BOOK III

Such then, I said, are our principles of theology—some tales are to be told, and others are not to be told to our disciples from their youth upwards, if we mean them to honour the gods and their parents, and to value friendship with one another.

"So," I said, "these are our principles of theology. Some stories we should tell, and others we should not tell our students from their youth. This teaches them to honor the gods and their parents, and to value friendship with each other."

Yes; and I think that our principles are right, he said.

"Yes," he said. "I think our principles are right."

But if they are to be courageous, must they not learn other lessons besides these, and lessons of such a kind as will take away the fear of death? Can any man be courageous who has the fear of death in him?

"But if they are to be courageous, shouldn't they learn other lessons besides these? Lessons that will remove the fear of death. Can anyone be truly courageous if they fear death?"

Certainly not, he said.

"Certainly not," he said.

And can he be fearless of death, or will he choose death in battle rather than defeat and slavery, who believes the world below to be real and terrible?

"Can anyone who believes the world below is real and terrible be fearless of death? Would he choose death in battle rather than suffer defeat and slavery?"

Impossible.

"Impossible."

Then we must assume a control over the narrators of this class of tales as well as over the others, and beg them not simply to revile but rather to commend the world below, intimating to them that their descriptions are untrue, and will do harm to our future warriors.

"Then we must take control of the storytellers of these tales and of the others. Ask them not to speak badly of the world below but to praise it. Make clear that their descriptions are false and will harm our future warriors."

That will be our duty, he said.

"That will be our duty," he said.

Then, I said, we shall have to obliterate many obnoxious passages, beginning with the verses,

"Then," I said, "we'll have to remove many offensive passages, starting with the verses."

‘I would rather be a serf on the land of a poor and portionless man than rule over all the dead who have come to nought.’

"I'd rather be a serf on the land of a poor, landless man. I wouldn't rule over the dead who have come to nothing."

We must also expunge the verse, which tells us how Pluto feared,

"We must also remove the verse that says Pluto was afraid."

‘Lest the mansions grim and squalid which the gods abhor should be seen both of mortals and immortals.’

"So that neither mortals nor immortals see the grim, squalid homes the gods despise."

And again:—

Again:

‘O heavens! verily in the house of Hades there is soul and ghostly form but no mind at all!’

"Oh heavens! Truly, in the house of Hades there is soul and a ghostly form. There is no mind at all!"

Again of Tiresias:—

Again, about Tiresias.

‘(To him even after death did Persephone grant mind,) that he alone should be wise; but the other souls are flitting shades.’

"Persephone gave him his mind even after death. He alone remained wise, while the other souls were flitting shades."

Again:—

Again.

‘The soul flying from the limbs had gone to Hades, lamenting her fate, leaving manhood and youth.’

"The soul left the body and went to Hades. She lamented her fate, leaving manhood and youth behind."

Again:—

"Again."

‘And the soul, with shrilling cry, passed like smoke beneath the earth.’

"And the soul, with a piercing cry, sank like smoke beneath the earth."

And,—

"And..."

‘As bats in hollow of mystic cavern, whenever any of them has dropped out of the string and falls from the rock, fly shrilling and cling to one another, so did they with shrilling cry hold together as they moved.’

"They were like bats in the hollow of a mystic cavern. When one drops from the rock, the others fly shrieking. They cling together and move on with shrill cries."

And we must beg Homer and the other poets not to be angry if we strike out these and similar passages, not because they are unpoetical, or unattractive to the popular ear, but because the greater the poetical charm of them, the less are they meet for the ears of boys and men who are meant to be free, and who should fear slavery more than death.

"We must ask Homer and the other poets not to be angry if we remove these and similar passages. It is not because they lack poetic charm or are unattractive to popular taste. In fact, the more charming they are, the less suitable they are for boys and men meant to be free. Those people should fear slavery more than death."

Undoubtedly.

"Certainly."

Also we shall have to reject all the terrible and appalling names which describe the world below—Cocytus and Styx, ghosts under the earth, and sapless shades, and any similar words of which the very mention causes a shudder to pass through the inmost soul of him who hears them. I do not say that these horrible stories may not have a use of some kind; but there is a danger that the nerves of our guardians may be rendered too excitable and effeminate by them.

"We should reject all those terrible, frightening names for the world below. Names like Cocytus and Styx. Ghosts under the earth and lifeless shades. And any similar words that make a shiver run through the deepest part of anyone who hears them. I'm not saying these horrible stories have no use at all. But they can make our guardians' nerves too jumpy and weak."

There is a real danger, he said.

"There's a real danger," he said.

Then we must have no more of them.

"Then we must have no more of them."

True.

"True."

Another and a nobler strain must be composed and sung by us.

"We must compose and sing a different, nobler song."

Clearly.

"Clearly."

And shall we proceed to get rid of the weepings and wailings of famous men?

"Shall we stop the crying and lamenting over famous men?"

They will go with the rest.

"They'll go with the rest."

But shall we be right in getting rid of them? Reflect: our principle is that the good man will not consider death terrible to any other good man who is his comrade.

"But would we be right to get rid of them? Think about it. Our principle is simple. A good man will not see death as terrible for another good man who is his comrade."

Yes; that is our principle.

"Yes, that is our principle."

And therefore he will not sorrow for his departed friend as though he had suffered anything terrible?

"So he will not grieve for his departed friend as if he had suffered something terrible?"

He will not.

"He won't."

Such an one, as we further maintain, is sufficient for himself and his own happiness, and therefore is least in need of other men.

"Someone like that, as we have argued, is self-sufficient and can be happy on their own. So they need other people the least."

True, he said.

"True," he said.

And for this reason the loss of a son or brother, or the deprivation of fortune, is to him of all men least terrible.

"That's why, for him, losing a son or brother is the least terrible thing. The same goes for the loss of his fortune."

Assuredly.

"Certainly."

And therefore he will be least likely to lament, and will bear with the greatest equanimity any misfortune of this sort which may befall him.

"So he will be least likely to lament. He will face any such misfortune with the greatest calm."

Yes, he will feel such a misfortune far less than another.

"Yes, he will feel this misfortune much less than someone else."

Then we shall be right in getting rid of the lamentations of famous men, and making them over to women (and not even to women who are good for anything), or to men of a baser sort, that those who are being educated by us to be the defenders of their country may scorn to do the like.

"Then we're right to get rid of the lamentations for famous men. Give them to women, and not even to women who are any good, or to less honorable men. That way those we are training to be the defenders of their country will scorn doing the same."

That will be very right.

"That's exactly right."

Then we will once more entreat Homer and the other poets not to depict Achilles, who is the son of a goddess, first lying on his side, then on his back, and then on his face; then starting up and sailing in a frenzy along the shores of the barren sea; now taking the sooty ashes in both his hands and pouring them over his head, or weeping and wailing in the various modes which Homer has delineated. Nor should he describe Priam the kinsman of the gods as praying and beseeching,

"Then we will again ask Homer and the other poets not to show Achilles, the son of a goddess, first lying on his side, then on his back, then face down. We will not have him spring up and rush in a frenzy along the empty shore. We will not show him scooping up the sooty ashes with both hands and pouring them over his head, or crying and wailing in the many ways Homer describes. Nor should they portray Priam, a kinsman of the gods, praying and begging,"

‘Rolling in the dirt, calling each man loudly by his name.’

"They rolled in the dirt, loudly calling each man by name."

Still more earnestly will we beg of him at all events not to introduce the gods lamenting and saying,

"We will urge him even more strongly. In any case, he must not show the gods lamenting and speaking."

‘Alas! my misery! Alas! that I bore the bravest to my sorrow.’

"Oh, my misery! Oh, that I gave birth to the bravest, only to cause myself sorrow."

But if he must introduce the gods, at any rate let him not dare so completely to misrepresent the greatest of the gods, as to make him say—

"But if he must introduce the gods, at least he should not dare to completely misrepresent the greatest of the gods. He must not make him say..."

‘O heavens! with my eyes verily I behold a dear friend of mine chased round and round the city, and my heart is sorrowful.’

"Oh heavens! I see with my own eyes a dear friend chased all around the city. My heart is heavy."

Or again:—

Or consider this:

Woe is me that I am fated to have Sarpedon, dearest of men to me, subdued at the hands of Patroclus the son of Menoetius.’

"Alas. I am fated to see Sarpedon, the man dearest to me, defeated by Patroclus, son of Menoetius."

For if, my sweet Adeimantus, our youth seriously listen to such unworthy representations of the gods, instead of laughing at them as they ought, hardly will any of them deem that he himself, being but a man, can be dishonoured by similar actions; neither will he rebuke any inclination which may arise in his mind to say and do the like. And instead of having any shame or self-control, he will be always whining and lamenting on slight occasions.

"My dear Adeimantus, if our young people take unworthy portrayals of the gods seriously, they will not laugh. Hardly any of them will think such actions dishonorable. They will not check any urge to say or do the same. Instead of shame or self-control, they will always whine and complain about trivial things."

Yes, he said, that is most true.

"Yes," he said, "that's absolutely true."

Yes, I replied; but that surely is what ought not to be, as the argument has just proved to us; and by that proof we must abide until it is disproved by a better.

"Yes," I replied. "But that is exactly what ought not to be, as the argument just proved to us. We must abide by that proof until a better one disproves it."

It ought not to be.

"It should not be."

Neither ought our guardians to be given to laughter. For a fit of laughter which has been indulged to excess almost always produces a violent reaction.

"Neither should our guardians be given to laughter. A fit of laughter indulged to excess almost always produces a violent reaction."

So I believe.

"I think so."

Then persons of worth, even if only mortal men, must not be represented as overcome by laughter, and still less must such a representation of the gods be allowed.

"People of worth, even if they are only mortal, should not be portrayed as overcome by laughter. It is even less acceptable to portray the gods that way."

Still less of the gods, as you say, he replied.

"Even less about the gods, as you say," he replied.

Then we shall not suffer such an expression to be used about the gods as that of Homer when he describes how

"Then we will not allow such expressions about the gods as Homer uses when he describes how"

‘Inextinguishable laughter arose among the blessed gods, when they saw Hephaestus bustling about the mansion.’

"The blessed gods burst into uncontrollable laughter when they saw Hephaestus bustling around the house."

On your views, we must not admit them.

"From your point of view, we mustn't admit them."

On my views, if you like to father them on me; that we must not admit them is certain.

"If you like, you can attribute those views to me. But we certainly must not admit them."

Again, truth should be highly valued; if, as we were saying, a lie is useless to the gods, and useful only as a medicine to men, then the use of such medicines should be restricted to physicians; private individuals have no business with them.

"Again, we should prize truth highly. As we said, a lie is useless to the gods. It only serves as a medicine for people. So such medicines should be left to doctors. Private individuals should not use them."

Clearly not, he said.

"Clearly not," he said.

Then if any one at all is to have the privilege of lying, the rulers of the State should be the persons; and they, in their dealings either with enemies or with their own citizens, may be allowed to lie for the public good. But nobody else should meddle with anything of the kind; and although the rulers have this privilege, for a private man to lie to them in return is to be deemed a more heinous fault than for the patient or the pupil of a gymnasium not to speak the truth about his own bodily illnesses to the physician or to the trainer, or for a sailor not to tell the captain what is happening about the ship and the rest of the crew, and how things are going with himself or his fellow sailors.

"If anyone should have the right to lie, it should be the rulers of the state. They may lie to enemies or to their own citizens when this serves the public good. No one else should do this. And even though rulers have that right, a private person lying to them is a more serious offense. Worse than that is a patient hiding symptoms from a doctor. Also worse is a pupil at the gymnasium who hides illness from a trainer. Worse still is a sailor who fails to tell the captain what is happening on the ship. Worse still is not reporting how he and his fellow sailors are doing."

Most true, he said.

"That's very true," he said.

If, then, the ruler catches anybody beside himself lying in the State,

"If the ruler catches anyone else lying in the State,"

‘Any of the craftsmen, whether he be priest or physician or carpenter,’

"Any craftsman, whether priest, doctor, or carpenter,"

he will punish him for introducing a practice which is equally subversive and destructive of ship or State.

"He will punish him for introducing a practice that is equally subversive and destructive to the ship or the state."

Most certainly, he said, if our idea of the State is ever carried out.

"Most certainly," he said, "if our idea of the State is ever carried out."

In the next place our youth must be temperate?

"Next, shouldn't our youth be self-controlled?"

Certainly.

"Certainly."

Are not the chief elements of temperance, speaking generally, obedience to commanders and self-control in sensual pleasures?

"Aren't the main parts of temperance, in general, obedience to commanders and self-control over sensual pleasures?"

True.

"True."

Then we shall approve such language as that of Diomede in Homer,

"Then we'll approve language like Diomede's in Homer."

‘Friend, sit still and obey my word,’

"Friend, sit still and do as I say,"

and the verses which follow,

"and the verses that follow,"

‘The Greeks marched breathing prowess, ...in silent awe of their leaders,’

"The Greeks marched, full of courage, silently awed by their leaders."

and other sentiments of the same kind.

and other similar opinions.

We shall.

"We will."

What of this line,

"What about this line?"

‘O heavy with wine, who hast the eyes of a dog and the heart of a stag,’

"You, drunk, with the eyes of a dog and the heart of a stag."

and of the words which follow? Would you say that these, or any similar impertinences which private individuals are supposed to address to their rulers, whether in verse or prose, are well or ill spoken?

"And what about the words that follow? Would you say these are well spoken or badly spoken? What about any similar impertinent remarks private individuals direct at their rulers, in verse or prose?"

They are ill spoken.

"People speak badly of them."

They may very possibly afford some amusement, but they do not conduce to temperance. And therefore they are likely to do harm to our young men—you would agree with me there?

"They might be entertaining, but they don't encourage self-control. So they could harm our young men. You agree with me?"

Yes.

"Yes."

