BOOK VI

And thus, Glaucon, after the argument has gone a weary way, the true and the false philosophers have at length appeared in view.

"Glaucon, our argument has gone on for a long time. At last the true philosophers and the false ones have come into view."

I do not think, he said, that the way could have been shortened.

"I don't think the way could have been shortened," he said.

I suppose not, I said; and yet I believe that we might have had a better view of both of them if the discussion could have been confined to this one subject and if there were not many other questions awaiting us, which he who desires to see in what respect the life of the just differs from that of the unjust must consider.

"I suppose not," I said. "Still, I think we might have had a better view of both if we'd stuck to that one subject. But many other questions await us. Anyone who wants to see how the life of the just differs from the unjust must consider them."

And what is the next question? he asked.

"What's the next question?" he asked.

Surely, I said, the one which follows next in order. Inasmuch as philosophers only are able to grasp the eternal and unchangeable, and those who wander in the region of the many and variable are not philosophers, I must ask you which of the two classes should be the rulers of our State?

"Surely," I said, "the one that comes next in order. Only philosophers can grasp the eternal and unchanging. Those who wander among the many changing things are not philosophers. So I must ask you: which of the two groups should rule our State?"

And how can we rightly answer that question?

"So how can we answer that question correctly?"

Whichever of the two are best able to guard the laws and institutions of our State—let them be our guardians.

"Whichever of the two can best protect our laws and institutions, let them be our guardians."

Very good.

"Very good."

Neither, I said, can there be any question that the guardian who is to keep anything should have eyes rather than no eyes?

"No," I said, "there's no doubt a guardian watching over anything should have eyes, not be blind."

There can be no question of that.

"There’s no question about that."

And are not those who are verily and indeed wanting in the knowledge of the true being of each thing, and who have in their souls no clear pattern, and are unable as with a painter’s eye to look at the absolute truth and to that original to repair, and having perfect vision of the other world to order the laws about beauty, goodness, justice in this, if not already ordered, and to guard and preserve the order of them—are not such persons, I ask, simply blind?

"Do not those people truly lack knowledge of the real nature of things? They have no clear pattern in their souls. They cannot, like a painter's eye, see the absolute truth and return to that original. They lack the clear vision of the other world needed to set up laws about beauty, goodness, and justice here. If those laws are not already arranged, they cannot establish, guard, or preserve them. Are not such people, I ask, simply blind?"

Truly, he replied, they are much in that condition.

"Yes," he replied. "They are mostly in that condition."

And shall they be our guardians when there are others who, besides being their equals in experience and falling short of them in no particular of virtue, also know the very truth of each thing?

"Should they be our guardians when others are equally experienced, match them in every virtue, and know the true nature of everything?"

There can be no reason, he said, for rejecting those who have this greatest of all great qualities; they must always have the first place unless they fail in some other respect.

"There is no reason," he said, "to reject people who have this greatest quality of all. They should always come first unless they fail in some other way."

Suppose then, I said, that we determine how far they can unite this and the other excellences.

"Suppose, then," I said, "let's find out how far this excellence and the others can be combined."

By all means.

"By all means."

In the first place, as we began by observing, the nature of the philosopher has to be ascertained. We must come to an understanding about him, and, when we have done so, then, if I am not mistaken, we shall also acknowledge that such an union of qualities is possible, and that those in whom they are united, and those only, should be rulers in the State.

"First, as we began to say, we must determine the nature of the philosopher. We need to come to an understanding about him. When we've done that, if I'm not mistaken, we'll admit such a combination is possible. And only those who have these qualities should be rulers in the State."

What do you mean?

"What do you mean?"

Let us suppose that philosophical minds always love knowledge of a sort which shows them the eternal nature not varying from generation and corruption.

"Let's suppose that philosophical minds always love a kind of knowledge. That knowledge shows them what is eternal and does not change with birth or decay."

Agreed.

"Agreed."

And further, I said, let us agree that they are lovers of all true being; there is no part whether greater or less, or more or less honourable, which they are willing to renounce; as we said before of the lover and the man of ambition.

"Also," I said, "let's agree that they love all true being. They won't give up any part of it, whether great or small, more or less honorable. It's like what we said earlier about the lover and the ambitious man."

True.

"That's true."

And if they are to be what we were describing, is there not another quality which they should also possess?

"If they are to be what we described, shouldn't they also have another quality?"

What quality?

"What kind?"

Truthfulness: they will never intentionally receive into their mind falsehood, which is their detestation, and they will love the truth.

Truthfulness: "They will never deliberately let falsehood into their minds. They detest it and love the truth."

Yes, that may be safely affirmed of them.

"Yes, you can safely say that about them."

‘May be,’ my friend, I replied, is not the word; say rather ‘must be affirmed:’ for he whose nature is amorous of anything cannot help loving all that belongs or is akin to the object of his affections.

"'Maybe,' my friend," I replied, "is not the right word. Say instead 'must be affirmed.' A person who is naturally drawn to something cannot help loving what belongs to it. They also love what is connected to it."

Right, he said.

"Right," he said.

And is there anything more akin to wisdom than truth?

"And is there anything more like wisdom than truth?"

How can there be?

"How can that be?"

Can the same nature be a lover of wisdom and a lover of falsehood?

"Can the same nature both love wisdom and love falsehood?"

Never.

"Never."

The true lover of learning then must from his earliest youth, as far as in him lies, desire all truth?

"So the true lover of learning must, from his earliest youth, as far as he can, desire all truth?"

Assuredly.

"Certainly."

But then again, as we know by experience, he whose desires are strong in one direction will have them weaker in others; they will be like a stream which has been drawn off into another channel.

"But then again, experience shows this. When someone's desires are strong in one direction, they are weaker in others. They are like a stream drawn off into another channel."

True.

"True."

He whose desires are drawn towards knowledge in every form will be absorbed in the pleasures of the soul, and will hardly feel bodily pleasure—I mean, if he be a true philosopher and not a sham one.

"He whose desires turn toward every kind of knowledge will be absorbed in the pleasures of the soul. He will hardly care for physical pleasure, I mean if he is a true philosopher and not an impostor."

That is most certain.

"That's certain."

Such an one is sure to be temperate and the reverse of covetous; for the motives which make another man desirous of having and spending, have no place in his character.

"Someone like that will be temperate and not greedy. The motives that make other people want to acquire and spend have no place in his character."

Very true.

"That's very true."

Another criterion of the philosophical nature has also to be considered.

"We should also consider another philosophical criterion."

What is that?

"What is that?"

There should be no secret corner of illiberality; nothing can be more antagonistic than meanness to a soul which is ever longing after the whole of things both divine and human.

"There should be no secret corner of closed-mindedness. Nothing is more hostile to a soul that is always longing for the whole of things, divine and human."

Most true, he replied.

"That's true," he replied.

Then how can he who has magnificence of mind and is the spectator of all time and all existence, think much of human life?

"Then how can someone with a magnificent mind, who watches all time and existence, care much for human life?"

He cannot.

"He cannot."

Or can such an one account death fearful?

"Or can such a person consider death frightening?"

No indeed.

"No, indeed."

Then the cowardly and mean nature has no part in true philosophy?

"So a cowardly, petty nature has no part in true philosophy?"

Certainly not.

"No, not at all."

Or again: can he who is harmoniously constituted, who is not covetous or mean, or a boaster, or a coward—can he, I say, ever be unjust or hard in his dealings?

"Or again, consider this. Can someone with a balanced character, not greedy, mean, boastful, or cowardly, ever act unjustly or be harsh?"

Impossible.

"That's impossible."

Then you will soon observe whether a man is just and gentle, or rude and unsociable; these are the signs which distinguish even in youth the philosophical nature from the unphilosophical.

"You'll soon see whether a person is just and gentle or rude and unfriendly. These are the signs that, even in youth, separate the philosophical from the unphilosophical."

True.

"That's true."

There is another point which should be remarked.

"There's one more point to mention."

What point?

"What's the point?"

Whether he has or has not a pleasure in learning; for no one will love that which gives him pain, and in which after much toil he makes little progress.

"Does he take pleasure in learning or not? No one loves something that causes pain and offers little progress no matter how hard they try."

Certainly not.

"Certainly not."

And again, if he is forgetful and retains nothing of what he learns, will he not be an empty vessel?

"And if he's forgetful and remembers nothing of what he learns, won't he be an empty vessel?"

That is certain.

"That's certain."

Labouring in vain, he must end in hating himself and his fruitless occupation? Yes.

"Working in vain, he will end up hating himself and his pointless work, won't he?" "Yes."

Then a soul which forgets cannot be ranked among genuine philosophic natures; we must insist that the philosopher should have a good memory?

"Then a soul that forgets can't be counted among true philosophical natures. We must insist that the philosopher have a good memory?"

Certainly.

"Of course."

And once more, the inharmonious and unseemly nature can only tend to disproportion?

"And again, a nature that is out of harmony and improper can only lead to imbalance?"

Undoubtedly.

"Certainly."

