea.

"Socrates," he said, "let this be your entertainment at the Bendidea."

For which I am indebted to you, I said, now that you have grown gentle towards me and have left off scolding. Nevertheless, I have not been well entertained; but that was my own fault and not yours. As an epicure snatches a taste of every dish which is successively brought to table, he not having allowed himself time to enjoy the one before, so have I gone from one subject to another without having discovered what I sought at first, the nature of justice. I left that enquiry and turned away to consider whether justice is virtue and wisdom or evil and folly; and when there arose a further question about the comparative advantages of justice and injustice, I could not refrain from passing on to that. And the result of the whole discussion has been that I know nothing at all. For I know not what justice is, and therefore I am not likely to know whether it is or is not a virtue, nor can I say whether the just man is happy or unhappy.

"I'm grateful to you," I said, "now that you've become gentler and stopped scolding me. Still, I haven't been well served, but that is my fault, not yours. Like someone who tastes every dish as it's carried to the table, not taking time to enjoy any single one. I've jumped from topic to topic and never found what I first wanted: the nature of justice. I left that question. I turned to ask whether justice is virtue and wisdom, or whether it is vice and foolishness. Then, when the question of the advantages of justice versus injustice came up, I couldn't resist moving on to that. The whole discussion has left me knowing nothing. I don't know what justice is. So I can't say whether it's a virtue. I also can't tell whether a just person is happy or unhappy."