And then, again, to make the wisest of men say that nothing in his opinion is more glorious than

"And again, to make the wisest man say that nothing, in his view, is more glorious than"

‘When the tables are full of bread and meat, and the cup-bearer carries round wine which he draws from the bowl and pours into the cups,’

"When the tables are piled with bread and meat. The cup-bearer goes around drawing wine from the bowl and pouring it into cups,"

is it fit or conducive to temperance for a young man to hear such words? Or the verse

"Is it fitting, or would it help a young man's self-control, for him to hear such words? Or the verse?"

‘The saddest of fates is to die and meet destiny from hunger?’

"Is dying of hunger the saddest fate?"

What would you say again to the tale of Zeus, who, while other gods and men were asleep and he the only person awake, lay devising plans, but forgot them all in a moment through his lust, and was so completely overcome at the sight of Here that he would not even go into the hut, but wanted to lie with her on the ground, declaring that he had never been in such a state of rapture before, even when they first met one another

"What would you say about the story of Zeus? While the other gods and men slept, he was the only one awake. He lay there making plans, but he forgot them in an instant because of his desire. At the sight of Here he was so overcome that he would not even go into the hut. He wanted to lie with her on the ground. He said he had never been so enraptured before, not even the first time they met."

‘Without the knowledge of their parents;’

"Without their parents' knowledge."

or that other tale of how Hephaestus, because of similar goings on, cast a chain around Ares and Aphrodite?

"Or that other story about how Hephaestus, because of similar behavior, put a chain around Ares and Aphrodite?"

Indeed, he said, I am strongly of opinion that they ought not to hear that sort of thing.

"Indeed," he said, "I strongly believe they shouldn't hear that sort of thing."

But any deeds of endurance which are done or told by famous men, these they ought to see and hear; as, for example, what is said in the verses,

"But they should see and hear stories of endurance done or told by famous men. For example, what is said in the verses,"

‘He smote his breast, and thus reproached his heart, Endure, my heart; far worse hast thou endured!’

He struck his chest and scolded his heart. "Endure, my heart. You have endured far worse!"

Certainly, he said.

"Certainly," he said.

In the next place, we must not let them be receivers of gifts or lovers of money.

"Next, we must not allow them to accept gifts. They must not love money."

Certainly not.

"Certainly not."

Neither must we sing to them of

"We must not sing to them about"

‘Gifts persuading gods, and persuading reverend kings.’

"Gifts that sway the gods and influence revered kings."

Neither is Phoenix, the tutor of Achilles, to be approved or deemed to have given his pupil good counsel when he told him that he should take the gifts of the Greeks and assist them; but that without a gift he should not lay aside his anger. Neither will we believe or acknowledge Achilles himself to have been such a lover of money that he took Agamemnon’s gifts, or that when he had received payment he restored the dead body of Hector, but that without payment he was unwilling to do so.

"We should not approve Phoenix, Achilles' tutor, for advising him to accept the Greeks' gifts and help them. He said Achilles should not set aside his anger without receiving a gift. Nor should we believe Achilles was so fond of money that he accepted Agamemnon's gifts. We should not think he returned Hector's body only after being paid."

Undoubtedly, he said, these are not sentiments which can be approved.

"Undoubtedly," he said, "these are not sentiments we can approve."

Loving Homer as I do, I hardly like to say that in attributing these feelings to Achilles, or in believing that they are truly attributed to him, he is guilty of downright impiety. As little can I believe the narrative of his insolence to Apollo, where he says,

I love Homer, so I am reluctant to say this. But when he gives these feelings to Achilles, or when we accept them as Achilles', he is plainly impious. I also cannot accept the story that makes Achilles insolent to Apollo, where he says,

‘Thou hast wronged me, O far-darter, most abominable of deities. Verily I would be even with thee, if I had only the power;’

"You have wronged me, O far-darter, most abominable of gods. I would even the score if I had the power."

or his insubordination to the river-god, on whose divinity he is ready to lay hands; or his offering to the dead Patroclus of his own hair, which had been previously dedicated to the other river-god Spercheius, and that he actually performed this vow; or that he dragged Hector round the tomb of Patroclus, and slaughtered the captives at the pyre; of all this I cannot believe that he was guilty, any more than I can allow our citizens to believe that he, the wise Cheiron’s pupil, the son of a goddess and of Peleus who was the gentlest of men and third in descent from Zeus, was so disordered in his wits as to be at one time the slave of two seemingly inconsistent passions, meanness, not untainted by avarice, combined with overweening contempt of gods and men.

"Or his disrespect toward the river-god, as if he would lay hands on the god's divinity. Or that he offered his own hair to the dead Patroclus. That hair had earlier been dedicated to the river-god Spercheius, and he actually kept that vow. Or that he dragged Hector around Patroclus's tomb and killed the captives at the funeral pyre. I cannot believe he did any of this. Nor can I allow our citizens to believe it. He was Cheiron's pupil. He was the son of a goddess and of Peleus, the gentlest of men, and descended third from Zeus. I cannot think he was so out of his mind as to be the slave of two contradictory passions at once. One passion was meanness, mixed with greed. The other was an excessive contempt for gods and men."

You are quite right, he replied.

"You're quite right," he replied.

And let us equally refuse to believe, or allow to be repeated, the tale of Theseus son of Poseidon, or of Peirithous son of Zeus, going forth as they did to perpetrate a horrid rape; or of any other hero or son of a god daring to do such impious and dreadful things as they falsely ascribe to them in our day: and let us further compel the poets to declare either that these acts were not done by them, or that they were not the sons of gods;—both in the same breath they shall not be permitted to affirm. We will not have them trying to persuade our youth that the gods are the authors of evil, and that heroes are no better than men—sentiments which, as we were saying, are neither pious nor true, for we have already proved that evil cannot come from the gods.

"And let us also refuse to believe or repeat the story that Theseus, son of Poseidon, or Peirithous, son of Zeus, went out and committed such a terrible rape. Refuse any tale that any other hero or son of a god did such impious, dreadful things, as people now falsely say. We should require the poets to say either that those acts were not done by these men or that those men were not sons of gods. They must not be allowed to say both at once. We will not let them try to persuade our young people that the gods are the authors of evil or that heroes are no better than ordinary men. Those ideas are neither pious nor true. We have already shown that evil cannot come from the gods."

Assuredly not.

"Certainly not."

And further they are likely to have a bad effect on those who hear them; for everybody will begin to excuse his own vices when he is convinced that similar wickednesses are always being perpetrated by—

"They will probably have a bad effect on those who hear them. Everyone will begin to excuse their own vices if they are convinced the same wickedness is always being committed by..."

‘The kindred of the gods, the relatives of Zeus, whose ancestral altar, the altar of Zeus, is aloft in air on the peak of Ida,’

"They are kin of the gods, relatives of Zeus. Their ancestral altar, the altar of Zeus, stands high on Mount Ida."

and who have

"and who have"

‘the blood of deities yet flowing in their veins.’

"The blood of the gods still flows in their veins."

And therefore let us put an end to such tales, lest they engender laxity of morals among the young.

"Let's stop telling such tales. They could make young people morally lax."

By all means, he replied.

"Certainly," he said.

But now that we are determining what classes of subjects are or are not to be spoken of, let us see whether any have been omitted by us. The manner in which gods and demigods and heroes and the world below should be treated has been already laid down.

"But now that we're deciding which kinds of subjects should or should not be spoken about, let's check whether we've left any out. We've already laid down how to handle the gods, demigods, heroes, and the underworld."

Very true.

"That's very true."

And what shall we say about men? That is clearly the remaining portion of our subject.

"And what should we say about men? That is clearly the remaining part of our subject."

Clearly so.

"That's clear."

But we are not in a condition to answer this question at present, my friend.

"But we're not in a position to answer that question right now, my friend."

Why not?

"Why not?"

Because, if I am not mistaken, we shall have to say that about men poets and story-tellers are guilty of making the gravest misstatements when they tell us that wicked men are often happy, and the good miserable; and that injustice is profitable when undetected, but that justice is a man’s own loss and another’s gain—these things we shall forbid them to utter, and command them to sing and say the opposite.

"Because, if I'm not mistaken, we'll have to say that the poets and storytellers are seriously wrong. They tell us that the wicked are often happy and the good are miserable. They also say that injustice pays if it goes unnoticed. They say justice is a man's loss and someone else's gain. We must forbid them from saying those things and require them to sing the opposite."

To be sure we shall, he replied.

"Of course we will," he replied.

But if you admit that I am right in this, then I shall maintain that you have implied the principle for which we have been all along contending.

"But if you admit I'm right about this, I'll insist you've already accepted the principle we've been arguing for."

I grant the truth of your inference.

"I agree your inference is correct."

That such things are or are not to be said about men is a question which we cannot determine until we have discovered what justice is, and how naturally advantageous to the possessor, whether he seem to be just or not.

"Whether those things should be said about people is a question we cannot answer until we've discovered what justice is. We also need to know whether justice is naturally beneficial to its possessor. That holds whether they appear to be just or not."

Most true, he said.

"That's very true," he said.

Enough of the subjects of poetry: let us now speak of the style; and when this has been considered, both matter and manner will have been completely treated.

"Enough about the subjects of poetry. Let's now talk about style. Once we've considered it, both content and form will be fully covered."

I do not understand what you mean, said Adeimantus.

"I don't understand what you mean," said Adeimantus.

Then I must make you understand; and perhaps I may be more intelligible if I put the matter in this way. You are aware, I suppose, that all mythology and poetry is a narration of events, either past, present, or to come?

"Then I must make you understand. I might be clearer if I put it this way. You know, I suppose, that all myths and poems tell of events in the past, present, or future?"

Certainly, he replied.

"Certainly," he said.

And narration may be either simple narration, or imitation, or a union of the two?

"So is narration either simple telling, imitation, or a combination of the two?"

That again, he said, I do not quite understand.

"I don't quite understand that," he said.

I fear that I must be a ridiculous teacher when I have so much difficulty in making myself apprehended. Like a bad speaker, therefore, I will not take the whole of the subject, but will break a piece off in illustration of my meaning. You know the first lines of the Iliad, in which the poet says that Chryses prayed Agamemnon to release his daughter, and that Agamemnon flew into a passion with him; whereupon Chryses, failing of his object, invoked the anger of the God against the Achaeans. Now as far as these lines,

"I fear I must be a ridiculous teacher when I have so much trouble making myself understood. So, like a poor speaker, I won't try to cover the whole subject. I'll take a small part to illustrate my meaning. You know the opening lines of the Iliad. The poet says Chryses begged Agamemnon to return his daughter, and Agamemnon flew into a rage. When Chryses failed, he called down the god's anger on the Achaeans. Now, as far as these lines,"

‘And he prayed all the Greeks, but especially the two sons of Atreus, the chiefs of the people,’

"And he pleaded with all the Greeks, especially the two sons of Atreus, the chiefs of the people,"

the poet is speaking in his own person; he never leads us to suppose that he is any one else. But in what follows he takes the person of Chryses, and then he does all that he can to make us believe that the speaker is not Homer, but the aged priest himself. And in this double form he has cast the entire narrative of the events which occurred at Troy and in Ithaca and throughout the Odyssey.

The poet speaks in his own voice. He never lets us think he is anyone else. Then he takes on the voice of Chryses. He does everything he can to make us believe the speaker is the old priest himself. In this double role he frames the whole story of what happened at Troy, in Ithaca, and throughout the Odyssey.

Yes.

"Yes."

And a narrative it remains both in the speeches which the poet recites from time to time and in the intermediate passages?

"And isn't it still a narrative in the speeches the poet recites and in the passages between them?"

Quite true.

"That's true."

But when the poet speaks in the person of another, may we not say that he assimilates his style to that of the person who, as he informs you, is going to speak?

"But when a poet speaks in another person's voice, doesn't he adopt that person's style? Specifically, the style of the person he tells you will speak."

Certainly.

"Certainly."

And this assimilation of himself to another, either by the use of voice or gesture, is the imitation of the person whose character he assumes?

"And when someone copies another's voice or gestures, is that imitating the person whose character they take on?"

Of course.

"Of course."

Then in this case the narrative of the poet may be said to proceed by way of imitation?

"So, in this case, can we say the poet's narrative is an imitation?"

Very true.

"That's true."

Or, if the poet everywhere appears and never conceals himself, then again the imitation is dropped, and his poetry becomes simple narration. However, in order that I may make my meaning quite clear, and that you may no more say, ‘I don’t understand,’ I will show how the change might be effected. If Homer had said, ‘The priest came, having his daughter’s ransom in his hands, supplicating the Achaeans, and above all the kings;’ and then if, instead of speaking in the person of Chryses, he had continued in his own person, the words would have been, not imitation, but simple narration. The passage would have run as follows (I am no poet, and therefore I drop the metre), ‘The priest came and prayed the gods on behalf of the Greeks that they might capture Troy and return safely home, but begged that they would give him back his daughter, and take the ransom which he brought, and respect the God. Thus he spoke, and the other Greeks revered the priest and assented. But Agamemnon was wroth, and bade him depart and not come again, lest the staff and chaplets of the God should be of no avail to him—the daughter of Chryses should not be released, he said—she should grow old with him in Argos. And then he told him to go away and not to provoke him, if he intended to get home unscathed. And the old man went away in fear and silence, and, when he had left the camp, he called upon Apollo by his many names, reminding him of everything which he had done pleasing to him, whether in building his temples, or in offering sacrifice, and praying that his good deeds might be returned to him, and that the Achaeans might expiate his tears by the arrows of the god,’—and so on. In this way the whole becomes simple narrative.

"If the poet shows himself everywhere and never hides, he stops imitating and the poem becomes plain narration. I'll make my meaning clear so you won't say, 'I don't understand.' I'll show how the change could happen. Imagine Homer had written, 'The priest came holding the ransom for his daughter, begging the Achaeans, especially the kings.' If he had kept speaking as himself instead of taking Chryses's voice, it would not be imitation but plain narration. The passage would read like this (I'm no poet, so I drop the metre). 'The priest came and prayed to the gods for the Greeks, that they might capture Troy and return home safely. He begged them to give his daughter back, to accept the ransom he had brought, and to honor the god. After he spoke, the other Greeks respected him and agreed. But Agamemnon was angry. He told him to leave and never come back, warning that the staff and chaplets of the god would not save him. "You will not get my daughter back," he said. "She will grow old with me in Argos." He told the priest to go and not provoke him if he wanted to get home unharmed. The old man left the camp in fear and silence. Once he was away he called on Apollo by his many names. He reminded the god of everything he had done to please him, whether building temples or offering sacrifices. He prayed that his good deeds would be repaid, and that the Achaeans might pay for his tears with the god's arrows.' And so on. In this way the whole passage becomes simple narrative."