And do you consider truth to be akin to proportion or to disproportion?

"Do you think truth is like proportion or like disproportion?"

To proportion.

"In proportion."

Then, besides other qualities, we must try to find a naturally well-proportioned and gracious mind, which will move spontaneously towards the true being of everything.

"Then, besides other qualities, we should seek a mind that is naturally balanced and graceful. It naturally turns toward the true nature of things."

Certainly.

"Certainly."

Well, and do not all these qualities, which we have been enumerating, go together, and are they not, in a manner, necessary to a soul, which is to have a full and perfect participation of being?

"Don't all these qualities we've been listing belong together? Aren't they, in a way, necessary for a soul to fully and perfectly participate in being?"

They are absolutely necessary, he replied.

"They're absolutely necessary," he replied.

And must not that be a blameless study which he only can pursue who has the gift of a good memory, and is quick to learn,—noble, gracious, the friend of truth, justice, courage, temperance, who are his kindred?

"Isn't that a blameless study that only someone with a good memory and quick learning can pursue? Someone noble and gracious. A friend of truth, justice, courage, and temperance. They are his kin."

The god of jealousy himself, he said, could find no fault with such a study.

He said, "Even the god of jealousy could find no fault with such a study."

And to men like him, I said, when perfected by years and education, and to these only you will entrust the State.

"And to men like him," I said, "after they have been shaped by years of training and education. Only to those men will you entrust the State."

Here Adeimantus interposed and said: To these statements, Socrates, no one can offer a reply; but when you talk in this way, a strange feeling passes over the minds of your hearers: They fancy that they are led astray a little at each step in the argument, owing to their own want of skill in asking and answering questions; these littles accumulate, and at the end of the discussion they are found to have sustained a mighty overthrow and all their former notions appear to be turned upside down. And as unskilful players of draughts are at last shut up by their more skilful adversaries and have no piece to move, so they too find themselves shut up at last; for they have nothing to say in this new game of which words are the counters; and yet all the time they are in the right. The observation is suggested to me by what is now occurring. For any one of us might say, that although in words he is not able to meet you at each step of the argument, he sees as a fact that the votaries of philosophy, when they carry on the study, not only in youth as a part of education, but as the pursuit of their maturer years, most of them become strange monsters, not to say utter rogues, and that those who may be considered the best of them are made useless to the world by the very study which you extol.

Adeimantus interrupted and said, "No one can really answer those claims, Socrates. But when you argue like this, a strange feeling comes over your listeners. They feel they are being led astray a little at each step. That happens because they lack skill in asking and answering questions. Those small losses add up. By the end of the discussion they seem to have suffered a great defeat and their old beliefs look completely overturned. "Like inexperienced checkers players who get shut in by better opponents and have no piece to move, they too find themselves trapped. They have nothing to say in this new game where words are the pieces. And yet, all the while, they are in the right. This thought comes to me because of what is happening now. Any of us might say that, even if we cannot reply to you at every step, we see in practice that those who devote themselves to philosophy—not just in youth as part of education but as a life pursuit—mostly become odd characters, even rogues. The ones who seem best are often made useless to the world by the very study you praise."

Well, and do you think that those who say so are wrong?

"Well, do you think those who say that are wrong?"

I cannot tell, he replied; but I should like to know what is your opinion.

"I can't say," he replied. "I'd like to know what you think."

Hear my answer; I am of opinion that they are quite right.

"Listen to my answer. I think they are quite right."

Then how can you be justified in saying that cities will not cease from evil until philosophers rule in them, when philosophers are acknowledged by us to be of no use to them?

"So how can you justify saying that cities won't stop being evil until philosophers rule them? We have already admitted philosophers are useless to cities."

You ask a question, I said, to which a reply can only be given in a parable.

"You ask a question," I said, "that can only be answered with a parable."

Yes, Socrates; and that is a way of speaking to which you are not at all accustomed, I suppose.

"Yes, Socrates. That's a way of speaking you're not at all accustomed to, I suppose."

I perceive, I said, that you are vastly amused at having plunged me into such a hopeless discussion; but now hear the parable, and then you will be still more amused at the meagreness of my imagination: for the manner in which the best men are treated in their own States is so grievous that no single thing on earth is comparable to it; and therefore, if I am to plead their cause, I must have recourse to fiction, and put together a figure made up of many things, like the fabulous unions of goats and stags which are found in pictures. Imagine then a fleet or a ship in which there is a captain who is taller and stronger than any of the crew, but he is a little deaf and has a similar infirmity in sight, and his knowledge of navigation is not much better. The sailors are quarrelling with one another about the steering—every one is of opinion that he has a right to steer, though he has never learned the art of navigation and cannot tell who taught him or when he learned, and will further assert that it cannot be taught, and they are ready to cut in pieces any one who says the contrary. They throng about the captain, begging and praying him to commit the helm to them; and if at any time they do not prevail, but others are preferred to them, they kill the others or throw them overboard, and having first chained up the noble captain’s senses with drink or some narcotic drug, they mutiny and take possession of the ship and make free with the stores; thus, eating and drinking, they proceed on their voyage in such manner as might be expected of them. Him who is their partisan and cleverly aids them in their plot for getting the ship out of the captain’s hands into their own whether by force or persuasion, they compliment with the name of sailor, pilot, able seaman, and abuse the other sort of man, whom they call a good-for-nothing; but that the true pilot must pay attention to the year and seasons and sky and stars and winds, and whatever else belongs to his art, if he intends to be really qualified for the command of a ship, and that he must and will be the steerer, whether other people like or not—the possibility of this union of authority with the steerer’s art has never seriously entered into their thoughts or been made part of their calling. Now in vessels which are in a state of mutiny and by sailors who are mutineers, how will the true pilot be regarded? Will he not be called by them a prater, a star-gazer, a good-for-nothing?

"I see," I said, "that you are very amused to have pulled me into this hopeless argument. But listen to the parable, and you will be more amused at my poor imagination. The way the best people are treated in their own cities is so cruel that nothing on earth compares. So if I am to defend them, I must use fiction. I must build a figure out of many parts, like the hybrid creatures you see in paintings. "Imagine a ship or a fleet. The captain is taller and stronger than any of the crew. Yet he is a bit deaf and his sight is poor. His knowledge of navigation is not much better. The sailors quarrel among themselves over the steering. Each thinks he has the right to steer, though none has learned navigation. No one can say who taught him or when he learned. Some even insist it cannot be taught. They are ready to tear apart anyone who says otherwise. "They crowd around the captain, begging and pleading to be given the helm. If they fail and others are chosen, they kill those others or throw them overboard. First they drug the noble captain with drink or some narcotic to dull his senses. Then they mutiny and take the ship. They help themselves to the stores. Eating and drinking, they continue the voyage as you would expect. "The man who helps them take the ship, by force or persuasion, they praise as a sailor, a pilot, an able seaman. They insult the other sort and call him a good-for-nothing. But the true pilot must study the year and the seasons, the sky and the stars, the winds, and everything else belonging to his art. If he intends to be truly qualified to command a ship, he must and will be the steerer, whether others like it or not. The idea that authority should be joined with the steerer’s skill has never entered their minds or become part of their trade. "Now on a ship in mutiny, how will the true pilot be regarded? Will they not call him a babbler, a star-gazer, a good-for-nothing?"

Of course, said Adeimantus.

"Of course," Adeimantus said.

Then you will hardly need, I said, to hear the interpretation of the figure, which describes the true philosopher in his relation to the State; for you understand already.

"Then you will hardly need to hear the interpretation of the figure," I said. "It describes the true philosopher's relation to the State, and you already understand it."

Certainly.

"Certainly."

Then suppose you now take this parable to the gentleman who is surprised at finding that philosophers have no honour in their cities; explain it to him and try to convince him that their having honour would be far more extraordinary.

"Suppose you take this parable to the man who is surprised that philosophers have no honour in his city. Explain it to him. Try to convince him that it would be far more extraordinary if philosophers did receive honour."

I will.

"I will."

Say to him, that, in deeming the best votaries of philosophy to be useless to the rest of the world, he is right; but also tell him to attribute their uselessness to the fault of those who will not use them, and not to themselves. The pilot should not humbly beg the sailors to be commanded by him—that is not the order of nature; neither are ‘the wise to go to the doors of the rich’—the ingenious author of this saying told a lie—but the truth is, that, when a man is ill, whether he be rich or poor, to the physician he must go, and he who wants to be governed, to him who is able to govern. The ruler who is good for anything ought not to beg his subjects to be ruled by him; although the present governors of mankind are of a different stamp; they may be justly compared to the mutinous sailors, and the true helmsmen to those who are called by them good-for-nothings and star-gazers.

"Tell him that he is right to call the best followers of philosophy useless to the rest of the world. But tell him to blame those who refuse to use them, not the philosophers themselves. A pilot should not have to beg the crew to obey him. That is not the way of nature. Nor should 'the wise go to the doors of the rich.' The clever man who coined that saying lied. The truth is this: when a person is ill, rich or poor, he must go to the physician. And anyone who wants to be governed must go to the one who can govern. A ruler who is fit for his job should not have to beg his subjects to accept his rule. Yet our present rulers are different. They may rightly be compared to mutinous sailors, and the true helmsmen are called by them 'good-for-nothings' and 'star-gazers.'"