I understand, he said.

"I understand," he said.

Or you may suppose the opposite case—that the intermediate passages are omitted, and the dialogue only left.

"Or you can suppose the opposite. The intermediate passages are omitted, leaving only the dialogue."

That also, he said, I understand; you mean, for example, as in tragedy.

"I understand that too," he said. "You mean, for example, like in a tragedy."

You have conceived my meaning perfectly; and if I mistake not, what you failed to apprehend before is now made clear to you, that poetry and mythology are, in some cases, wholly imitative—instances of this are supplied by tragedy and comedy; there is likewise the opposite style, in which the poet is the only speaker—of this the dithyramb affords the best example; and the combination of both is found in epic, and in several other styles of poetry. Do I take you with me?

"You've understood me perfectly. If I'm not mistaken, what you couldn't grasp before should be clear now. In some cases, poetry and mythology are entirely imitative. Tragedy and comedy are examples. There is also the opposite style, where the poet is the only speaker. The dithyramb is the best example of that. Epic poetry and several other forms combine both styles. Do you follow me?"

Yes, he said; I see now what you meant.

"Yes," he said. "I see now what you meant."

I will ask you to remember also what I began by saying, that we had done with the subject and might proceed to the style.

"Please remember what I said at the beginning. We were done with the subject and could move on to the style."

Yes, I remember.

"Yes, I remember."

In saying this, I intended to imply that we must come to an understanding about the mimetic art,—whether the poets, in narrating their stories, are to be allowed by us to imitate, and if so, whether in whole or in part, and if the latter, in what parts; or should all imitation be prohibited?

"By that I meant we need to reach an agreement about the mimetic art. Should we allow poets to imitate when they tell their stories? If so, should they imitate the whole story or only parts? If only parts, which parts? Or should we ban imitation entirely?"

You mean, I suspect, to ask whether tragedy and comedy shall be admitted into our State?

"I suppose you mean to ask whether we should admit tragedy and comedy into our State?"

Yes, I said; but there may be more than this in question: I really do not know as yet, but whither the argument may blow, thither we go.

"Yes," I said. "But there may be more at stake. I don't really know yet. We'll go wherever the argument leads."

And go we will, he said.

"We will go," he said.

Then, Adeimantus, let me ask you whether our guardians ought to be imitators; or rather, has not this question been decided by the rule already laid down that one man can only do one thing well, and not many; and that if he attempt many, he will altogether fail of gaining much reputation in any?

"Then, Adeimantus, let me ask whether our guardians should be imitators. Or hasn't this been decided already by the rule we laid down? One person can do only one thing well, not many. If he tries many tasks, he will fail to gain a good reputation in any of them."

Certainly.

"Certainly."

And this is equally true of imitation; no one man can imitate many things as well as he would imitate a single one?

"And isn't the same true of imitation? A person cannot imitate many things as well as they can imitate one."

He cannot.

"He cannot."

Then the same person will hardly be able to play a serious part in life, and at the same time to be an imitator and imitate many other parts as well; for even when two species of imitation are nearly allied, the same persons cannot succeed in both, as, for example, the writers of tragedy and comedy—did you not just now call them imitations?

"Then the same person will hardly be able to play a serious role in life. He cannot also be an imitator who takes on many other parts. Even when two kinds of imitation are closely related, people cannot succeed in both. For example, writers of tragedy and writers of comedy. Didn't you just now call them imitations?"

Yes, I did; and you are right in thinking that the same persons cannot succeed in both.

"Yes, I did. You're right to think the same people can't succeed at both."

Any more than they can be rhapsodists and actors at once?

"Can they be rhapsodists and actors at the same time?"

True.

"That's true."

Neither are comic and tragic actors the same; yet all these things are but imitations.

"Comic and tragic actors are not the same. Still, they are all just imitations."

They are so.

"They are."

And human nature, Adeimantus, appears to have been coined into yet smaller pieces, and to be as incapable of imitating many things well, as of performing well the actions of which the imitations are copies.

"Human nature, Adeimantus, seems to have been split into even smaller parts. It is as unable to imitate many things well as to perform the real actions they copy."

Quite true, he replied.

"That's quite true," he replied.

If then we adhere to our original notion and bear in mind that our guardians, setting aside every other business, are to dedicate themselves wholly to the maintenance of freedom in the State, making this their craft, and engaging in no work which does not bear on this end, they ought not to practise or imitate anything else; if they imitate at all, they should imitate from youth upward only those characters which are suitable to their profession—the courageous, temperate, holy, free, and the like; but they should not depict or be skilful at imitating any kind of illiberality or baseness, lest from imitation they should come to be what they imitate. Did you never observe how imitations, beginning in early youth and continuing far into life, at length grow into habits and become a second nature, affecting body, voice, and mind?

"If we stick to our original idea, remember that our guardians must set aside every other task. They must devote themselves entirely to keeping the state free. Let that be their craft. They should do no work that does not serve this aim. They should not practice or copy other kinds of behavior. If they imitate at all, they must, from youth on, copy only characters fit for their role: the courageous, the temperate, the holy, the free, and the like. They must not portray, or become skilled at portraying, any kind of meanness or baseness. Otherwise, through imitation they may become what they copy. Have you never noticed how imitations that start in early youth and continue into life grow into habits and become a second nature, affecting body, voice, and mind?"

Yes, certainly, he said.

"Yes, certainly," he said.

Then, I said, we will not allow those for whom we profess a care and of whom we say that they ought to be good men, to imitate a woman, whether young or old, quarrelling with her husband, or striving and vaunting against the gods in conceit of her happiness, or when she is in affliction, or sorrow, or weeping; and certainly not one who is in sickness, love, or labour.

Then I said, "We will not allow those we care for to imitate a woman. Young or old. A woman who quarrels with her husband. Or who boasts against the gods, thinking herself happy. Nor a woman who is in trouble, grieving, or weeping. And certainly not one who is sick, in love, or in labor."

Very right, he said.

"That's right," he said.

Neither must they represent slaves, male or female, performing the offices of slaves?

"Nor should they portray male or female slaves performing slave duties?"

They must not.

"They must not."

And surely not bad men, whether cowards or any others, who do the reverse of what we have just been prescribing, who scold or mock or revile one another in drink or out of drink, or who in any other manner sin against themselves and their neighbours in word or deed, as the manner of such is. Neither should they be trained to imitate the action or speech of men or women who are mad or bad; for madness, like vice, is to be known but not to be practised or imitated.

"We must not include bad people, whether cowards or others, who do the opposite of what we just described. Such people should not insult, mock, or revile one another, drunk or sober. Nor should we tolerate those who harm themselves or their neighbors by word or deed. They must not be trained to imitate the actions or speech of men or women who are mad or immoral. Madness, like vice, should be known but never practiced or copied."

Very true, he replied.

"That's very true," he said.

Neither may they imitate smiths or other artificers, or oarsmen, or boatswains, or the like?

"May they imitate blacksmiths, other craftsmen, rowers, boatswains, or similar people?"

How can they, he said, when they are not allowed to apply their minds to the callings of any of these?

"How can they," he asked, "when they are not allowed to apply their minds to any of these occupations?"

Nor may they imitate the neighing of horses, the bellowing of bulls, the murmur of rivers and roll of the ocean, thunder, and all that sort of thing?

"Nor may they imitate the neighing of horses? Or the bellowing of bulls? Or the murmur of rivers, the roar of the ocean, thunder, and things like that?"

Nay, he said, if madness be forbidden, neither may they copy the behaviour of madmen.

"No," he said. "If madness is forbidden, they may not imitate the behavior of madmen."

You mean, I said, if I understand you aright, that there is one sort of narrative style which may be employed by a truly good man when he has anything to say, and that another sort will be used by a man of an opposite character and education.

"You mean," I said, "if I understand you correctly. One narrative style may be used by a truly good person when they have something to say. A different style will be used by someone with the opposite character and education."

And which are these two sorts? he asked.

"And what are the two kinds?" he asked.

Suppose, I answered, that a just and good man in the course of a narration comes on some saying or action of another good man,—I should imagine that he will like to personate him, and will not be ashamed of this sort of imitation: he will be most ready to play the part of the good man when he is acting firmly and wisely; in a less degree when he is overtaken by illness or love or drink, or has met with any other disaster. But when he comes to a character which is unworthy of him, he will not make a study of that; he will disdain such a person, and will assume his likeness, if at all, for a moment only when he is performing some good action; at other times he will be ashamed to play a part which he has never practised, nor will he like to fashion and frame himself after the baser models; he feels the employment of such an art, unless in jest, to be beneath him, and his mind revolts at it.

"Suppose," I answered, "a just and good man, while telling a story, comes to something another good man said or did. I think he'll want to take on that person's role. He won't be ashamed to imitate him. He will be most willing to play the part when the other man acts firmly and wisely. He will be less ready to do so when the man is overcome by illness, love, drink, or some other misfortune. But when he meets a character unworthy of him, he won't study it. He will disdain that person. At most he will take on the person's manner for a moment, and only when that person is doing something good. At other times he will be ashamed to play a role he's never practiced. He won't want to shape himself after lower examples. Except in jest, he will see such acting as beneath him, and his mind will revolt against it."

So I should expect, he replied.

"So I should expect that," he replied.

Then he will adopt a mode of narration such as we have illustrated out of Homer, that is to say, his style will be both imitative and narrative; but there will be very little of the former, and a great deal of the latter. Do you agree?

"He will adopt a way of telling the story like the Homer example we used. His style will be both imitative and narrative. There will be very little of the former and a great deal of the latter. Do you agree?"

Certainly, he said; that is the model which such a speaker must necessarily take.

"Certainly," he said. "That is the model such a speaker must adopt."

But there is another sort of character who will narrate anything, and, the worse he is, the more unscrupulous he will be; nothing will be too bad for him: and he will be ready to imitate anything, not as a joke, but in right good earnest, and before a large company. As I was just now saying, he will attempt to represent the roll of thunder, the noise of wind and hail, or the creaking of wheels, and pulleys, and the various sounds of flutes, pipes, trumpets, and all sorts of instruments: he will bark like a dog, bleat like a sheep, or crow like a cock; his entire art will consist in imitation of voice and gesture, and there will be very little narration.

"But there is another kind of performer who will tell anything. The worse he is, the more shameless he becomes. Nothing is too low for him. He will copy anything, not as a joke but in earnest, and in front of a large crowd. As I was just now saying, he will try to imitate thunder, the sound of wind and hail, the creaking of wheels and pulleys, and the noises of flutes, pipes, trumpets, and other instruments. He will bark like a dog, bleat like a sheep, or crow like a rooster. His whole skill is copying voices and gestures, and he offers very little real narration."

That, he said, will be his mode of speaking.

"That will be his way of speaking," he said.

These, then, are the two kinds of style?

"So these are the two kinds of style?"

Yes.

"Yes."

And you would agree with me in saying that one of them is simple and has but slight changes; and if the harmony and rhythm are also chosen for their simplicity, the result is that the speaker, if he speaks correctly, is always pretty much the same in style, and he will keep within the limits of a single harmony (for the changes are not great), and in like manner he will make use of nearly the same rhythm?

"You would agree with me that one of them is simple and changes very little. If the harmony and rhythm are also chosen for simplicity, the speaker, when he speaks correctly, will sound much the same in style. He will stay within a single harmony because the changes are small, and he will use nearly the same rhythm. Don't you think so?"

That is quite true, he said.

"That's true," he said.

Whereas the other requires all sorts of harmonies and all sorts of rhythms, if the music and the style are to correspond, because the style has all sorts of changes.

"The other requires many different harmonies and rhythms. The music must match the style. The style changes in many ways."

That is also perfectly true, he replied.

"That's also perfectly true," he replied.

And do not the two styles, or the mixture of the two, comprehend all poetry, and every form of expression in words? No one can say anything except in one or other of them or in both together.

"Don't the two styles, or a mix of them, include all poetry and every verbal expression? No one can say anything except in one or the other, or in both together."

They include all, he said.

"They include everyone," he said.

And shall we receive into our State all the three styles, or one only of the two unmixed styles? or would you include the mixed?

"Shall we admit all three styles into our State? Or only one of the two unmixed styles? Or would you include the mixed style?"

I should prefer only to admit the pure imitator of virtue.

"I would prefer to admit only the true imitator of virtue."

Yes, I said, Adeimantus, but the mixed style is also very charming: and indeed the pantomimic, which is the opposite of the one chosen by you, is the most popular style with children and their attendants, and with the world in general.

"Yes, Adeimantus," I said. "The mixed style is also very appealing. The pantomimic style is the opposite of the one you chose. It is the most popular with children, their attendants, and people in general."

I do not deny it.

"I don't deny it."

But I suppose you would argue that such a style is unsuitable to our State, in which human nature is not twofold or manifold, for one man plays one part only?

"But you would argue this style doesn't suit our State. In our State people are not twofold or many-sided. One man plays only one part, you would say?"

Yes; quite unsuitable.

"Yes. It's quite unsuitable."

And this is the reason why in our State, and in our State only, we shall find a shoemaker to be a shoemaker and not a pilot also, and a husbandman to be a husbandman and not a dicast also, and a soldier a soldier and not a trader also, and the same throughout?

"That is why, in our State and only in our State, a shoemaker will be just a shoemaker. He will not also be a pilot. A farmer will be just a farmer, not also a juror. A soldier will be a soldier, not also a trader. And the same throughout?"

True, he said.

"That's true," he said.

And therefore when any one of these pantomimic gentlemen, who are so clever that they can imitate anything, comes to us, and makes a proposal to exhibit himself and his poetry, we will fall down and worship him as a sweet and holy and wonderful being; but we must also inform him that in our State such as he are not permitted to exist; the law will not allow them. And so when we have anointed him with myrrh, and set a garland of wool upon his head, we shall send him away to another city. For we mean to employ for our souls’ health the rougher and severer poet or story-teller, who will imitate the style of the virtuous only, and will follow those models which we prescribed at first when we began the education of our soldiers.

"So when one of those mimic performers comes to us. He is so clever he can imitate anything. If he offers to perform himself and his poems, we will bow down and worship him as sweet, holy, and wonderful. But we must tell him that in our State people like him are not allowed. The law forbids them. We will anoint him with myrrh and place a garland of wool on his head. Then we will send him to another city. Instead, we will use a rougher, sterner poet or storyteller for our souls' health. He will imitate only the style of the virtuous. He will follow the models we set when we began the education of our soldiers."

We certainly will, he said, if we have the power.

“We certainly will,” he said, “if we have the power.”

Then now, my friend, I said, that part of music or literary education which relates to the story or myth may be considered to be finished; for the matter and manner have both been discussed.

"Well then, my friend," I said. "We can consider that part of music or literary education that deals with story or myth finished. Both the content and the form have been discussed."

I think so too, he said.

"I think so, too," he said.

Next in order will follow melody and song.

"Next comes melody and song."

That is obvious.

"That's obvious."

Every one can see already what we ought to say about them, if we are to be consistent with ourselves.

"Everyone can already see what we should say about them if we're to be consistent with ourselves."

I fear, said Glaucon, laughing, that the word ‘every one’ hardly includes me, for I cannot at the moment say what they should be; though I may guess.

"I'm afraid," Glaucon said with a laugh, "that 'everyone' hardly includes me. I can't say right now what they should be. I can guess, though."

At any rate you can tell that a song or ode has three parts—the words, the melody, and the rhythm; that degree of knowledge I may presuppose?

"Anyway, you can tell that a song or ode has three parts: the words, the melody, and the rhythm. I may assume you know that, can't I?"

Yes, he said; so much as that you may.

"Yes," he said. "You may say that."

And as for the words, there will surely be no difference between words which are and which are not set to music; both will conform to the same laws, and these have been already determined by us?

"And as for the words, there will surely be no difference between those set to music and those not. Both will follow the same laws. We've already determined those laws, haven't we?"

Yes.

"Yes."

And the melody and rhythm will depend upon the words?

"So the melody and rhythm will depend on the words?"

Certainly.

"Certainly."

We were saying, when we spoke of the subject-matter, that we had no need of lamentation and strains of sorrow?

"Weren't we saying, when we discussed the matter, that we didn't need lamentations or mournful songs?"

True.

"True."

And which are the harmonies expressive of sorrow? You are musical, and can tell me.

"Which harmonies express sorrow? You're musical, so you can tell me."

The harmonies which you mean are the mixed or tenor Lydian, and the full-toned or bass Lydian, and such like.

"The harmonies you mean are the mixed, or tenor, Lydian. There's also the full-toned, or bass, Lydian, and others like them."

These then, I said, must be banished; even to women who have a character to maintain they are of no use, and much less to men.

"These, then," I said, "must be banished. They are useless even to women who must protect their reputations, and even less to men."

Certainly.

"Certainly."

In the next place, drunkenness and softness and indolence are utterly unbecoming the character of our guardians.

"Next, drunkenness, weakness, and laziness are completely unfit for our guardians."

Utterly unbecoming.

"That's completely inappropriate."

And which are the soft or drinking harmonies?

"And which harmonies are soft, the ones for drinking?"

The Ionian, he replied, and the Lydian; they are termed ‘relaxed.’

"The Ionian and the Lydian," he replied. "They are called 'relaxed.'"

Well, and are these of any military use?

"So, are these useful to the military?"

Quite the reverse, he replied; and if so the Dorian and the Phrygian are the only ones which you have left.

"Quite the opposite," he replied. "If that's the case, the Dorian and the Phrygian are the only ones you have left."

I answered: Of the harmonies I know nothing, but I want to have one warlike, to sound the note or accent which a brave man utters in the hour of danger and stern resolve, or when his cause is failing, and he is going to wounds or death or is overtaken by some other evil, and at every such crisis meets the blows of fortune with firm step and a determination to endure; and another to be used by him in times of peace and freedom of action, when there is no pressure of necessity, and he is seeking to persuade God by prayer, or man by instruction and admonition, or on the other hand, when he is expressing his willingness to yield to persuasion or entreaty or admonition, and which represents him when by prudent conduct he has attained his end, not carried away by his success, but acting moderately and wisely under the circumstances, and acquiescing in the event. These two harmonies I ask you to leave; the strain of necessity and the strain of freedom, the strain of the unfortunate and the strain of the fortunate, the strain of courage, and the strain of temperance; these, I say, leave.

I answered: "I don't know about musical harmonies. But I want one that is warlike. It should sound the note a brave man makes in moments of danger and firm resolve. Or when his cause is failing and he faces wounds, death, or some other misfortune. At every such crisis he meets fortune's blows with steady step and a will to endure. "And I want another for times of peace and free action. When there is no urgent need. When he is trying to persuade God by prayer, or people by teaching and warning. Or when he shows he is willing to yield to persuasion, entreaty, or admonition. This harmony should show him after prudent conduct has achieved its aim. He is not carried away by success. He acts moderately and wisely and accepts the outcome. "Leave me those two harmonies. The strain of necessity and the strain of freedom. The strain of the unfortunate and the strain of the fortunate. The strain of courage and the strain of temperance. Leave them, I say."

And these, he replied, are the Dorian and Phrygian harmonies of which I was just now speaking.

"These," he replied, "are the Dorian and Phrygian harmonies I was just talking about."

Then, I said, if these and these only are to be used in our songs and melodies, we shall not want multiplicity of notes or a panharmonic scale?

"Then," I said. "If we're going to use only these notes in our songs and melodies, we won't need many different notes. We won't need a panharmonic scale, will we?"

I suppose not.

"I guess not."

Then we shall not maintain the artificers of lyres with three corners and complex scales, or the makers of any other many-stringed curiously-harmonised instruments?

"Then we will not keep the craftsmen who make three-cornered lyres with complicated scales. Nor will we keep the makers of other many-stringed, oddly tuned instruments?"

Certainly not.

"No, not at all."

But what do you say to flute-makers and flute-players? Would you admit them into our State when you reflect that in this composite use of harmony the flute is worse than all the stringed instruments put together; even the panharmonic music is only an imitation of the flute?

"But what about flute-makers and flute-players? Would you admit them into our State? Consider that in this combined use of harmony the flute is worse than all the stringed instruments put together. Even the panharmonic music is only an imitation of the flute."

Clearly not.

"Clearly not."

There remain then only the lyre and the harp for use in the city, and the shepherds may have a pipe in the country.

"So only the lyre and the harp remain for use in the city. Shepherds may have a pipe in the countryside."

That is surely the conclusion to be drawn from the argument.

"That is clearly the conclusion of the argument."

The preferring of Apollo and his instruments to Marsyas and his instruments is not at all strange, I said.

"It's not at all strange to prefer Apollo and his instruments to Marsyas and his," I said.

Not at all, he replied.

"Not at all," he said.

And so, by the dog of Egypt, we have been unconsciously purging the State, which not long ago we termed luxurious.

"So, by the dog of Egypt, we've been unknowingly purging the State. Not long ago, we called it luxurious."

And we have done wisely, he replied.

"We've acted wisely," he replied.

Then let us now finish the purgation, I said. Next in order to harmonies, rhythms will naturally follow, and they should be subject to the same rules, for we ought not to seek out complex systems of metre, or metres of every kind, but rather to discover what rhythms are the expressions of a courageous and harmonious life; and when we have found them, we shall adapt the foot and the melody to words having a like spirit, not the words to the foot and melody. To say what these rhythms are will be your duty—you must teach me them, as you have already taught me the harmonies.

"Let's finish the cleansing now," I said. "After harmonies, rhythms naturally follow. They should follow the same rules. We should not look for complex systems of meter or for every possible meter. Instead, we should find the rhythms that express a courageous and harmonious life. When we find them, we will fit the foot and the melody to words with the same spirit. We will not force the words to fit the foot and melody. It will be your job to say what these rhythms are. Teach them to me, as you already taught me the harmonies."

But, indeed, he replied, I cannot tell you. I only know that there are some three principles of rhythm out of which metrical systems are framed, just as in sounds there are four notes (i.e. the four notes of the tetrachord.) out of which all the harmonies are composed; that is an observation which I have made. But of what sort of lives they are severally the imitations I am unable to say.

"I can't say," he replied. "I only know there are three basic principles of rhythm that form metrical systems. In sound there are four notes, the four notes of the tetrachord. From those notes all harmonies are composed. That's an observation I've made. But I can't say what kinds of lives each of those rhythms imitates."

Then, I said, we must take Damon into our counsels; and he will tell us what rhythms are expressive of meanness, or insolence, or fury, or other unworthiness, and what are to be reserved for the expression of opposite feelings. And I think that I have an indistinct recollection of his mentioning a complex Cretic rhythm; also a dactylic or heroic, and he arranged them in some manner which I do not quite understand, making the rhythms equal in the rise and fall of the foot, long and short alternating; and, unless I am mistaken, he spoke of an iambic as well as of a trochaic rhythm, and assigned to them short and long quantities. Also in some cases he appeared to praise or censure the movement of the foot quite as much as the rhythm; or perhaps a combination of the two; for I am not certain what he meant. These matters, however, as I was saying, had better be referred to Damon himself, for the analysis of the subject would be difficult, you know? (Socrates expresses himself carelessly in accordance with his assumed ignorance of the details of the subject. In the first part of the sentence he appears to be speaking of paeonic rhythms which are in the ratio of 3/2; in the second part, of dactylic and anapaestic rhythms, which are in the ratio of 1/1; in the last clause, of iambic and trochaic rhythms, which are in the ratio of 1/2 or 2/1.)

"Then," I said, "we should include Damon in our discussion. He can tell us which rhythms express meanness, insolence, fury, or other unworthy feelings. He can also tell us which ones should be used for opposite emotions. I vaguely remember him mentioning a complex Cretic rhythm and a dactylic, or heroic, rhythm. He arranged them in a way I don't fully understand. He made the rhythms balance the rise and fall of the metrical foot, with long and short values alternating. If I'm not mistaken, he also spoke of an iambic and a trochaic rhythm. He assigned short and long quantities to them. In some cases he seemed to praise or blame the movement of the foot as much as the rhythm. Perhaps he meant both together. I'm not certain what he meant. But these matters, as I said, are best left to Damon himself. Analyzing them would be difficult, you know?" (Socrates speaks casually, pretending not to know the technical details. In the first part he seems to mean paeonic rhythms with a 3:2 ratio. In the second part he means dactylic and anapaestic rhythms with a 1:1 ratio. In the last clause he refers to iambic and trochaic rhythms with ratios of 1:2 or 2:1.)

Rather so, I should say.

"Yes, I think so."

But there is no difficulty in seeing that grace or the absence of grace is an effect of good or bad rhythm.

"But it's easy to see that grace, or its absence, comes from good or poor rhythm."

None at all.

"None at all."

And also that good and bad rhythm naturally assimilate to a good and bad style; and that harmony and discord in like manner follow style; for our principle is that rhythm and harmony are regulated by the words, and not the words by them.

"That good and bad rhythms naturally match a good or bad style. Harmony and discord follow style in the same way. Our principle is that words regulate rhythm and harmony, not the other way around."

Just so, he said, they should follow the words.

"That's right," he said. "They should follow the words."

And will not the words and the character of the style depend on the temper of the soul?

"Won't the words and the character of the style depend on the soul's temperament?"

Yes.

"Yes."

And everything else on the style?

"And what about everything else, like style?"

Yes.

"Yes."

Then beauty of style and harmony and grace and good rhythm depend on simplicity,—I mean the true simplicity of a rightly and nobly ordered mind and character, not that other simplicity which is only an euphemism for folly?

"Then beauty of style, harmony, grace, and good rhythm depend on simplicity. I mean the true simplicity that comes from a rightly and nobly ordered mind and character. Not the other kind of simplicity that's just a polite word for folly?"

Very true, he replied.

"That's very true," he said.

And if our youth are to do their work in life, must they not make these graces and harmonies their perpetual aim?

"If our youth are to do their work in life, shouldn't they make these graces and harmonies their constant aim?"

They must.

"They must."

And surely the art of the painter and every other creative and constructive art are full of them,—weaving, embroidery, architecture, and every kind of manufacture; also nature, animal and vegetable,—in all of them there is grace or the absence of grace. And ugliness and discord and inharmonious motion are nearly allied to ill words and ill nature, as grace and harmony are the twin sisters of goodness and virtue and bear their likeness.

"Surely the painter's art and every other creative or practical art are full of them. Think of weaving, embroidery, architecture, and every kind of manufacture. Nature too, both animal and plant, shows them. In all these there is either grace or a lack of grace. Ugliness, discord, and clumsy movement are closely related to harsh words and a bad character. Grace and harmony are the twin sisters of goodness and virtue, and they resemble them."

That is quite true, he said.

"That's quite true," he said.

But shall our superintendence go no further, and are the poets only to be required by us to express the image of the good in their works, on pain, if they do anything else, of expulsion from our State? Or is the same control to be extended to other artists, and are they also to be prohibited from exhibiting the opposite forms of vice and intemperance and meanness and indecency in sculpture and building and the other creative arts; and is he who cannot conform to this rule of ours to be prevented from practising his art in our State, lest the taste of our citizens be corrupted by him? We would not have our guardians grow up amid images of moral deformity, as in some noxious pasture, and there browse and feed upon many a baneful herb and flower day by day, little by little, until they silently gather a festering mass of corruption in their own soul. Let our artists rather be those who are gifted to discern the true nature of the beautiful and graceful; then will our youth dwell in a land of health, amid fair sights and sounds, and receive the good in everything; and beauty, the effluence of fair works, shall flow into the eye and ear, like a health-giving breeze from a purer region, and insensibly draw the soul from earliest years into likeness and sympathy with the beauty of reason.