Precisely so, he said.

"Exactly," he said.

For these reasons, and among men like these, philosophy, the noblest pursuit of all, is not likely to be much esteemed by those of the opposite faction; not that the greatest and most lasting injury is done to her by her opponents, but by her own professing followers, the same of whom you suppose the accuser to say, that the greater number of them are arrant rogues, and the best are useless; in which opinion I agreed.

"For these reasons, and among people like these, philosophy is unlikely to be much respected by the opposing faction. The greatest and most lasting damage does not come from opponents. It comes from its own professed followers. You suppose the accuser says most of them are complete rogues, and the best are useless. I agreed with that view."

Yes.

"Yes."

And the reason why the good are useless has now been explained?

"Have you now explained why the good are useless?"

True.

"True."

Then shall we proceed to show that the corruption of the majority is also unavoidable, and that this is not to be laid to the charge of philosophy any more than the other?

"Shall we then show that the corruption of the majority is unavoidable? And that it is not the fault of philosophy any more than the other corruption?"

By all means.

"By all means."

And let us ask and answer in turn, first going back to the description of the gentle and noble nature. Truth, as you will remember, was his leader, whom he followed always and in all things; failing in this, he was an impostor, and had no part or lot in true philosophy.

"Let's ask and answer in turn. First, go back to the description of the gentle and noble nature. Remember that Truth was his leader, and he always followed her in everything. If he failed to do this, he was a fraud and had no part in true philosophy."

Yes, that was said.

"Yes, that's what was said."

Well, and is not this one quality, to mention no others, greatly at variance with present notions of him?

"Well, isn't this one trait, to mention no others, very different from the way people think of him now?"

Certainly, he said.

"Certainly," he said.

And have we not a right to say in his defence, that the true lover of knowledge is always striving after being—that is his nature; he will not rest in the multiplicity of individuals which is an appearance only, but will go on—the keen edge will not be blunted, nor the force of his desire abate until he have attained the knowledge of the true nature of every essence by a sympathetic and kindred power in the soul, and by that power drawing near and mingling and becoming incorporate with very being, having begotten mind and truth, he will have knowledge and will live and grow truly, and then, and not till then, will he cease from his travail.

"Don't we have the right to say in his defense that the true lover of knowledge always strives for being. That is his nature. He will not rest in the many individual things, which are only appearances. He will go on. His sharp edge will not be blunted. His desire will not weaken. He will not stop until he knows the true nature of every essence. He reaches this by a sympathetic, kindred power in his soul. By that power he draws near, mingles with, and becomes incorporated into being itself. In doing so he begets mind and truth. He gains knowledge and then truly lives and grows. Then, and only then, will he stop his toil."

Nothing, he said, can be more just than such a description of him.

"Nothing," he said, "could be more just than that description of him."

And will the love of a lie be any part of a philosopher’s nature? Will he not utterly hate a lie?

"Would a philosopher have any love for a lie? Wouldn't he hate a lie completely?"

He will.

"He will."

And when truth is the captain, we cannot suspect any evil of the band which he leads?

"And when truth is the captain, can we suspect anything bad about the band he leads?"

Impossible.

"That's impossible."

Justice and health of mind will be of the company, and temperance will follow after?

"Justice and a sound mind will be with them, and temperance will follow?"

True, he replied.

"That's true," he said.

Neither is there any reason why I should again set in array the philosopher’s virtues, as you will doubtless remember that courage, magnificence, apprehension, memory, were his natural gifts. And you objected that, although no one could deny what I then said, still, if you leave words and look at facts, the persons who are thus described are some of them manifestly useless, and the greater number utterly depraved; we were then led to enquire into the grounds of these accusations, and have now arrived at the point of asking why are the majority bad, which question of necessity brought us back to the examination and definition of the true philosopher.

"There's no need for me to list the philosopher's virtues again. You will remember that courage, generosity, understanding, and memory were his natural gifts. You objected that even if no one could deny this, when we leave words and look at real life some people described that way are clearly useless. Most are completely corrupt. That pushed us to ask what grounds those accusations. We have now reached the question: why are the majority bad? That question forced us back to defining the true philosopher."

Exactly.

"Exactly."

And we have next to consider the corruptions of the philosophic nature, why so many are spoiled and so few escape spoiling—I am speaking of those who were said to be useless but not wicked—and, when we have done with them, we will speak of the imitators of philosophy, what manner of men are they who aspire after a profession which is above them and of which they are unworthy, and then, by their manifold inconsistencies, bring upon philosophy, and upon all philosophers, that universal reprobation of which we speak.

"Next we must consider how the philosophical nature is corrupted. Why are so many ruined, and so few escape? I mean those called 'useless' rather than 'wicked.' After that we will look at the imitators of philosophy. What kind of people try to take on a role above them, for which they are unfit? By their many inconsistencies they bring widespread condemnation on philosophy and on all philosophers."

What are these corruptions? he said.

"What are these corruptions?" he asked.

I will see if I can explain them to you. Every one will admit that a nature having in perfection all the qualities which we required in a philosopher, is a rare plant which is seldom seen among men.

"I'll try to explain them to you. Everyone agrees that someone who fully possesses all the qualities we require in a philosopher is rare. Such people are hardly ever seen among us."

Rare indeed.

"That's rare."

And what numberless and powerful causes tend to destroy these rare natures!

"And what countless, powerful forces threaten to destroy these rare natures!"

What causes?

"What causes it?"

In the first place there are their own virtues, their courage, temperance, and the rest of them, every one of which praiseworthy qualities (and this is a most singular circumstance) destroys and distracts from philosophy the soul which is the possessor of them.

"First, there are their virtues: courage, temperance, and the rest of them. Each of these qualities is praiseworthy. And this is most curious: they destroy and distract the soul that possesses them from philosophy."

That is very singular, he replied.

"That's very strange," he replied.

Then there are all the ordinary goods of life—beauty, wealth, strength, rank, and great connections in the State—you understand the sort of things—these also have a corrupting and distracting effect.

"Then there are the ordinary goods of life, like beauty, wealth, strength, rank, and great connections in the State. You know the sort of things. They also corrupt and distract."

I understand; but I should like to know more precisely what you mean about them.

"I understand, but I'd like to know exactly what you mean by them."

Grasp the truth as a whole, I said, and in the right way; you will then have no difficulty in apprehending the preceding remarks, and they will no longer appear strange to you.

"See the truth as a whole," I said. "See it in the right way. Then you will have no trouble understanding my earlier remarks. They will no longer seem strange to you."

And how am I to do so? he asked.

"How am I supposed to do that?" he asked.

Why, I said, we know that all germs or seeds, whether vegetable or animal, when they fail to meet with proper nutriment or climate or soil, in proportion to their vigour, are all the more sensitive to the want of a suitable environment, for evil is a greater enemy to what is good than to what is not.

"Well," I said, "we know that all germs or seeds, whether plant or animal, need proper food, climate, and soil. If they fail to find these, they suffer. The stronger a seed is, the more sensitive it becomes to a poor environment. Evil is a greater enemy to what is good than to what is not."

Very true.

"That's very true."

There is reason in supposing that the finest natures, when under alien conditions, receive more injury than the inferior, because the contrast is greater.

"It makes sense to suppose that the finest natures suffer more harm in harsh or unfamiliar conditions. They are hurt more than lesser natures because the contrast is greater."

Certainly.

"Certainly."

And may we not say, Adeimantus, that the most gifted minds, when they are ill-educated, become pre-eminently bad? Do not great crimes and the spirit of pure evil spring out of a fulness of nature ruined by education rather than from any inferiority, whereas weak natures are scarcely capable of any very great good or very great evil?

"Can't we say, Adeimantus, that the most gifted minds, when badly educated, become especially bad? Don't great crimes and pure evil grow out of a rich nature ruined by bad education? They come from that, not from any lack of ability. Weak natures are hardly capable of very great good or very great evil."

There I think that you are right.

"I think you're right there."

And our philosopher follows the same analogy—he is like a plant which, having proper nurture, must necessarily grow and mature into all virtue, but, if sown and planted in an alien soil, becomes the most noxious of all weeds, unless he be preserved by some divine power. Do you really think, as people so often say, that our youth are corrupted by Sophists, or that private teachers of the art corrupt them in any degree worth speaking of? Are not the public who say these things the greatest of all Sophists? And do they not educate to perfection young and old, men and women alike, and fashion them after their own hearts?

"And our philosopher follows the same analogy. He is like a plant that, with proper care, will inevitably grow and become fully virtuous. But if he is planted in foreign soil, he turns into the most harmful of weeds, unless some divine power preserves him. Do you really think, as people often say, that our youth are corrupted by Sophists, or that private teachers of the art corrupt them in any significant way? Aren't the people who say this the greatest Sophists of all? Don't they perfectly educate young and old, men and women alike, shaping them to their own liking?"