"But will our supervision stop there? Are poets the only ones we should require to portray the image of the good? If they do otherwise, are they to be expelled from our State? Or should we extend the same control to other artists? Should they be forbidden from showing vice, intemperance, meanness, and indecency in sculpture, architecture, and the other arts? Should anyone who cannot follow this rule be prevented from practicing their art here? We must do that to avoid corrupting our citizens' taste. We do not want our guardians to grow up surrounded by images of moral deformity, like animals in a poisonous pasture. There they would graze day after day on harmful herbs and flowers. Little by little they would gather a festering corruption in their souls. Let our artists be those who can see the true nature of what is beautiful and graceful. Then our young people will live in a healthy place, surrounded by fair sights and sounds. They will take in the good in everything. Beauty, the outflow of fine works, will enter the eye and ear like a healing breeze from a purer region. It will gently draw their souls, from the earliest years, toward the beauty of reason."

There can be no nobler training than that, he replied.

"There’s no finer training than that," he replied.

And therefore, I said, Glaucon, musical training is a more potent instrument than any other, because rhythm and harmony find their way into the inward places of the soul, on which they mightily fasten, imparting grace, and making the soul of him who is rightly educated graceful, or of him who is ill-educated ungraceful; and also because he who has received this true education of the inner being will most shrewdly perceive omissions or faults in art and nature, and with a true taste, while he praises and rejoices over and receives into his soul the good, and becomes noble and good, he will justly blame and hate the bad, now in the days of his youth, even before he is able to know the reason why; and when reason comes he will recognise and salute the friend with whom his education has made him long familiar.

"That's why," I said to Glaucon, "musical training is more powerful than any other. Rhythm and harmony reach into the inner parts of the soul. They take hold there and shape a person's grace. Someone properly educated becomes graceful. Someone poorly educated becomes ungraceful. A person who has received this true inner education will easily spot faults and gaps in art and in nature. With a genuine taste, he praises and welcomes what is good and lets it into his soul. He becomes noble and good. He will rightly blame and reject what is bad, even in his youth, before he knows why. Later, when reason grows, he will recognize and greet the friend his education made familiar to him."

Yes, he said, I quite agree with you in thinking that our youth should be trained in music and on the grounds which you mention.

"Yes," he said. "I agree with you. Our youth should be trained in music for the reasons you mentioned."

Just as in learning to read, I said, we were satisfied when we knew the letters of the alphabet, which are very few, in all their recurring sizes and combinations; not slighting them as unimportant whether they occupy a space large or small, but everywhere eager to make them out; and not thinking ourselves perfect in the art of reading until we recognise them wherever they are found:

"Just as when we learned to read," I said, "we were satisfied once we knew the letters of the alphabet. There are very few of them. We learned them in all their sizes and combinations. We did not treat them as unimportant whether they were large or small. Instead, we tried to spot them everywhere. We did not think we had mastered reading until we could recognize them wherever they appeared."

True—

"True."

Or, as we recognise the reflection of letters in the water, or in a mirror, only when we know the letters themselves; the same art and study giving us the knowledge of both:

"Or think of letters reflected in water or a mirror. We only recognize those reflections because we already know the letters. The same art and study give us knowledge of both."

Exactly—

"Exactly."

Even so, as I maintain, neither we nor our guardians, whom we have to educate, can ever become musical until we and they know the essential forms of temperance, courage, liberality, magnificence, and their kindred, as well as the contrary forms, in all their combinations, and can recognise them and their images wherever they are found, not slighting them either in small things or great, but believing them all to be within the sphere of one art and study.

"Even so, I believe neither we nor the guardians we must educate can ever become truly musical yet. We first have to learn the basic forms of self-control, courage, generosity, magnificence, and related virtues, and also their opposites. We must know them in every possible combination and recognize them and their outward signs wherever they appear. We must not ignore them in small matters or large ones. Instead we must treat them all as parts of a single art and field of study."

Most assuredly.

"Yes, certainly."

And when a beautiful soul harmonizes with a beautiful form, and the two are cast in one mould, that will be the fairest of sights to him who has an eye to see it?

"When a beautiful soul harmonizes with a beautiful form, they are cast in the same mold. Isn't that the most beautiful sight for anyone with an eye to see it?"

The fairest indeed.

"Indeed, the fairest."

And the fairest is also the loveliest?

"So the fairest is the loveliest too?"

That may be assumed.

"We can assume that."

And the man who has the spirit of harmony will be most in love with the loveliest; but he will not love him who is of an inharmonious soul?

"Someone with a spirit of harmony will love the most beautiful things. He will not love one with a discordant soul?"

That is true, he replied, if the deficiency be in his soul; but if there be any merely bodily defect in another he will be patient of it, and will love all the same.

"That's true," he replied, "if the defect is in his soul. But if there is only a bodily defect in someone else, he will be patient with it. He will love them all the same."

I perceive, I said, that you have or have had experiences of this sort, and I agree. But let me ask you another question: Has excess of pleasure any affinity to temperance?

"I see," I said. "You have, or have had, experiences like this, and I agree. But let me ask another question. Does too much pleasure have anything to do with temperance?"

How can that be? he replied; pleasure deprives a man of the use of his faculties quite as much as pain.

"How can that be?" he replied. "Pleasure deprives a person of the use of their faculties just as much as pain."

Or any affinity to virtue in general?

"Or any inclination toward virtue in general?"

None whatever.

"None at all."

Any affinity to wantonness and intemperance?

"Do you have any tendency toward reckless indulgence and lack of self-control?"

Yes, the greatest.

"Yes, the greatest."

And is there any greater or keener pleasure than that of sensual love?

"Is there any pleasure more intense than sensual love?"

No, nor a madder.

"No, nor am I mad."

Whereas true love is a love of beauty and order—temperate and harmonious?

"Isn't true love a love of beauty and order, moderate and harmonious?"

Quite true, he said.

"That's true," he said.

Then no intemperance or madness should be allowed to approach true love?

"So we shouldn't let excess or madness come near true love?"

Certainly not.

"Certainly not."

Then mad or intemperate pleasure must never be allowed to come near the lover and his beloved; neither of them can have any part in it if their love is of the right sort?

"Then wild or excessive pleasure must never be allowed near the lover and the beloved. If their love is the right kind, neither of them should take part in it, should they?"

No, indeed, Socrates, it must never come near them.

"No, not at all, Socrates. It must never come near them."

Then I suppose that in the city which we are founding you would make a law to the effect that a friend should use no other familiarity to his love than a father would use to his son, and then only for a noble purpose, and he must first have the other’s consent; and this rule is to limit him in all his intercourse, and he is never to be seen going further, or, if he exceeds, he is to be deemed guilty of coarseness and bad taste.

"Then I suppose that in the city we are founding you would make a law. It would say that a friend should show no other familiarity to his beloved than a father shows his son. That familiarity would be allowed only for a noble purpose and only with the other's consent. This rule should govern all his interactions. He must never be seen going further. If he does, he should be judged coarse and tasteless."

I quite agree, he said.

"I agree completely," he said.

Thus much of music, which makes a fair ending; for what should be the end of music if not the love of beauty?

"That is all I will say about music. What could be its purpose if not the love of beauty?"

I agree, he said.

"I agree," he said.

After music comes gymnastic, in which our youth are next to be trained.

"After music, we train our youth in gymnastics."

Certainly.

"Certainly."

Gymnastic as well as music should begin in early years; the training in it should be careful and should continue through life. Now my belief is,—and this is a matter upon which I should like to have your opinion in confirmation of my own, but my own belief is,—not that the good body by any bodily excellence improves the soul, but, on the contrary, that the good soul, by her own excellence, improves the body as far as this may be possible. What do you say?

"Gymnastics and music should begin in early childhood. The training should be careful and continue throughout life. I believe this, and I'd like your opinion to confirm it. I do not think that a strong body, by its physical excellence, improves the soul. On the contrary, I think the good soul, by its own excellence, improves the body as far as possible. What do you say?"

Yes, I agree.

"Yes, I agree."

Then, to the mind when adequately trained, we shall be right in handing over the more particular care of the body; and in order to avoid prolixity we will now only give the general outlines of the subject.

"Then, when the mind is properly trained, we are right to hand over the more specific care of the body. To avoid being long-winded, we'll just give a brief outline of the subject."

Very good.

"Very good."

That they must abstain from intoxication has been already remarked by us; for of all persons a guardian should be the last to get drunk and not know where in the world he is.

"We already said they must avoid drunkenness. Of all people, a guardian should be the last to get so drunk that he doesn't know where he is."

Yes, he said; that a guardian should require another guardian to take care of him is ridiculous indeed.

"Yes," he said. "It's ridiculous for a guardian to expect another guardian to take care of him."

But next, what shall we say of their food; for the men are in training for the great contest of all—are they not?

"But next, what shall we say about their food? The men are training for the great contest of all, are they not?"

Yes, he said.

"Yes," he said.

And will the habit of body of our ordinary athletes be suited to them?

"And will the physical build of our ordinary athletes suit them?"

Why not?

"Why not?"

I am afraid, I said, that a habit of body such as they have is but a sleepy sort of thing, and rather perilous to health. Do you not observe that these athletes sleep away their lives, and are liable to most dangerous illnesses if they depart, in ever so slight a degree, from their customary regimen?

"I'm afraid," I said, "their physical routine makes them lethargic. It's dangerous for their health. Don't you see how these athletes spend their lives sleeping? They often fall seriously ill if they stray even slightly from their usual regimen."

Yes, I do.

"Yes, I do."

Then, I said, a finer sort of training will be required for our warrior athletes, who are to be like wakeful dogs, and to see and hear with the utmost keenness; amid the many changes of water and also of food, of summer heat and winter cold, which they will have to endure when on a campaign, they must not be liable to break down in health.

"Then," I said, "we'll need a higher level of training for our warrior athletes. They should be like alert dogs, with sharp sight and hearing. They will face many changes in water and food. They will also face summer heat and winter cold when on campaign. They must not be likely to fall ill."

That is my view.

"That's my view."

The really excellent gymnastic is twin sister of that simple music which we were just now describing.

"The truly excellent gymnastics is the twin sister of that simple music we were just describing."

How so?

"How do you mean?"

Why, I conceive that there is a gymnastic which, like our music, is simple and good; and especially the military gymnastic.

"I believe there is a gymnastic that, like our music, is simple and good. Especially the military gymnastic."

What do you mean?

"What do you mean?"

My meaning may be learned from Homer; he, you know, feeds his heroes at their feasts, when they are campaigning, on soldiers’ fare; they have no fish, although they are on the shores of the Hellespont, and they are not allowed boiled meats but only roast, which is the food most convenient for soldiers, requiring only that they should light a fire, and not involving the trouble of carrying about pots and pans.

"My meaning can be learned from Homer. He, you know, feeds his heroes, when they are campaigning, the kind of food soldiers eat. Even though they are on the shores of the Hellespont, they have no fish. They are not given boiled food, only roast. Roast is the most convenient food for soldiers. It only needs a fire and avoids the trouble of carrying pots and pans."

True.

"True."

And I can hardly be mistaken in saying that sweet sauces are nowhere mentioned in Homer. In proscribing them, however, he is not singular; all professional athletes are well aware that a man who is to be in good condition should take nothing of the kind.

"I'm probably not wrong in saying Homer never mentions sweet sauces. But he is not alone in forbidding them. Professional athletes know that anyone who wants to be fit should avoid such things."

Yes, he said; and knowing this, they are quite right in not taking them.

"Yes," he said. "Knowing this, they are quite right not to take them."

Then you would not approve of Syracusan dinners, and the refinements of Sicilian cookery?

"So you wouldn't approve of Syracusan dinners or the refinements of Sicilian cooking?"

I think not.

"I don't think so."

Nor, if a man is to be in condition, would you allow him to have a Corinthian girl as his fair friend?

"And if a man is to be respectable, would you let him have a Corinthian girl as his lover?"

Certainly not.

"Certainly not."

Neither would you approve of the delicacies, as they are thought, of Athenian confectionary?

"You wouldn't approve of what people call Athenian confectionery, would you?"

Certainly not.

"No, certainly not."

All such feeding and living may be rightly compared by us to melody and song composed in the panharmonic style, and in all the rhythms.

"We can rightly compare all such feeding and living to melody and song. They are composed in the panharmonic style and follow every rhythm."

Exactly.

"Exactly."

There complexity engendered licence, and here disease; whereas simplicity in music was the parent of temperance in the soul; and simplicity in gymnastic of health in the body.

"Where complexity took hold, it bred license and even disease. Simple music fostered temperance in the soul. Simple physical training brought health to the body."

Most true, he said.

"That's very true," he said.

But when intemperance and diseases multiply in a State, halls of justice and medicine are always being opened; and the arts of the doctor and the lawyer give themselves airs, finding how keen is the interest which not only the slaves but the freemen of a city take about them.

"When vice and disease spread in a state, new courts and hospitals keep opening. Doctors and lawyers put on airs when they see how much both slaves and free citizens care about them."

Of course.

"Of course."

And yet what greater proof can there be of a bad and disgraceful state of education than this, that not only artisans and the meaner sort of people need the skill of first-rate physicians and judges, but also those who would profess to have had a liberal education? Is it not disgraceful, and a great sign of want of good-breeding, that a man should have to go abroad for his law and physic because he has none of his own at home, and must therefore surrender himself into the hands of other men whom he makes lords and judges over him?

"And yet what stronger proof can there be of a corrupt, shameful education system than this? Not only craftsmen and the lower classes need the skills of top doctors and judges. Even those who claim a liberal education need them. Is it not disgraceful and a clear sign of poor upbringing? A man must go abroad for law and medicine because there are none at home. He then hands himself over to others and makes them his lords and judges."

Of all things, he said, the most disgraceful.

"Of all things," he said, "this is the most disgraceful."