When is this accomplished? he said.

"When will this be done?" he said.

When they meet together, and the world sits down at an assembly, or in a court of law, or a theatre, or a camp, or in any other popular resort, and there is a great uproar, and they praise some things which are being said or done, and blame other things, equally exaggerating both, shouting and clapping their hands, and the echo of the rocks and the place in which they are assembled redoubles the sound of the praise or blame—at such a time will not a young man’s heart, as they say, leap within him? Will any private training enable him to stand firm against the overwhelming flood of popular opinion? or will he be carried away by the stream? Will he not have the notions of good and evil which the public in general have—he will do as they do, and as they are, such will he be?

"When people gather. When the public sits in an assembly, a court, a theater, a camp, or any crowded place. There is often a great uproar. They praise some things being said or done and condemn others. They exaggerate both, shouting and clapping. The echo from the rocks and the place amplifies the praise and the blame. At such a time won't a young man's heart, as they say, leap within him? Can any private training make him stand firm against the overwhelming flood of popular opinion? Or will he be swept away by the current? Won't he adopt the crowd's ideas of good and evil? He will act as they act, and become like them."

Yes, Socrates; necessity will compel him.

"Yes, Socrates. Necessity will force him."

And yet, I said, there is a still greater necessity, which has not been mentioned.

"But," I said, "there is an even greater necessity we haven't mentioned."

What is that?

"What's that?"

The gentle force of attainder or confiscation or death, which, as you are aware, these new Sophists and educators, who are the public, apply when their words are powerless.

"As you know, these new Sophists and educators, who are the public, use mild force when words fail. They use public condemnation, confiscation of property, or even death."

Indeed they do; and in right good earnest.

"They certainly do. And they mean it seriously."

Now what opinion of any other Sophist, or of any private person, can be expected to overcome in such an unequal contest?

"So what opinion could any other Sophist or private person have that would win such an unequal contest?"

None, he replied.

"None," he replied.

No, indeed, I said, even to make the attempt is a great piece of folly; there neither is, nor has been, nor is ever likely to be, any different type of character which has had no other training in virtue but that which is supplied by public opinion—I speak, my friend, of human virtue only; what is more than human, as the proverb says, is not included: for I would not have you ignorant that, in the present evil state of governments, whatever is saved and comes to good is saved by the power of God, as we may truly say.

"No, indeed," I said. "Even trying would be a great piece of folly. There has never been, nor is there likely ever to be, any kind of character that learned virtue only from public opinion. I mean human virtue, friend. Anything beyond human, as the proverb says, is not included. And know this: in the present evil state of governments, whatever is saved and turns out well is saved by the power of God."

I quite assent, he replied.

"I agree completely," he replied.

Then let me crave your assent also to a further observation.

"Then let me ask for your agreement on another point."

What are you going to say?

"What are you going to say?"

Why, that all those mercenary individuals, whom the many call Sophists and whom they deem to be their adversaries, do, in fact, teach nothing but the opinion of the many, that is to say, the opinions of their assemblies; and this is their wisdom. I might compare them to a man who should study the tempers and desires of a mighty strong beast who is fed by him—he would learn how to approach and handle him, also at what times and from what causes he is dangerous or the reverse, and what is the meaning of his several cries, and by what sounds, when another utters them, he is soothed or infuriated; and you may suppose further, that when, by continually attending upon him, he has become perfect in all this, he calls his knowledge wisdom, and makes of it a system or art, which he proceeds to teach, although he has no real notion of what he means by the principles or passions of which he is speaking, but calls this honourable and that dishonourable, or good or evil, or just or unjust, all in accordance with the tastes and tempers of the great brute. Good he pronounces to be that in which the beast delights and evil to be that which he dislikes; and he can give no other account of them except that the just and noble are the necessary, having never himself seen, and having no power of explaining to others the nature of either, or the difference between them, which is immense. By heaven, would not such an one be a rare educator?

"Why, those paid men many call Sophists, whom people think are their opponents, teach nothing but popular opinion. They teach the views of the crowd. That is their wisdom. I could compare them to a man who studies the moods and wants of a powerful beast he feeds. He would learn how to approach and handle it. He would learn when the beast is dangerous and when it is not. He would learn what its different cries mean. He would know which sounds from others soothe it and which enrage it. After constant attendance, he becomes perfect at all this. He calls that knowledge wisdom. He turns it into a system or an art and then teaches it. But he has no real idea what he means by the principles or feelings he talks about. He simply labels this honorable and that shameful, this good or that evil, this just or that unjust, all according to the creature’s tastes and moods. He calls good whatever pleases the beast and evil whatever it dislikes. He cannot explain them any other way. He treats the just and the noble as whatever the beast needs. He has never seen true justice or nobility, and he cannot explain their nature, or how they differ, which is a huge difference. Really, wouldn't such a person be a strange kind of teacher?"

Indeed he would.

"Yes, he would."

And in what way does he who thinks that wisdom is the discernment of the tempers and tastes of the motley multitude, whether in painting or music, or, finally, in politics, differ from him whom I have been describing? For when a man consorts with the many, and exhibits to them his poem or other work of art or the service which he has done the State, making them his judges when he is not obliged, the so-called necessity of Diomede will oblige him to produce whatever they praise. And yet the reasons are utterly ludicrous which they give in confirmation of their own notions about the honourable and good. Did you ever hear any of them which were not?

"How does someone who thinks wisdom means reading a crowd's moods and tastes differ from the person I described? This applies to painting, music, and finally politics. When a man courts the crowd with a poem, artwork, or public service, he makes them his judges. Then the so-called necessity of Diomede forces him to give them whatever they praise. Yet the reasons they offer to defend their ideas of what is honorable and good are utterly ridiculous. Have you ever heard any that weren't?"

No, nor am I likely to hear.

"No, and I'm not likely to hear it."

You recognise the truth of what I have been saying? Then let me ask you to consider further whether the world will ever be induced to believe in the existence of absolute beauty rather than of the many beautiful, or of the absolute in each kind rather than of the many in each kind?

"Do you recognize the truth of what I've been saying? If so, let me ask you another question. Will the world ever be persuaded to believe in absolute beauty, rather than in many beautiful things? Will it accept an absolute for each kind, instead of many examples within each kind?"

Certainly not.

"Certainly not."

Then the world cannot possibly be a philosopher?

"Then the world can't possibly be a philosopher?"

Impossible.

"Impossible."

And therefore philosophers must inevitably fall under the censure of the world?

"So philosophers must inevitably face the world's criticism?"

They must.

"They have to."

And of individuals who consort with the mob and seek to please them?

"And what about people who associate with the mob and try to please them?"

That is evident.

"That's clear."

Then, do you see any way in which the philosopher can be preserved in his calling to the end? and remember what we were saying of him, that he was to have quickness and memory and courage and magnificence—these were admitted by us to be the true philosopher’s gifts.

"So, do you see any way to keep the philosopher in his calling until the end? Remember what we said about him. He should have quickness, memory, courage, and magnificence. We agreed those are the true gifts of a philosopher."

Yes.

"Yes."

Will not such an one from his early childhood be in all things first among all, especially if his bodily endowments are like his mental ones?

"Wouldn't such a person be first among everyone in everything from early childhood? Especially if his physical gifts match his mental ones."

Certainly, he said.

"Of course," he said.

And his friends and fellow-citizens will want to use him as he gets older for their own purposes?

"Won't his friends and fellow citizens want to use him for their own purposes as he grows older?"

No question.

"No question."

Falling at his feet, they will make requests to him and do him honour and flatter him, because they want to get into their hands now, the power which he will one day possess.

"They will kneel at his feet, beg him, honor him, and flatter him. They do this because they want to secure now the power he will one day hold."

That often happens, he said.

"That often happens," he said.

And what will a man such as he is be likely to do under such circumstances, especially if he be a citizen of a great city, rich and noble, and a tall proper youth? Will he not be full of boundless aspirations, and fancy himself able to manage the affairs of Hellenes and of barbarians, and having got such notions into his head will he not dilate and elevate himself in the fulness of vain pomp and senseless pride?

"And what will a man like that do in such circumstances? Especially if he is a citizen of a great city, rich and noble, and a tall, handsome youth. Won't he be full of boundless ambition, and imagine he can manage the affairs of Hellenes and barbarians? Once those ideas take hold, won't he puff himself up with vain display and senseless pride?"

To be sure he will.

"Of course he will."

Now, when he is in this state of mind, if some one gently comes to him and tells him that he is a fool and must get understanding, which can only be got by slaving for it, do you think that, under such adverse circumstances, he will be easily induced to listen?

"Now, when he's in that state of mind, suppose someone gently approaches him and says, 'You are a fool. You must gain understanding. You can only get it by working hard.' Do you think, under those circumstances, he will be easily persuaded to listen?"

Far otherwise.

"Quite the opposite."

And even if there be some one who through inherent goodness or natural reasonableness has had his eyes opened a little and is humbled and taken captive by philosophy, how will his friends behave when they think that they are likely to lose the advantage which they were hoping to reap from his companionship? Will they not do and say anything to prevent him from yielding to his better nature and to render his teacher powerless, using to this end private intrigues as well as public prosecutions?

"Even if someone, by natural goodness or sound reason, has his eyes opened a little. He becomes humble and is won over by philosophy. What will his friends do when they think they will lose the advantage they hoped to gain from his company? Won't they say and do anything to keep him from following his better nature? Won't they try to make his teacher powerless? They will use private schemes as well as public prosecutions."

There can be no doubt of it.

"There's no doubt about it."

And how can one who is thus circumstanced ever become a philosopher?

"And how can someone in that situation ever become a philosopher?"

Impossible.

"Impossible."

Then were we not right in saying that even the very qualities which make a man a philosopher may, if he be ill-educated, divert him from philosophy, no less than riches and their accompaniments and the other so-called goods of life?

"Weren't we right to say that even the qualities that make someone a philosopher can divert them from philosophy? This can happen if they are poorly educated. It happens no less than with wealth, its trappings, and other so-called goods of life."

We were quite right.

"We were absolutely right."

Thus, my excellent friend, is brought about all that ruin and failure which I have been describing of the natures best adapted to the best of all pursuits; they are natures which we maintain to be rare at any time; this being the class out of which come the men who are the authors of the greatest evil to States and individuals; and also of the greatest good when the tide carries them in that direction; but a small man never was the doer of any great thing either to individuals or to States.

"My excellent friend, this is how the ruin and failure I described comes about. They affect the natures best suited for the noblest pursuits. We believe these natures are rare at any time. From them come the people who cause the greatest harm to states and individuals. They can also do the greatest good when the tide carries them that way. A small man has never done anything great for an individual or a state."

That is most true, he said.

"That's absolutely true," he said.

And so philosophy is left desolate, with her marriage rite incomplete: for her own have fallen away and forsaken her, and while they are leading a false and unbecoming life, other unworthy persons, seeing that she has no kinsmen to be her protectors, enter in and dishonour her; and fasten upon her the reproaches which, as you say, her reprovers utter, who affirm of her votaries that some are good for nothing, and that the greater number deserve the severest punishment.

"So philosophy is left desolate, her marriage left unfinished. Her own followers have fallen away and abandoned her. They live false and unbecoming lives. Other unworthy people see she has no kin to protect her. They come in and dishonor her. They heap on the reproaches her critics voice, saying some of her followers are good for nothing and that most deserve the harshest punishment."

That is certainly what people say.

"That's certainly what people say."

Yes; and what else would you expect, I said, when you think of the puny creatures who, seeing this land open to them—a land well stocked with fair names and showy titles—like prisoners running out of prison into a sanctuary, take a leap out of their trades into philosophy; those who do so being probably the cleverest hands at their own miserable crafts? For, although philosophy be in this evil case, still there remains a dignity about her which is not to be found in the arts. And many are thus attracted by her whose natures are imperfect and whose souls are maimed and disfigured by their meannesses, as their bodies are by their trades and crafts. Is not this unavoidable?

"Yes," I said. "What else would you expect when you think of these puny creatures? They see the field open to them, a land full of pretty names and flashy titles. Like prisoners rushing from jail into a sanctuary, they leap from their trades into philosophy. Often these are the cleverest hands in their miserable crafts. Even if philosophy is in a bad way, it still has a dignity the arts lack. Many are drawn to it whose characters are imperfect. Their souls are maimed by pettiness, just as their bodies are damaged by their trades. Isn't this unavoidable?"

Yes.

"Yes."

Are they not exactly like a bald little tinker who has just got out of durance and come into a fortune; he takes a bath and puts on a new coat, and is decked out as a bridegroom going to marry his master’s daughter, who is left poor and desolate?

"Aren't they exactly like a bald little tinker who has just escaped from prison and come into a fortune? He takes a bath and puts on a new coat. He is dressed up like a bridegroom going to marry his master's daughter, while she is left poor and desolate."

A most exact parallel.

"An exact parallel."

What will be the issue of such marriages? Will they not be vile and bastard?

"What will the children of such marriages be like? Won't they be vile and illegitimate?"

There can be no question of it.

"There's no question about it."

And when persons who are unworthy of education approach philosophy and make an alliance with her who is in a rank above them what sort of ideas and opinions are likely to be generated? Will they not be sophisms captivating to the ear, having nothing in them genuine, or worthy of or akin to true wisdom?

"When people unworthy of education approach philosophy and join with her, who ranks above them, what ideas will they produce? Won't they be sophisms that please the ear, with nothing genuine in them and nothing like true wisdom?"

No doubt, he said.

"No doubt," he said.

Then, Adeimantus, I said, the worthy disciples of philosophy will be but a small remnant: perchance some noble and well-educated person, detained by exile in her service, who in the absence of corrupting influences remains devoted to her; or some lofty soul born in a mean city, the politics of which he contemns and neglects; and there may be a gifted few who leave the arts, which they justly despise, and come to her;—or peradventure there are some who are restrained by our friend Theages’ bridle; for everything in the life of Theages conspired to divert him from philosophy; but ill-health kept him away from politics. My own case of the internal sign is hardly worth mentioning, for rarely, if ever, has such a monitor been given to any other man. Those who belong to this small class have tasted how sweet and blessed a possession philosophy is, and have also seen enough of the madness of the multitude; and they know that no politician is honest, nor is there any champion of justice at whose side they may fight and be saved. Such an one may be compared to a man who has fallen among wild beasts—he will not join in the wickedness of his fellows, but neither is he able singly to resist all their fierce natures, and therefore seeing that he would be of no use to the State or to his friends, and reflecting that he would have to throw away his life without doing any good either to himself or others, he holds his peace, and goes his own way. He is like one who, in the storm of dust and sleet which the driving wind hurries along, retires under the shelter of a wall; and seeing the rest of mankind full of wickedness, he is content, if only he can live his own life and be pure from evil or unrighteousness, and depart in peace and good-will, with bright hopes.

"Then, Adeimantus," I said, "the worthy followers of philosophy will be only a small remnant. Perhaps one is a noble, well-educated person, kept in exile and serving philosophy. Without corrupting influences, he stays devoted. Or a lofty soul may be born in a mean city. He despises that city's politics and ignores them. There may be a few gifted people who abandon the arts they rightly despise and turn to philosophy. Or maybe some are held back by our friend Theages' bridle. Everything in Theages' life pushed him away from philosophy, and his ill health kept him out of politics. "My own inner sign is hardly worth mentioning. Rarely, if ever, has such a guide been given to anyone else. Those in this small group have tasted how sweet and blessed philosophy is. They have also seen how mad the crowd can be. They know no politician is honest, and there is no champion of justice beside whom they can fight and be saved. "Such a person is like a man who has fallen among wild beasts. He will not join their wickedness, but he cannot resist them alone. Seeing he would be useless to the State and to his friends, and that he would waste his life without helping anyone, he keeps silent and goes his own way. He is like someone who, in a storm of dust and sleet, takes shelter behind a wall. Seeing the rest of mankind full of wickedness, he is content to live his own life, remain free of evil and unrighteousness, and depart in peace and good will, with bright hopes."

Yes, he said, and he will have done a great work before he departs.

"Yes," he said. "He will have accomplished something great before he leaves."

A great work—yes; but not the greatest, unless he find a State suitable to him; for in a State which is suitable to him, he will have a larger growth and be the saviour of his country, as well as of himself.

"A great work, yes. But it is not the greatest unless he finds a State suited to him. In a State like that he will grow more. He will be the savior of his country and of himself."

The causes why philosophy is in such an evil name have now been sufficiently explained: the injustice of the charges against her has been shown—is there anything more which you wish to say?

"The reasons philosophy has such a bad reputation have now been explained. The unfairness of the accusations against her has been shown. Is there anything else you want to say?"

Nothing more on that subject, he replied; but I should like to know which of the governments now existing is in your opinion the one adapted to her.

"Nothing more on that subject," he replied. "But I would like to know which of the governments that exist now you think is suited to her."

Not any of them, I said; and that is precisely the accusation which I bring against them—not one of them is worthy of the philosophic nature, and hence that nature is warped and estranged;—as the exotic seed which is sown in a foreign land becomes denaturalized, and is wont to be overpowered and to lose itself in the new soil, even so this growth of philosophy, instead of persisting, degenerates and receives another character. But if philosophy ever finds in the State that perfection which she herself is, then will be seen that she is in truth divine, and that all other things, whether natures of men or institutions, are but human;—and now, I know, that you are going to ask, What that State is:

"Not one of them," I said. "That is exactly the charge I bring against them. None of them is worthy of the philosophical nature. As a result, that nature becomes warped and alienated. Like an exotic seed planted in foreign soil, it loses its natural qualities. The new soil overwhelms it and it changes. In the same way, this growth of philosophy does not persist. It degenerates and takes on a different character. But if philosophy ever finds in the State the perfection that belongs to her, then we will see that she is truly divine. Everything else, whether human characters or institutions, will be only human. Now I know you will ask, 'What is that State?'"