Would you say ‘most,’ I replied, when you consider that there is a further stage of the evil in which a man is not only a life-long litigant, passing all his days in the courts, either as plaintiff or defendant, but is actually led by his bad taste to pride himself on his litigiousness; he imagines that he is a master in dishonesty; able to take every crooked turn, and wriggle into and out of every hole, bending like a withy and getting out of the way of justice: and all for what?—in order to gain small points not worth mentioning, he not knowing that so to order his life as to be able to do without a napping judge is a far higher and nobler sort of thing. Is not that still more disgraceful?

"Would you call that 'most'?" I replied. "Think of a worse stage of this evil. A man is not only a lifelong litigant, spending every day in court as plaintiff or defendant. He actually prides himself on being litigious because of bad taste. He imagines he is a master of dishonesty. He thinks he can twist every rule and slip in and out of every loophole. He bends like a willow and dodges justice. And all for what? To win small points not worth mentioning. He doesn't see that arranging his life so he can do without a dozing judge is a far higher and nobler thing. Isn't that even more disgraceful?"

Yes, he said, that is still more disgraceful.

"Yes," he said, "that is even more disgraceful."

Well, I said, and to require the help of medicine, not when a wound has to be cured, or on occasion of an epidemic, but just because, by indolence and a habit of life such as we have been describing, men fill themselves with waters and winds, as if their bodies were a marsh, compelling the ingenious sons of Asclepius to find more names for diseases, such as flatulence and catarrh; is not this, too, a disgrace?

"Well," I said. "Isn't it a disgrace to need a doctor's help not for a wound or an epidemic, but simply because of laziness and the lifestyle we've been describing? People fill their bodies with fluids and gas as if their bodies were a marsh. That forces the clever sons of Asclepius to invent new names for illnesses, like flatulence and catarrh. Isn't that a disgrace too?"

Yes, he said, they do certainly give very strange and newfangled names to diseases.

"Yes," he said. "They certainly give very strange, fancy new names to diseases."

Yes, I said, and I do not believe that there were any such diseases in the days of Asclepius; and this I infer from the circumstance that the hero Eurypylus, after he has been wounded in Homer, drinks a posset of Pramnian wine well besprinkled with barley-meal and grated cheese, which are certainly inflammatory, and yet the sons of Asclepius who were at the Trojan war do not blame the damsel who gives him the drink, or rebuke Patroclus, who is treating his case.

"Yes," I said, "and I do not think such illnesses existed in Asclepius's time. I infer this from a detail in Homer. The hero Eurypylus, after being wounded, drinks a posset of Pramnian wine. It is thick with barley meal and grated cheese. Those ingredients are certainly inflammatory. Yet the sons of Asclepius at the Trojan War do not blame the girl who gives him the drink. They do not rebuke Patroclus, who is treating him."

Well, he said, that was surely an extraordinary drink to be given to a person in his condition.

"Well," he said. "That was certainly an extraordinary drink for someone in his condition."

Not so extraordinary, I replied, if you bear in mind that in former days, as is commonly said, before the time of Herodicus, the guild of Asclepius did not practise our present system of medicine, which may be said to educate diseases. But Herodicus, being a trainer, and himself of a sickly constitution, by a combination of training and doctoring found out a way of torturing first and chiefly himself, and secondly the rest of the world.

"That's not so surprising," I replied. "Remember, people say that before Herodicus the guild of Asclepius did not practice the kind of medicine we use now. Our medicine almost trains diseases. Herodicus was a trainer and he was himself sickly. By mixing exercise with doctoring he discovered a method that tortured himself first, and then the rest of the world."

How was that? he said.

"How was that?" he said.

By the invention of lingering death; for he had a mortal disease which he perpetually tended, and as recovery was out of the question, he passed his entire life as a valetudinarian; he could do nothing but attend upon himself, and he was in constant torment whenever he departed in anything from his usual regimen, and so dying hard, by the help of science he struggled on to old age.

He had a fatal disease that he constantly tended. Recovery was out of the question. He spent his whole life as an invalid. He could do nothing but care for himself. He was in constant torment whenever he departed from his routine. Dying slowly and painfully, he kept going with the help of medical science and reached old age.

A rare reward of his skill!

"A rare reward for his skill!"

Yes, I said; a reward which a man might fairly expect who never understood that, if Asclepius did not instruct his descendants in valetudinarian arts, the omission arose, not from ignorance or inexperience of such a branch of medicine, but because he knew that in all well-ordered states every individual has an occupation to which he must attend, and has therefore no leisure to spend in continually being ill. This we remark in the case of the artisan, but, ludicrously enough, do not apply the same rule to people of the richer sort.

"Yes," I said. "That's a reward a man might fairly expect. He didn't see that if Asclepius didn't teach his descendants how to keep people chronically ill, it wasn't because he lacked the knowledge. He knew that in any well-ordered state everyone has a job to do. They have no time to be constantly sick. We notice this with artisans, but, absurdly, we don't apply the same rule to the rich."

How do you mean? he said.

"What do you mean?" he said.

I mean this: When a carpenter is ill he asks the physician for a rough and ready cure; an emetic or a purge or a cautery or the knife,—these are his remedies. And if some one prescribes for him a course of dietetics, and tells him that he must swathe and swaddle his head, and all that sort of thing, he replies at once that he has no time to be ill, and that he sees no good in a life which is spent in nursing his disease to the neglect of his customary employment; and therefore bidding good-bye to this sort of physician, he resumes his ordinary habits, and either gets well and lives and does his business, or, if his constitution fails, he dies and has no more trouble.

"I mean this. When a carpenter is sick, he asks the doctor for a quick, practical cure. He wants an emetic, a purge, a cautery, or even the knife. Those are his remedies. If someone prescribes a strict diet and tells him to wrap and bind his head, he will reply at once that he has no time to be ill. He sees no point in spending his life nursing a disease and neglecting his regular work. So he says goodbye to that kind of doctor and returns to his usual habits. He either recovers and keeps working, or, if his body gives out, he dies and has no more trouble."

Yes, he said, and a man in his condition of life ought to use the art of medicine thus far only.

"Yes," he said. "A man in his position should use medicine only to this extent."

Has he not, I said, an occupation; and what profit would there be in his life if he were deprived of his occupation?

I said, "Doesn't he have an occupation? What good would his life be if he lost it?"

Quite true, he said.

"That's true," he said.

But with the rich man this is otherwise; of him we do not say that he has any specially appointed work which he must perform, if he would live.

"But it's different for the rich man. We don't say he has any special task he must perform if he wants to live."

He is generally supposed to have nothing to do.

"People generally assume he has nothing to do."

Then you never heard of the saying of Phocylides, that as soon as a man has a livelihood he should practise virtue?

"So you've never heard Phocylides' saying? He said that as soon as a person has a livelihood, they should practice virtue."

Nay, he said, I think that he had better begin somewhat sooner.

"No," he said, "I think he should start a bit sooner."

Let us not have a dispute with him about this, I said; but rather ask ourselves: Is the practice of virtue obligatory on the rich man, or can he live without it? And if obligatory on him, then let us raise a further question, whether this dieting of disorders, which is an impediment to the application of the mind in carpentering and the mechanical arts, does not equally stand in the way of the sentiment of Phocylides?

"Let's not argue with him about this," I said. "Instead, let's ask ourselves: Is the practice of virtue required of the rich man, or can he live without it? If it is required, we must ask another question. Does not this disciplining of disorders stand in the way of Phocylides' sentiment? It also keeps the mind from applying itself to carpentry and the mechanical arts."

Of that, he replied, there can be no doubt; such excessive care of the body, when carried beyond the rules of gymnastic, is most inimical to the practice of virtue.

"There is no doubt about that," he replied. "Excessive care for the body, when it goes beyond proper exercise, is very harmful to the practice of virtue."

Yes, indeed, I replied, and equally incompatible with the management of a house, an army, or an office of state; and, what is most important of all, irreconcileable with any kind of study or thought or self-reflection—there is a constant suspicion that headache and giddiness are to be ascribed to philosophy, and hence all practising or making trial of virtue in the higher sense is absolutely stopped; for a man is always fancying that he is being made ill, and is in constant anxiety about the state of his body.

"Yes, indeed," I replied, "and it is equally incompatible with running a household, an army, or a government office. Most important, it is incompatible with any real study, thought, or self-reflection. People constantly suspect that headaches and dizziness come from philosophy. As a result, any serious attempt to practice or test virtue stops completely. A person always imagines they are being made ill, and they worry constantly about their physical health."

Yes, likely enough.

"Yes, very likely."

And therefore our politic Asclepius may be supposed to have exhibited the power of his art only to persons who, being generally of healthy constitution and habits of life, had a definite ailment; such as these he cured by purges and operations, and bade them live as usual, herein consulting the interests of the State; but bodies which disease had penetrated through and through he would not have attempted to cure by gradual processes of evacuation and infusion: he did not want to lengthen out good-for-nothing lives, or to have weak fathers begetting weaker sons;—if a man was not able to live in the ordinary way he had no business to cure him; for such a cure would have been of no use either to himself, or to the State.

"So our practical Asclepius can be thought to have shown his skill only to people who were generally healthy. They had a single, clear illness. He cured those cases with purges and operations and told them to go on living as before. In this he served the interests of the State. But he would not try to treat bodies that disease had ruined through and through. He would not use slow methods like draining and infusing. He did not want to prolong worthless lives or have weak fathers produce weaker sons. If a man could not live in the ordinary way, he had no business being cured. Such a cure would help neither the man nor the State."

Then, he said, you regard Asclepius as a statesman.

"So," he said, "you consider Asclepius a statesman."

Clearly; and his character is further illustrated by his sons. Note that they were heroes in the days of old and practised the medicines of which I am speaking at the siege of Troy: You will remember how, when Pandarus wounded Menelaus, they

"Clearly, his character is also shown by his sons. Note that they were heroes in the old days. They practiced the medicines I am talking about during the siege of Troy. You will remember how, when Pandarus wounded Menelaus, they..."

‘Sucked the blood out of the wound, and sprinkled soothing remedies,’

"They sucked the blood from the wound and sprinkled soothing remedies."

but they never prescribed what the patient was afterwards to eat or drink in the case of Menelaus, any more than in the case of Eurypylus; the remedies, as they conceived, were enough to heal any man who before he was wounded was healthy and regular in his habits; and even though he did happen to drink a posset of Pramnian wine, he might get well all the same. But they would have nothing to do with unhealthy and intemperate subjects, whose lives were of no use either to themselves or others; the art of medicine was not designed for their good, and though they were as rich as Midas, the sons of Asclepius would have declined to attend them.

"But they never prescribed what the patient should eat or drink afterward in Menelaus' case. Nor did they in Eurypylus'. They thought their remedies were enough to cure any man who had been healthy and kept regular habits before he was wounded. Even if he happened to drink a posset of Pramnian wine, he might still recover. They would not treat unhealthy, intemperate patients. Those people's lives were useless to themselves and to others. The art of medicine was not meant for their benefit. Even if they were as rich as Midas, the sons of Asclepius would have refused to see them."

They were very acute persons, those sons of Asclepius.

"They were very sharp, those sons of Asclepius."

Naturally so, I replied. Nevertheless, the tragedians and Pindar disobeying our behests, although they acknowledge that Asclepius was the son of Apollo, say also that he was bribed into healing a rich man who was at the point of death, and for this reason he was struck by lightning. But we, in accordance with the principle already affirmed by us, will not believe them when they tell us both;—if he was the son of a god, we maintain that he was not avaricious; or, if he was avaricious, he was not the son of a god.

"Naturally," I replied. "But the tragedians and Pindar, ignoring what we asked, admit Asclepius was the son of Apollo. They also say he took a bribe to heal a rich man who was dying. For that, he was struck by lightning. We won't accept both claims. If he was the son of a god, he wasn't greedy. If he was greedy, he wasn't the son of a god."

All that, Socrates, is excellent; but I should like to put a question to you: Ought there not to be good physicians in a State, and are not the best those who have treated the greatest number of constitutions good and bad? and are not the best judges in like manner those who are acquainted with all sorts of moral natures?

"All that, Socrates, is excellent. But I would like to ask you a question. Shouldn't a state have good physicians? Aren't the best doctors those who have treated the largest number of bodies, both healthy and sick? And in the same way, aren't the best judges those who are familiar with all sorts of moral characters?"

Yes, I said, I too would have good judges and good physicians. But do you know whom I think good?

"Yes," I said. "I also want good judges and good doctors. But do you know who I think is good?"

Will you tell me?

"Will you tell me?"

I will, if I can. Let me however note that in the same question you join two things which are not the same.

"I'll do that if I can. But notice you're putting two different things together in the same question."

How so? he asked.

"How do you mean?" he asked.

Why, I said, you join physicians and judges. Now the most skilful physicians are those who, from their youth upwards, have combined with the knowledge of their art the greatest experience of disease; they had better not be robust in health, and should have had all manner of diseases in their own persons. For the body, as I conceive, is not the instrument with which they cure the body; in that case we could not allow them ever to be or to have been sickly; but they cure the body with the mind, and the mind which has become and is sick can cure nothing.

"Why," I said, "do you put physicians and judges together? The most skilled physicians are those who, from youth, combine knowledge of their art with wide experience of illness. They should not be perfectly healthy. They ought to have suffered many kinds of disease themselves. I do not think the body is the tool they use to heal the body. If it were, we could not allow them to have been sick. They heal the body with the mind. A mind that has been or is sick can cure nothing."

That is very true, he said.

"That's very true," he said.

But with the judge it is otherwise; since he governs mind by mind; he ought not therefore to have been trained among vicious minds, and to have associated with them from youth upwards, and to have gone through the whole calendar of crime, only in order that he may quickly infer the crimes of others as he might their bodily diseases from his own self-consciousness; the honourable mind which is to form a healthy judgment should have had no experience or contamination of evil habits when young. And this is the reason why in youth good men often appear to be simple, and are easily practised upon by the dishonest, because they have no examples of what evil is in their own souls.

"But it's different for a judge. He governs minds with his mind. So he should not have been raised among corrupt people or kept their company from youth. He should not have gone through every kind of crime just to learn how to spot crimes in others. That would be like diagnosing illnesses by examining only your own body. A noble mind that must form sound judgments should not have been exposed to corrupt habits when young. This is why young good men often seem naive and are easily taken advantage of by dishonest people. They lack personal examples of evil in their own souls."