No, he said; there you are wrong, for I was going to ask another question—whether it is the State of which we are the founders and inventors, or some other?

"No," he said. "You're wrong about that. I was going to ask a different question. Is it the State that we founded and invented, or some other State?"

Yes, I replied, ours in most respects; but you may remember my saying before, that some living authority would always be required in the State having the same idea of the constitution which guided you when as legislator you were laying down the laws.

"Yes," I replied, "ours in most respects. You may remember I said earlier that the State would always need a living authority. That authority must hold the same idea of the constitution. That idea guided you when, as legislator, you laid down the laws."

That was said, he replied.

"That's been said," he replied.

Yes, but not in a satisfactory manner; you frightened us by interposing objections, which certainly showed that the discussion would be long and difficult; and what still remains is the reverse of easy.

"Yes, but not in a satisfactory way. You frightened us by raising objections, which showed the discussion would be long and difficult. What remains is still far from easy."

What is there remaining?

"What remains?"

The question how the study of philosophy may be so ordered as not to be the ruin of the State: All great attempts are attended with risk; ‘hard is the good,’ as men say.

The question is how the study of philosophy can be organized so it does not destroy the State. All great attempts come with risk. "Hard is the good," people say.

Still, he said, let the point be cleared up, and the enquiry will then be complete.

"Still, let the point be cleared up," he said. "Then the inquiry will be complete."

I shall not be hindered, I said, by any want of will, but, if at all, by a want of power: my zeal you may see for yourselves; and please to remark in what I am about to say how boldly and unhesitatingly I declare that States should pursue philosophy, not as they do now, but in a different spirit.

I said, "I won't be stopped by a lack of will. If anything holds me back, it will be a lack of power. You can see my zeal for yourselves. Notice how boldly and without hesitation I say this. States should pursue philosophy in a different spirit than they do now."

In what manner?

"In what way?"

At present, I said, the students of philosophy are quite young; beginning when they are hardly past childhood, they devote only the time saved from moneymaking and housekeeping to such pursuits; and even those of them who are reputed to have most of the philosophic spirit, when they come within sight of the great difficulty of the subject, I mean dialectic, take themselves off. In after life when invited by some one else, they may, perhaps, go and hear a lecture, and about this they make much ado, for philosophy is not considered by them to be their proper business: at last, when they grow old, in most cases they are extinguished more truly than Heracleitus’ sun, inasmuch as they never light up again. (Heraclitus said that the sun was extinguished every evening and relighted every morning.)

"At present," I said, "the students of philosophy are still very young. They begin when they are hardly out of childhood. They give to philosophy only the time left after earning money and running a household. Even those with the strongest philosophical spirit back away when they see the main difficulty, dialectic. Later in life, if someone else invites them, they may go to a lecture. They make a big fuss about that, since they do not see philosophy as their proper work. Finally, when they grow old they are put out more truly than Heraclitus' sun, for they never light up again. (Heraclitus said the sun was put out each evening and relit every morning.)"

But what ought to be their course?

"But what should they do?"

Just the opposite. In childhood and youth their study, and what philosophy they learn, should be suited to their tender years: during this period while they are growing up towards manhood, the chief and special care should be given to their bodies that they may have them to use in the service of philosophy; as life advances and the intellect begins to mature, let them increase the gymnastics of the soul; but when the strength of our citizens fails and is past civil and military duties, then let them range at will and engage in no serious labour, as we intend them to live happily here, and to crown this life with a similar happiness in another.

"Just the opposite. In childhood and youth their studies and the philosophy they learn should fit their tender years. While they grow toward adulthood, the main care must be for their bodies so they can serve philosophy. As life advances and the intellect matures, they should increase the soul's exercises. When citizens grow weak and are past civil and military duties, let them roam freely and avoid serious labor. We mean for them to live happily here and to crown this life with a similar happiness in another."

How truly in earnest you are, Socrates! he said; I am sure of that; and yet most of your hearers, if I am not mistaken, are likely to be still more earnest in their opposition to you, and will never be convinced; Thrasymachus least of all.

"You're really earnest, Socrates," he said. "I'm sure of that. Yet most of your listeners, if I'm not wrong, will be even more determined to oppose you. They won't be convinced. Least of all Thrasymachus."

Do not make a quarrel, I said, between Thrasymachus and me, who have recently become friends, although, indeed, we were never enemies; for I shall go on striving to the utmost until I either convert him and other men, or do something which may profit them against the day when they live again, and hold the like discourse in another state of existence.

"Do not make a quarrel between Thrasymachus and me," I said. "We have recently become friends. We were never really enemies. I will keep trying as hard as I can. I will either convince him and others. I will also do something that helps them when they live again. That is when they hold the same discussion in another state of existence."

You are speaking of a time which is not very near.

"You are talking about a time that is not very near."

Rather, I replied, of a time which is as nothing in comparison with eternity. Nevertheless, I do not wonder that the many refuse to believe; for they have never seen that of which we are now speaking realized; they have seen only a conventional imitation of philosophy, consisting of words artificially brought together, not like these of ours having a natural unity. But a human being who in word and work is perfectly moulded, as far as he can be, into the proportion and likeness of virtue—such a man ruling in a city which bears the same image, they have never yet seen, neither one nor many of them—do you think that they ever did?

"Rather," I replied, "of a time that is nothing compared to eternity. Still, I am not surprised that most people refuse to believe. They have never seen what we are now describing. They have only known a conventional imitation of philosophy. It is just words put together artificially, not like ours, which have a natural unity. But a person who, in both speech and action, is shaped as fully as possible into the form and likeness of virtue. And who rules a city made in that same image. They have never seen such a person. Not one, and not many. Do you think they ever have?"

No indeed.

"No, not at all."

No, my friend, and they have seldom, if ever, heard free and noble sentiments; such as men utter when they are earnestly and by every means in their power seeking after truth for the sake of knowledge, while they look coldly on the subtleties of controversy, of which the end is opinion and strife, whether they meet with them in the courts of law or in society.

"No, my friend. They have rarely, if ever, heard noble, free sentiments. I mean the things people say when they genuinely seek truth for its own sake. They use every means in their power. They look coldly on the fine points of controversy, since those only lead to opinion and strife. They do this whether the disputes arise in the courts of law or in society."

They are strangers, he said, to the words of which you speak.

"They are strangers," he said. "They do not know the words you speak."

And this was what we foresaw, and this was the reason why truth forced us to admit, not without fear and hesitation, that neither cities nor States nor individuals will ever attain perfection until the small class of philosophers whom we termed useless but not corrupt are providentially compelled, whether they will or not, to take care of the State, and until a like necessity be laid on the State to obey them; or until kings, or if not kings, the sons of kings or princes, are divinely inspired with a true love of true philosophy. That either or both of these alternatives are impossible, I see no reason to affirm: if they were so, we might indeed be justly ridiculed as dreamers and visionaries. Am I not right?

"This is what we foresaw. This is why truth forced us, not without fear and hesitation, to admit that neither cities, states, nor individuals will ever reach perfection. That cannot happen until a small class of philosophers, whom we called 'useless but not corrupt,' are, whether they want to or not, by some providence forced to take charge of the State. It also requires that the State be compelled to obey them. Or until kings, or if not kings then the sons of kings or princes, are divinely inspired with a genuine love of true philosophy. I see no reason to say either or both of these things are impossible. If they were, we might rightly be mocked as dreamers and visionaries. Am I not right?"

Quite right.

"That's right."

If then, in the countless ages of the past, or at the present hour in some foreign clime which is far away and beyond our ken, the perfected philosopher is or has been or hereafter shall be compelled by a superior power to have the charge of the State, we are ready to assert to the death, that this our constitution has been, and is—yea, and will be whenever the Muse of Philosophy is queen. There is no impossibility in all this; that there is a difficulty, we acknowledge ourselves.

"Suppose that, in the countless ages past or even now in some distant land beyond our knowledge, a perfected philosopher is, has been, or will be forced by a higher power to govern the state. We would defend to the death that our constitution has been and is such. It will be so whenever the Muse of Philosophy is queen. This is not impossible. We admit it is difficult."

My opinion agrees with yours, he said.

"I agree with you," he said.

But do you mean to say that this is not the opinion of the multitude?

"But are you saying this isn't what most people think?"

I should imagine not, he replied.

"I don't think so," he replied.

O my friend, I said, do not attack the multitude: they will change their minds, if, not in an aggressive spirit, but gently and with the view of soothing them and removing their dislike of over-education, you show them your philosophers as they really are and describe as you were just now doing their character and profession, and then mankind will see that he of whom you are speaking is not such as they supposed—if they view him in this new light, they will surely change their notion of him, and answer in another strain. Who can be at enmity with one who loves them, who that is himself gentle and free from envy will be jealous of one in whom there is no jealousy? Nay, let me answer for you, that in a few this harsh temper may be found but not in the majority of mankind.

"My friend," I said, "don't attack the crowd. They can change their minds if you present your philosophers gently, not aggressively. Aim to soothe them and remove their dislike of higher learning. Show the philosophers as they really are. Describe their character and work, as you were just doing. People will see that the person you're talking about is not what they supposed. If they view him in this new light, they will change their opinion and respond differently. Who can be hostile to someone who loves them? Who, being gentle and free from envy, would be jealous of someone without jealousy? No, let me answer for you. A few may have this harsh temper, but it is not common among most people."

I quite agree with you, he said.

"I agree with you," he said.

And do you not also think, as I do, that the harsh feeling which the many entertain towards philosophy originates in the pretenders, who rush in uninvited, and are always abusing them, and finding fault with them, who make persons instead of things the theme of their conversation? and nothing can be more unbecoming in philosophers than this.

"Don't you think, as I do, that the widespread dislike of philosophy comes from pretenders? They rush in uninvited and constantly attack people. They complain about individuals instead of ideas. Nothing is more unbecoming in philosophers than that."

It is most unbecoming.

"That's highly inappropriate."

For he, Adeimantus, whose mind is fixed upon true being, has surely no time to look down upon the affairs of earth, or to be filled with malice and envy, contending against men; his eye is ever directed towards things fixed and immutable, which he sees neither injuring nor injured by one another, but all in order moving according to reason; these he imitates, and to these he will, as far as he can, conform himself. Can a man help imitating that with which he holds reverential converse?

"For he, Adeimantus, whose mind is fixed on true being, has no time for earthly affairs. He is not filled with malice or envy toward other people. His eye is always on things that are fixed and unchanging. He sees them neither injuring nor being injured by one another. He sees them moving in order according to reason. He imitates them and, as far as he can, shapes himself after them. Can anyone help imitating what they hold in reverent company?"

Impossible.

"Impossible."

And the philosopher holding converse with the divine order, becomes orderly and divine, as far as the nature of man allows; but like every one else, he will suffer from detraction.

"The philosopher who talks with the divine order becomes orderly and divine as far as human nature allows. Like everyone else, he will be criticized."

Of course.

"Of course."

And if a necessity be laid upon him of fashioning, not only himself, but human nature generally, whether in States or individuals, into that which he beholds elsewhere, will he, think you, be an unskilful artificer of justice, temperance, and every civil virtue?

"And suppose he is required to remake not just himself but human nature in general. That includes both states and individuals, shaping them into what he sees elsewhere. Do you think he would be an unskilled maker of justice, temperance, and every civic virtue?"

Anything but unskilful.

"Not unskilled at all."

And if the world perceives that what we are saying about him is the truth, will they be angry with philosophy? Will they disbelieve us, when we tell them that no State can be happy which is not designed by artists who imitate the heavenly pattern?

"And if the world sees that what we say about him is true, will they be angry with philosophy? Will they refuse to believe us when we say this? Can any State be happy unless artists design it by copying the heavenly pattern?"

They will not be angry if they understand, he said. But how will they draw out the plan of which you are speaking?

"They won't be angry if they understand," he said. "But how will they figure out the plan you're talking about?"

They will begin by taking the State and the manners of men, from which, as from a tablet, they will rub out the picture, and leave a clean surface. This is no easy task. But whether easy or not, herein will lie the difference between them and every other legislator,—they will have nothing to do either with individual or State, and will inscribe no laws, until they have either found, or themselves made, a clean surface.

"They will begin with the State and the people's customs. Like wiping a tablet, they will erase the old picture and leave a clean surface. This is no easy task. Easy or not, this is what will set them apart from every other lawmaker. They will not deal with individuals or with the State. They will write no laws until they have either found or made a clean surface."

They will be very right, he said.

"They'll be absolutely right," he said.

Having effected this, they will proceed to trace an outline of the constitution?

"Once they've done this, will they go on to outline the constitution?"

No doubt.

"No doubt."

And when they are filling in the work, as I conceive, they will often turn their eyes upwards and downwards: I mean that they will first look at absolute justice and beauty and temperance, and again at the human copy; and will mingle and temper the various elements of life into the image of a man; and this they will conceive according to that other image, which, when existing among men, Homer calls the form and likeness of God.

"When they shape someone, I think they will often look up and down. I mean they will first look at perfect justice, beauty, and moderation, then at the human model. They will mix and balance life's different elements into the image of a man. They will model it on that other image. Homer calls that image, when it appears among people, the form and likeness of God."

Very true, he said.

"Very true," he said.

And one feature they will erase, and another they will put in, until they have made the ways of men, as far as possible, agreeable to the ways of God?

"And they will erase one feature and add another. Will they keep doing this until, as far as possible, the ways of men agree with the ways of God?"

Indeed, he said, in no way could they make a fairer picture.

“Indeed,” he said. “They couldn't make a fairer picture.”

And now, I said, are we beginning to persuade those whom you described as rushing at us with might and main, that the painter of constitutions is such an one as we are praising; at whom they were so very indignant because to his hands we committed the State; and are they growing a little calmer at what they have just heard?

"And now," I said, "are we starting to persuade those you described as charging at us with full force? Are they beginning to see that the painter of constitutions is the kind of man we praise? They were so angry with him because we entrusted the state to him. Are they calming down after what they just heard?"

Much calmer, if there is any sense in them.

"They're much calmer, if they make any sense."

Why, where can they still find any ground for objection? Will they doubt that the philosopher is a lover of truth and being?

"Why would they still have any reason to object? Would anyone doubt that the philosopher loves truth and existence?"

They would not be so unreasonable.

"They wouldn't be so unreasonable."

Or that his nature, being such as we have delineated, is akin to the highest good?

"Or is his nature, as we've described it, like the highest good?"

Neither can they doubt this.

"They cannot doubt this."

But again, will they tell us that such a nature, placed under favourable circumstances, will not be perfectly good and wise if any ever was? Or will they prefer those whom we have rejected?

"But again, tell us this. Will they say that such a nature, in favorable circumstances, would not become perfectly good and wise if any could? Or will they prefer those we rejected?"

Surely not.

"Certainly not."

Then will they still be angry at our saying, that, until philosophers bear rule, States and individuals will have no rest from evil, nor will this our imaginary State ever be realized?

"Will they still be angry with us for saying that until philosophers rule, States and individuals will have no rest from evil? Will they be angry that our imagined State can never be realized?"

I think that they will be less angry.

"I think they'll be less angry."

Shall we assume that they are not only less angry but quite gentle, and that they have been converted and for very shame, if for no other reason, cannot refuse to come to terms?

"Should we assume they are not only less angry but actually gentle? That they have changed and, if only out of shame, cannot refuse to come to terms?"

By all means, he said.

"By all means," he said.

Then let us suppose that the reconciliation has been effected. Will any one deny the other point, that there may be sons of kings or princes who are by nature philosophers?

"Then let's suppose the reconciliation has been made. Will anyone deny the other point, that some sons of kings or princes may be philosophers by nature?"

Surely no man, he said.

"Surely no one," he said.

And when they have come into being will any one say that they must of necessity be destroyed; that they can hardly be saved is not denied even by us; but that in the whole course of ages no single one of them can escape—who will venture to affirm this?

"When they come into being, will anyone say they must be destroyed? We don't deny they are hardly likely to be saved. But who would dare say that, in the whole course of ages, not a single one of them can escape?"

Who indeed!

"Who indeed!"

But, said I, one is enough; let there be one man who has a city obedient to his will, and he might bring into existence the ideal polity about which the world is so incredulous.

I said, "But one is enough. Let there be one man who rules a city that obeys him. He could bring about the ideal state the world finds so hard to believe."

Yes, one is enough.

"Yes, one is enough."

The ruler may impose the laws and institutions which we have been describing, and the citizens may possibly be willing to obey them?

"Could the ruler enforce the laws and institutions we've been describing? And would the citizens be willing to obey them?"

Certainly.

"Of course."

And that others should approve, of what we approve, is no miracle or impossibility?

"Is it a miracle or impossible for others to approve what we approve?"

I think not.

"I don't think so."

But we have sufficiently shown, in what has preceded, that all this, if only possible, is assuredly for the best.

"We have already made this clear. If it is possible, all this is certainly for the best."

We have.

"We have."

And now we say not only that our laws, if they could be enacted, would be for the best, but also that the enactment of them, though difficult, is not impossible.

"Now we say not only that our laws, if they could be put into effect, would be for the best. We also say that putting them into effect, though difficult, is not impossible."

Very good.

"Very good."

And so with pain and toil we have reached the end of one subject, but more remains to be discussed;—how and by what studies and pursuits will the saviours of the constitution be created, and at what ages are they to apply themselves to their several studies?

"We have reached the end of one topic after much pain and effort. But there is more to discuss. How, and through what studies and activities, will the saviors of the constitution be formed? At what ages should they begin each of their studies?"

Certainly.

"Of course."