Yes, he said, they are far too apt to be deceived.

"Yes," he said. "They are far too easily deceived."

Therefore, I said, the judge should not be young; he should have learned to know evil, not from his own soul, but from late and long observation of the nature of evil in others: knowledge should be his guide, not personal experience.

"The judge should not be young," I said. "He should learn about evil from long, careful observation of others, not from his own life. Knowledge should guide him, not personal experience."

Yes, he said, that is the ideal of a judge.

"Yes," he said. "That is the ideal for a judge."

Yes, I replied, and he will be a good man (which is my answer to your question); for he is good who has a good soul. But the cunning and suspicious nature of which we spoke,—he who has committed many crimes, and fancies himself to be a master in wickedness, when he is amongst his fellows, is wonderful in the precautions which he takes, because he judges of them by himself: but when he gets into the company of men of virtue, who have the experience of age, he appears to be a fool again, owing to his unseasonable suspicions; he cannot recognise an honest man, because he has no pattern of honesty in himself; at the same time, as the bad are more numerous than the good, and he meets with them oftener, he thinks himself, and is by others thought to be, rather wise than foolish.

"Yes," I replied. "He will be a good man. That answers your question. He is good because he has a good soul. As for the cunning, suspicious nature we mentioned, consider someone who has committed many crimes. He imagines himself a master of wickedness and acts extremely cautious around others. He judges people by his own standard. But when he meets virtuous older men, his suspicions make him look foolish. He cannot recognize an honest man because he has no model of honesty inside him. At the same time, the wicked are more numerous than the good, and he meets them more often. He thinks himself clever, and others think so too."

Most true, he said.

"Very true," he said.

Then the good and wise judge whom we are seeking is not this man, but the other; for vice cannot know virtue too, but a virtuous nature, educated by time, will acquire a knowledge both of virtue and vice: the virtuous, and not the vicious, man has wisdom—in my opinion.

"So the good and wise judge we're looking for isn't this man. It's the other. A vicious person can't truly know virtue. A virtuous nature, formed over time, will learn both virtue and vice. Wisdom belongs to the virtuous, not to the vicious. I think so."

And in mine also.

"And in mine too."

This is the sort of medicine, and this is the sort of law, which you will sanction in your state. They will minister to better natures, giving health both of soul and of body; but those who are diseased in their bodies they will leave to die, and the corrupt and incurable souls they will put an end to themselves.

"This is the kind of medicine and the kind of law you will approve in your state. They will care for those with better natures, restoring health to both soul and body. They will leave the physically sick to die. They will put to death those with corrupt, incurable souls."

That is clearly the best thing both for the patients and for the State.

"That's clearly best for both the patients and the State."

And thus our youth, having been educated only in that simple music which, as we said, inspires temperance, will be reluctant to go to law.

"So our young people were taught only that simple music we mentioned. That music encourages self-control. They will be reluctant to study law."

Clearly.

"Clearly."

And the musician, who, keeping to the same track, is content to practise the simple gymnastic, will have nothing to do with medicine unless in some extreme case.

"And the musician who stays on the same path and practices only simple physical exercises avoids medicine. He would only turn to it in an extreme case."

That I quite believe.

"I fully believe that."

The very exercises and tolls which he undergoes are intended to stimulate the spirited element of his nature, and not to increase his strength; he will not, like common athletes, use exercise and regimen to develope his muscles.

"The very exercises and hardships he goes through are meant to rouse his spirited side, not to make him physically stronger. He will not, like ordinary athletes, use exercise and strict training to build his muscles."

Very right, he said.

"You're quite right," he said.

Neither are the two arts of music and gymnastic really designed, as is often supposed, the one for the training of the soul, the other for the training of the body.

"People often assume music trains the soul and gymnastics trains the body. But that is not really their purpose."

What then is the real object of them?

"What, then, is their true purpose?"

I believe, I said, that the teachers of both have in view chiefly the improvement of the soul.

"I believe," I said, "the teachers of both mainly aim to improve the soul."

How can that be? he asked.

"How can that be?" he asked.

Did you never observe, I said, the effect on the mind itself of exclusive devotion to gymnastic, or the opposite effect of an exclusive devotion to music?

"Haven't you noticed the effect on the mind of focusing only on physical training?" I said. "Or the opposite effect of focusing only on music?"

In what way shown? he said.

"How is that shown?" he said.

The one producing a temper of hardness and ferocity, the other of softness and effeminacy, I replied.

"One produces a harsh, fierce temper, and the other produces softness and effeminacy," I replied.

Yes, he said, I am quite aware that the mere athlete becomes too much of a savage, and that the mere musician is melted and softened beyond what is good for him.

"Yes," he said. "I know that an athlete who only trains his body can become too savage. A musician who trains only his art can become too soft, which harms him."

Yet surely, I said, this ferocity only comes from spirit, which, if rightly educated, would give courage, but, if too much intensified, is liable to become hard and brutal.

"Yet surely," I said, "this ferocity comes only from spirit. If properly trained, it gives courage. But if pushed too far, it can become hard and brutal."

That I quite think.

"I completely agree."

On the other hand the philosopher will have the quality of gentleness. And this also, when too much indulged, will turn to softness, but, if educated rightly, will be gentle and moderate.

"On the other hand, the philosopher will be gentle. If this is overindulged, it turns into softness. If properly trained, it stays gentle and moderate."

True.

"That's true."

And in our opinion the guardians ought to have both these qualities?

"So, do we think the guardians should have both of these qualities?"

Assuredly.

"Certainly."

And both should be in harmony?

"Should the two be in harmony?"

Beyond question.

"No doubt."

And the harmonious soul is both temperate and courageous?

"So a harmonious soul is both self-controlled and courageous?"

Yes.

"Yes."

And the inharmonious is cowardly and boorish?

"So an inharmonious person is cowardly and rude?"

Very true.

"That's very true."

And, when a man allows music to play upon him and to pour into his soul through the funnel of his ears those sweet and soft and melancholy airs of which we were just now speaking, and his whole life is passed in warbling and the delights of song; in the first stage of the process the passion or spirit which is in him is tempered like iron, and made useful, instead of brittle and useless. But, if he carries on the softening and soothing process, in the next stage he begins to melt and waste, until he has wasted away his spirit and cut out the sinews of his soul; and he becomes a feeble warrior.

"And when a man lets those sweet, soft, melancholy songs pour into his soul through his ears. If he spends his life singing and enjoying music, at first his passion or spirit is tempered like iron. It becomes useful rather than brittle. But if he keeps softening himself, he will soon begin to melt away and waste. He will erode his spirit and destroy the sinews of his soul. He becomes a feeble warrior."

Very true.

"That's very true."

If the element of spirit is naturally weak in him the change is speedily accomplished, but if he have a good deal, then the power of music weakening the spirit renders him excitable;—on the least provocation he flames up at once, and is speedily extinguished; instead of having spirit he grows irritable and passionate and is quite impracticable.

"If the spirited element in him is naturally weak, the change happens quickly. But if he has a lot of spirit, music weakens it and makes him excitable. At the slightest provocation he flares up, then quickly dies down. Instead of having real courage, he becomes irritable, passionate, and hard to deal with."

Exactly.

"Exactly."

And so in gymnastics, if a man takes violent exercise and is a great feeder, and the reverse of a great student of music and philosophy, at first the high condition of his body fills him with pride and spirit, and he becomes twice the man that he was.

"In physical training, a man who exercises hard and eats a lot may still neglect music and philosophy. At first his strong body fills him with pride and energy, and he seems twice the man he was."

Certainly.

"Certainly."

And what happens? if he do nothing else, and holds no converse with the Muses, does not even that intelligence which there may be in him, having no taste of any sort of learning or enquiry or thought or culture, grow feeble and dull and blind, his mind never waking up or receiving nourishment, and his senses not being purged of their mists?

"And what happens? If he does nothing else and never talks with the Muses, won't his intelligence grow feeble and blind? Lacking any taste for learning, inquiry, thought, or culture, his mind never wakes or gets nourishment. His senses are never cleared of their mists."

True, he said.

"That's true," he said.

And he ends by becoming a hater of philosophy, uncivilized, never using the weapon of persuasion,—he is like a wild beast, all violence and fierceness, and knows no other way of dealing; and he lives in all ignorance and evil conditions, and has no sense of propriety and grace.

"In the end he becomes a hater of philosophy. He grows uncivilized and never uses the weapon of persuasion. He becomes like a wild beast, all violence and ferocity. He knows no other way to act. He lives in ignorance and evil. He has no sense of propriety or grace."

That is quite true, he said.

"That's quite true," he said.

And as there are two principles of human nature, one the spirited and the other the philosophical, some God, as I should say, has given mankind two arts answering to them (and only indirectly to the soul and body), in order that these two principles (like the strings of an instrument) may be relaxed or drawn tighter until they are duly harmonized.

"There are two parts of human nature. One is the spirited part, the other the philosophical. Some god, I would say, has given people two arts that correspond to them. These arts touch the soul and body only indirectly. Their purpose is to loosen or tighten those two parts, like the strings of an instrument. This goes on until they are brought into proper harmony."

That appears to be the intention.

"That seems to be the intention."

And he who mingles music with gymnastic in the fairest proportions, and best attempers them to the soul, may be rightly called the true musician and harmonist in a far higher sense than the tuner of the strings.

"He who combines music with physical training in the right balance adjusts both for the soul. He may rightly be called the true musician and harmonist. This is a much higher meaning than someone who merely tunes strings."

You are quite right, Socrates.

"You're quite right, Socrates."

And such a presiding genius will be always required in our State if the government is to last.

"And our state will always need a guiding spirit if the government is to last."

Yes, he will be absolutely necessary.

"Yes, he'll be essential."

Such, then, are our principles of nurture and education: Where would be the use of going into further details about the dances of our citizens, or about their hunting and coursing, their gymnastic and equestrian contests? For these all follow the general principle, and having found that, we shall have no difficulty in discovering them.

"These, then, are our principles of upbringing and education. What use is there in going into more detail about the citizens' dances? Or about their hunting and coursing? Or about their gymnastic and equestrian contests? They all follow the same general principle. Once we've found that, we will have no difficulty working them out."

I dare say that there will be no difficulty.

"I don't expect there will be any difficulty."

Very good, I said; then what is the next question? Must we not ask who are to be rulers and who subjects?

"Very good," I said. "What's the next question? Shouldn't we ask who will be rulers and who will be subjects?"

Certainly.

"Certainly."

There can be no doubt that the elder must rule the younger.

"There is no doubt the elder must rule the younger."

Clearly.

"Clearly."

And that the best of these must rule.

"And that the best among them must rule."

That is also clear.

"That's clear too."

Now, are not the best husbandmen those who are most devoted to husbandry?

"Now, aren't the best farmers those most devoted to farming?"

Yes.

"Yes."

And as we are to have the best of guardians for our city, must they not be those who have most the character of guardians?

"If we want the city's best guardians, shouldn't they be the ones who most have a guardian's character?"

Yes.

"Yes."

And to this end they ought to be wise and efficient, and to have a special care of the State?

"So should they be wise and capable, and take special care of the State?"

True.

"True."

And a man will be most likely to care about that which he loves?

"And won't a person be most likely to care about what they love?"

To be sure.

"Of course."

And he will be most likely to love that which he regards as having the same interests with himself, and that of which the good or evil fortune is supposed by him at any time most to affect his own?

"Wouldn't he be most likely to love what he sees as sharing his interests? Wouldn't he also love what he thinks most affects his own good or bad fortune?"

Very true, he replied.

"That's very true," he replied.

Then there must be a selection. Let us note among the guardians those who in their whole life show the greatest eagerness to do what is for the good of their country, and the greatest repugnance to do what is against her interests.

"Then we need to make a choice. Among the guardians, note those who, throughout their lives, have shown the greatest eagerness to act for their country's good. Also note those with the strongest aversion to anything that harms it."

Those are the right men.

"Those are the right men."

And they will have to be watched at every age, in order that we may see whether they preserve their resolution, and never, under the influence either of force or enchantment, forget or cast off their sense of duty to the State.

"They must be watched at every age. That way we can see whether they keep their resolve. We must make sure they do not forget or abandon their sense of duty to the State. This includes force or enchantment."

How cast off? he said.

"How can we cast him off?" he said.

I will explain to you, I replied. A resolution may go out of a man’s mind either with his will or against his will; with his will when he gets rid of a falsehood and learns better, against his will whenever he is deprived of a truth.

"I will explain," I said. "A resolution can leave a person's mind either voluntarily or involuntarily. Voluntarily, it goes when they give up a false belief and learn the truth. Involuntarily, it goes when they are deprived of a true belief."

I understand, he said, the willing loss of a resolution; the meaning of the unwilling I have yet to learn.

"I understand," he said. "I know what it is to give up a resolution willingly. I still don't know what it means to give it up unwillingly."

Why, I said, do you not see that men are unwillingly deprived of good, and willingly of evil? Is not to have lost the truth an evil, and to possess the truth a good? and you would agree that to conceive things as they are is to possess the truth?

"Don't you see that people lose what is good against their will, but give up what is evil by choice? Isn't losing the truth an evil? Isn't having the truth a good? And you'd agree that understanding things as they really are is the same as possessing the truth?"

Yes, he replied; I agree with you in thinking that mankind are deprived of truth against their will.

"Yes," he replied. "I agree with you that people are deprived of the truth against their will."

And is not this involuntary deprivation caused either by theft, or force, or enchantment?

"Isn't this involuntary loss caused by theft, by force, or by enchantment?"

Still, he replied, I do not understand you.

"I still don't understand you," he replied.

I fear that I must have been talking darkly, like the tragedians. I only mean that some men are changed by persuasion and that others forget; argument steals away the hearts of one class, and time of the other; and this I call theft. Now you understand me?

"I fear I may have been speaking obscurely, like the tragedians. I mean that some people are changed by persuasion, and others simply forget. Argument steals the hearts of one group. Time takes the hearts of the other. I call that theft. Now you understand me?"

Yes.

"Yes."

Those again who are forced, are those whom the violence of some pain or grief compels to change their opinion.

"Those who are forced are people whom intense pain or grief compels to change their opinion."

I understand, he said, and you are quite right.

"I understand," he said. "You are quite right."

And you would also acknowledge that the enchanted are those who change their minds either under the softer influence of pleasure, or the sterner influence of fear?

"Would you also agree that the enchanted are people who change their minds? Are they moved by pleasure's softer sway or fear's sterner sway?"

Yes, he said; everything that deceives may be said to enchant.

"Yes," he said. "Anything that deceives can be called enchanting."

Therefore, as I was just now saying, we must enquire who are the best guardians of their own conviction that what they think the interest of the State is to be the rule of their lives. We must watch them from their youth upwards, and make them perform actions in which they are most likely to forget or to be deceived, and he who remembers and is not deceived is to be selected, and he who fails in the trial is to be rejected. That will be the way?

"Like I just said, we need to find out who will best hold to the belief that the state's interest should guide their lives. We should watch them from their youth. Put them in situations where they are most likely to forget or be deceived. Those who remember and are not fooled we should choose. Those who fail the test we should reject. Will that be the way?"

Yes.

"Yes."

And there should also be toils and pains and conflicts prescribed for them, in which they will be made to give further proof of the same qualities.

"There should also be labors, hardships, and conflicts set for them. In those situations, they will have to prove the same qualities again."

Very right, he replied.

"Quite right," he replied.

And then, I said, we must try them with enchantments—that is the third sort of test—and see what will be their behaviour: like those who take colts amid noise and tumult to see if they are of a timid nature, so must we take our youth amid terrors of some kind, and again pass them into pleasures, and prove them more thoroughly than gold is proved in the furnace, that we may discover whether they are armed against all enchantments, and of a noble bearing always, good guardians of themselves and of the music which they have learned, and retaining under all circumstances a rhythmical and harmonious nature, such as will be most serviceable to the individual and to the State. And he who at every age, as boy and youth and in mature life, has come out of the trial victorious and pure, shall be appointed a ruler and guardian of the State; he shall be honoured in life and death, and shall receive sepulture and other memorials of honour, the greatest that we have to give. But him who fails, we must reject. I am inclined to think that this is the sort of way in which our rulers and guardians should be chosen and appointed. I speak generally, and not with any pretension to exactness.

"And then," I said, "we must test them with enchantments. That is the third kind of test. We need to see how they behave. Like people who put colts into noise and chaos to see if they are timid, we should expose our young to frightening situations and to pleasures. We must test them even more carefully than gold is tested in a furnace. That will show whether they are protected against all temptations, whether they keep a noble bearing, whether they can guard themselves and the music they have learned, and whether they keep a steady, harmonious character. Those qualities help both the person and the State. Anyone who passes these trials at every stage, as a boy, as a youth, and in mature life, should be appointed a ruler and guardian of the State. We should honor them in life and in death. They should receive burial and other memorials, the highest honors we can give. But anyone who fails must be rejected. I think this is the way we should choose and appoint our rulers and guardians. I speak generally, not claiming exact precision."

And, speaking generally, I agree with you, he said.

“In general, I agree with you,” he said.

And perhaps the word ‘guardian’ in the fullest sense ought to be applied to this higher class only who preserve us against foreign enemies and maintain peace among our citizens at home, that the one may not have the will, or the others the power, to harm us. The young men whom we before called guardians may be more properly designated auxiliaries and supporters of the principles of the rulers.

"Perhaps the word 'guardian' in its fullest sense should apply only to that higher class. They defend us against foreign enemies and keep the peace at home. This way outsiders will not want to harm us, and our fellow citizens will not have the power to do so. The young men we earlier called 'guardians' are better called 'auxiliaries'. They support the rulers' principles."

I agree with you, he said.

"I agree with you," he said.

How then may we devise one of those needful falsehoods of which we lately spoke—just one royal lie which may deceive the rulers, if that be possible, and at any rate the rest of the city?

"How then can we come up with one of those necessary falsehoods we were just talking about? Can we make one 'royal lie' that would deceive the rulers, if possible, and at least fool the city?"

What sort of lie? he said.

"What kind of lie?" he asked.

Nothing new, I replied; only an old Phoenician tale (Laws) of what has often occurred before now in other places, (as the poets say, and have made the world believe,) though not in our time, and I do not know whether such an event could ever happen again, or could now even be made probable, if it did.

"Nothing new," I replied. "It's just an old Phoenician tale from the Laws. The tale tells of events that have happened before in other places. The poets say this and have led people to believe it. It hasn't happened in our time. I don't know if it could ever happen again, or if it could even be made probable now."

How your words seem to hesitate on your lips!

"How your words seem to falter on your lips!"

You will not wonder, I replied, at my hesitation when you have heard.

"You won't wonder," I replied, "at my hesitation once you've heard it."

Speak, he said, and fear not.

"Speak," he said. "Don't be afraid."

Well then, I will speak, although I really know not how to look you in the face, or in what words to utter the audacious fiction, which I propose to communicate gradually, first to the rulers, then to the soldiers, and lastly to the people. They are to be told that their youth was a dream, and the education and training which they received from us, an appearance only; in reality during all that time they were being formed and fed in the womb of the earth, where they themselves and their arms and appurtenances were manufactured; when they were completed, the earth, their mother, sent them up; and so, their country being their mother and also their nurse, they are bound to advise for her good, and to defend her against attacks, and her citizens they are to regard as children of the earth and their own brothers.

"Well then, I'll speak, though I don't know how to look you in the face or what words to use to tell this bold story. I intend to tell it slowly, first to the rulers, then to the soldiers, and finally to the people. We will say that their youth was a dream, and that the education and training they received from us was only an appearance. In reality, all that time they were being formed and fed in the womb of the earth. There their bodies, their weapons, and their equipment were made. When they were finished, the earth, their mother, sent them up. Since their country is both mother and nurse, they are bound to act for her good and to defend her from attack. They should see their fellow citizens as children of the earth and as their brothers."

You had good reason, he said, to be ashamed of the lie which you were going to tell.

"You had good reason," he said, "to be ashamed of the lie you were about to tell."

True, I replied, but there is more coming; I have only told you half. Citizens, we shall say to them in our tale, you are brothers, yet God has framed you differently. Some of you have the power of command, and in the composition of these he has mingled gold, wherefore also they have the greatest honour; others he has made of silver, to be auxiliaries; others again who are to be husbandmen and craftsmen he has composed of brass and iron; and the species will generally be preserved in the children. But as all are of the same original stock, a golden parent will sometimes have a silver son, or a silver parent a golden son. And God proclaims as a first principle to the rulers, and above all else, that there is nothing which they should so anxiously guard, or of which they are to be such good guardians, as of the purity of the race. They should observe what elements mingle in their offspring; for if the son of a golden or silver parent has an admixture of brass and iron, then nature orders a transposition of ranks, and the eye of the ruler must not be pitiful towards the child because he has to descend in the scale and become a husbandman or artisan, just as there may be sons of artisans who having an admixture of gold or silver in them are raised to honour, and become guardians or auxiliaries. For an oracle says that when a man of brass or iron guards the State, it will be destroyed. Such is the tale; is there any possibility of making our citizens believe in it?

"True," I replied, "but there is more coming. I have only told you half. Citizens, in our tale we will tell them that you are brothers, but God made you different. Some of you have the power to rule. In those people he mixed gold, and that is why they have the highest honor. Others he made of silver to be auxiliaries. Others, who will be farmers and craftsmen, he made of brass and iron. Their kind usually passes to their children. Since we all come from the same stock, a golden parent may have a silver son, or a silver parent a golden son. And God gives one rule to the rulers above all others. There is nothing they should guard more carefully than the purity of the line. They should watch what elements mix in their children. If the son of a golden or silver parent has a mix of brass and iron, nature requires a change of rank. The rulers must not pity the child for falling to a lower place and becoming a farmer or craftsman. Likewise, sons of craftsmen who carry gold or silver may be raised to honor and become guardians or auxiliaries. An oracle says that if a man of brass or iron guards the state, it will be destroyed. That is the story. Is there any way to make our citizens believe it?"

Not in the present generation, he replied; there is no way of accomplishing this; but their sons may be made to believe in the tale, and their sons’ sons, and posterity after them.

"Not in the present generation," he replied. "There is no way to accomplish this now. But their sons can be made to believe the story, and their sons' sons, and the generations after them."

I see the difficulty, I replied; yet the fostering of such a belief will make them care more for the city and for one another. Enough, however, of the fiction, which may now fly abroad upon the wings of rumour, while we arm our earth-born heroes, and lead them forth under the command of their rulers. Let them look round and select a spot whence they can best suppress insurrection, if any prove refractory within, and also defend themselves against enemies, who like wolves may come down on the fold from without; there let them encamp, and when they have encamped, let them sacrifice to the proper Gods and prepare their dwellings.

"I see the difficulty," I replied. "Still, encouraging that belief will make them care more for the city and for one another. But enough of the story, which may now spread by rumor. We must arm our earth-born heroes and lead them out under their rulers' command. Let them look around and pick a place where they can best put down any internal rebellion. They should also be able to defend themselves there against enemies who, like wolves, might attack the fold from outside. There they should set up camp. After they have camped, they should offer the proper sacrifices to the gods and prepare their homes."

Just so, he said.

"Exactly," he said.

And their dwellings must be such as will shield them against the cold of winter and the heat of summer.

"Their homes must protect them from winter cold and summer heat."

I suppose that you mean houses, he replied.

"I suppose you mean houses," he said.

Yes, I said; but they must be the houses of soldiers, and not of shop-keepers.

"Yes," I said. "But they must be the houses of soldiers, not of shopkeepers."

What is the difference? he said.

"What's the difference?" he said.

That I will endeavour to explain, I replied. To keep watch-dogs, who, from want of discipline or hunger, or some evil habit or other, would turn upon the sheep and worry them, and behave not like dogs but wolves, would be a foul and monstrous thing in a shepherd?

"That I will try to explain," I replied. "Would a shepherd keep watchdogs who, from lack of discipline or hunger, turn on the sheep and attack them? That is acting like wolves, not dogs. Wouldn't that be a foul and monstrous thing in a shepherd?"

Truly monstrous, he said.

"That's truly monstrous," he said.

And therefore every care must be taken that our auxiliaries, being stronger than our citizens, may not grow to be too much for them and become savage tyrants instead of friends and allies?

"Shouldn't we take every care? Our auxiliaries are stronger than our citizens. They must not become too powerful and turn into savage tyrants instead of friends and allies?"

Yes, great care should be taken.

"Yes, we should be very careful."

And would not a really good education furnish the best safeguard?

"Wouldn't a truly good education provide the best safeguard?"

But they are well-educated already, he replied.

"But they're already well educated," he replied.

I cannot be so confident, my dear Glaucon, I said; I am much more certain that they ought to be, and that true education, whatever that may be, will have the greatest tendency to civilize and humanize them in their relations to one another, and to those who are under their protection.

"I cannot be so confident, my dear Glaucon," I said. "I am much more certain that they ought to be. True education, whatever that may be, will most likely civilize and humanize them. It will shape how they relate to one another and to those under their protection."

Very true, he replied.

"That's very true," he said.

And not only their education, but their habitations, and all that belongs to them, should be such as will neither impair their virtue as guardians, nor tempt them to prey upon the other citizens. Any man of sense must acknowledge that.

"Not only their education, but their homes and everything they own should be arranged carefully. Nothing should weaken their virtue as guardians or tempt them to prey on other citizens. Any sensible person would agree."

He must.

"He has to."

Then now let us consider what will be their way of life, if they are to realize our idea of them. In the first place, none of them should have any property of his own beyond what is absolutely necessary; neither should they have a private house or store closed against any one who has a mind to enter; their provisions should be only such as are required by trained warriors, who are men of temperance and courage; they should agree to receive from the citizens a fixed rate of pay, enough to meet the expenses of the year and no more; and they will go to mess and live together like soldiers in a camp. Gold and silver we will tell them that they have from God; the diviner metal is within them, and they have therefore no need of the dross which is current among men, and ought not to pollute the divine by any such earthly admixture; for that commoner metal has been the source of many unholy deeds, but their own is undefiled. And they alone of all the citizens may not touch or handle silver or gold, or be under the same roof with them, or wear them, or drink from them. And this will be their salvation, and they will be the saviours of the State. But should they ever acquire homes or lands or moneys of their own, they will become housekeepers and husbandmen instead of guardians, enemies and tyrants instead of allies of the other citizens; hating and being hated, plotting and being plotted against, they will pass their whole life in much greater terror of internal than of external enemies, and the hour of ruin, both to themselves and to the rest of the State, will be at hand. For all which reasons may we not say that thus shall our State be ordered, and that these shall be the regulations appointed by us for guardians concerning their houses and all other matters?

"Now let's consider how they should live if they are to match our idea of them. First, none of them should own anything beyond what is absolutely necessary. They should not have private houses or locked storerooms that others cannot enter. Their food should be only what trained warriors need. They must be temperate and brave. They must accept from the citizens a fixed pay, enough to cover the year's expenses and no more. They will eat together and live like soldiers in a camp. We will tell them their true wealth comes from the gods. A purer metal is within them, so they have no need of the common metals people use. They must not pollute the divine with such earthly mixtures. Common metals have caused many wicked acts, while their own metal is uncorrupted. They alone may not touch or handle silver or gold, live under the same roof with them, wear them, or drink from them. This will save them, and they will be the saviors of the State. But if they ever acquire houses, land, or money of their own, they will become housekeepers and farmers instead of guardians. They will become enemies and tyrants instead of allies of the other citizens. They will hate and be hated. They will plot and be plotted against. They will spend their lives fearing internal enemies more than external ones. Then the hour of ruin for them and for the State will be near. For all these reasons, may we not say that our State should be ordered like this, and that these should be the rules we set for guardians about their homes and everything else?"

Yes, said Glaucon.

"Yes," Glaucon said.