I omitted the troublesome business of the possession of women, and the procreation of children, and the appointment of the rulers, because I knew that the perfect State would be eyed with jealousy and was difficult of attainment; but that piece of cleverness was not of much service to me, for I had to discuss them all the same. The women and children are now disposed of, but the other question of the rulers must be investigated from the very beginning. We were saying, as you will remember, that they were to be lovers of their country, tried by the test of pleasures and pains, and neither in hardships, nor in dangers, nor at any other critical moment were to lose their patriotism—he was to be rejected who failed, but he who always came forth pure, like gold tried in the refiner’s fire, was to be made a ruler, and to receive honours and rewards in life and after death. This was the sort of thing which was being said, and then the argument turned aside and veiled her face; not liking to stir the question which has now arisen.

"I left out the difficult issues about women's roles, about having children, and about appointing rulers. I did that because I knew a perfect State would provoke jealousy and be hard to achieve. That bit of cleverness did me little good. I had to discuss them anyway. We have now dealt with the women and children, but the question about the rulers must be examined from the start. We were saying, as you remember, that they should love their country and be tested by pleasure and pain. They must not lose their patriotism in hardship, danger, or any other crisis. Those who fail should be rejected. But anyone who comes through pure, like gold tested in the refiner's fire, should become a ruler and receive honors and rewards in life and after death. That was what we were saying. Then the argument turned away and hid its face, because it did not want to raise the question that has now come up."

I perfectly remember, he said.

"I remember perfectly," he said.

Yes, my friend, I said, and I then shrank from hazarding the bold word; but now let me dare to say—that the perfect guardian must be a philosopher.

"Yes, my friend," I said. "At first I hesitated to risk that bold word. But now I will dare to say that the perfect guardian must be a philosopher."

Yes, he said, let that be affirmed.

"Yes," he said. "Let that be agreed."

And do not suppose that there will be many of them; for the gifts which were deemed by us to be essential rarely grow together; they are mostly found in shreds and patches.

"And don't expect many of them. The gifts we called essential rarely come together. They mostly show up in bits and pieces."

What do you mean? he said.

"What do you mean?" he said.

You are aware, I replied, that quick intelligence, memory, sagacity, cleverness, and similar qualities, do not often grow together, and that persons who possess them and are at the same time high-spirited and magnanimous are not so constituted by nature as to live orderly and in a peaceful and settled manner; they are driven any way by their impulses, and all solid principle goes out of them.

"You know," I replied, "that sharp intelligence, a good memory, wise judgment, and cleverness do not often come together. Those who have these gifts, and who are high-spirited and magnanimous, are not made to live an orderly life. They are driven by impulses and lose all firm principles."

Very true, he said.

"That's very true," he said.

On the other hand, those steadfast natures which can better be depended upon, which in a battle are impregnable to fear and immovable, are equally immovable when there is anything to be learned; they are always in a torpid state, and are apt to yawn and go to sleep over any intellectual toil.

"On the other hand, those steadfast natures we can rely on in battle are fearless and unmoved. They are just as unmoved when there is something to be learned. They tend to be dull and lethargic. They often yawn and fall asleep during any mental effort."

Quite true.

"That's true."

And yet we were saying that both qualities were necessary in those to whom the higher education is to be imparted, and who are to share in any office or command.

"Yet we said both qualities are necessary in those who will receive higher education. They must also have them to hold any office or command."

Certainly, he said.

"Of course," he said.

And will they be a class which is rarely found?

"And will they be a class that's rarely seen?"

Yes, indeed.

"Yes, indeed."

Then the aspirant must not only be tested in those labours and dangers and pleasures which we mentioned before, but there is another kind of probation which we did not mention—he must be exercised also in many kinds of knowledge, to see whether the soul will be able to endure the highest of all, or will faint under them, as in any other studies and exercises.

"Then the aspirant must not only be tested in the labors, dangers, and pleasures we mentioned before. He must face another kind of trial we did not name. He should be trained in many kinds of knowledge. This will show whether his soul can bear the highest things. It will reveal if it fails under them, as it does in other studies and exercises."

Yes, he said, you are quite right in testing him. But what do you mean by the highest of all knowledge?

"Yes," he said, "you're right to test him. But what do you mean by the highest kind of knowledge?"

You may remember, I said, that we divided the soul into three parts; and distinguished the several natures of justice, temperance, courage, and wisdom?

"Do you remember? I said we divided the soul into three parts. We also distinguished the different natures of justice, temperance, courage, and wisdom."

Indeed, he said, if I had forgotten, I should not deserve to hear more.

"Indeed," he said, "if I had forgotten, I would not deserve to hear more."

And do you remember the word of caution which preceded the discussion of them?

"Do you remember the warning that came before we talked about them?"

To what do you refer?

"What are you referring to?"

We were saying, if I am not mistaken, that he who wanted to see them in their perfect beauty must take a longer and more circuitous way, at the end of which they would appear; but that we could add on a popular exposition of them on a level with the discussion which had preceded. And you replied that such an exposition would be enough for you, and so the enquiry was continued in what to me seemed to be a very inaccurate manner; whether you were satisfied or not, it is for you to say.

"We were saying, if I'm not mistaken, that anyone who wanted to see them in their full beauty must take a longer, more winding route. At the end of that route they would appear. We also agreed we could give a plain, general explanation of them, suited to the earlier discussion. You replied that such an explanation would be enough for you. The inquiry then went on in a way that, to me, seemed rather imprecise. Whether you were satisfied or not is for you to say."

Yes, he said, I thought and the others thought that you gave us a fair measure of truth.

"Yes," he said. "I thought, and the others did too, that you gave us a fair measure of truth."

But, my friend, I said, a measure of such things which in any degree falls short of the whole truth is not fair measure; for nothing imperfect is the measure of anything, although persons are too apt to be contented and think that they need search no further.

"But, my friend," I said. "Any measure of these things that falls even a little short of the whole truth is unfair. Nothing imperfect can be the measure of anything. People are too ready to be satisfied and think they don't need to look any further."

Not an uncommon case when people are indolent.

"That's often the case when people are lazy."

Yes, I said; and there cannot be any worse fault in a guardian of the State and of the laws.

"Yes," I said. "There can be no worse fault in a guardian of the State and the laws."

True.

"True."

The guardian then, I said, must be required to take the longer circuit, and toil at learning as well as at gymnastics, or he will never reach the highest knowledge of all which, as we were just now saying, is his proper calling.

"The guardian, I said, must be required to take the longer path. He must work at learning as well as at physical training. Otherwise he will never reach the highest kind of knowledge, which, as we were just saying, is his proper calling."

What, he said, is there a knowledge still higher than this—higher than justice and the other virtues?

"What," he asked, "is there a knowledge higher than this? Higher than justice and the other virtues?"

Yes, I said, there is. And of the virtues too we must behold not the outline merely, as at present—nothing short of the most finished picture should satisfy us. When little things are elaborated with an infinity of pains, in order that they may appear in their full beauty and utmost clearness, how ridiculous that we should not think the highest truths worthy of attaining the highest accuracy!

"Yes," I said, "there is. And when it comes to the virtues, we should not be satisfied with just an outline as we are now. We should demand nothing less than the most finished picture. People put endless care into small things so they show their full beauty and clarity. Isn't it ridiculous that we would not expect the highest truths to receive the greatest precision?"

A right noble thought; but do you suppose that we shall refrain from asking you what is this highest knowledge?

"That's a noble thought. But do you think we will refrain from asking you what this highest knowledge is?"

Nay, I said, ask if you will; but I am certain that you have heard the answer many times, and now you either do not understand me or, as I rather think, you are disposed to be troublesome; for you have often been told that the idea of good is the highest knowledge, and that all other things become useful and advantageous only by their use of this. You can hardly be ignorant that of this I was about to speak, concerning which, as you have often heard me say, we know so little; and, without which, any other knowledge or possession of any kind will profit us nothing. Do you think that the possession of all other things is of any value if we do not possess the good? or the knowledge of all other things if we have no knowledge of beauty and goodness?

"No," I said. "Ask if you want. But I'm certain you've heard the answer many times. Now you either don't understand me or, as I think, you want to be troublesome. You have often been told that the idea of the good is the highest knowledge. You have been told that all other things become useful only through their relation to it. You can hardly be unaware that I was about to speak about this. As you've often heard me say, we know very little about it. Without that, any other knowledge or possession will profit us nothing. Do you think possessing all other things matters if we don't possess the good? Or does knowing everything else matter if we don't know beauty and goodness?"

Assuredly not.

"Certainly not."

You are further aware that most people affirm pleasure to be the good, but the finer sort of wits say it is knowledge?

"You also know that most people say pleasure is the good. The wiser people, though, say it's knowledge?"

Yes.

"Yes."

And you are aware too that the latter cannot explain what they mean by knowledge, but are obliged after all to say knowledge of the good?

"And you also know that the latter can't explain what they mean by 'knowledge.' Yet they still have to call it 'knowledge of the Good,' don't they?"

How ridiculous!

"That's ridiculous!"

Yes, I said, that they should begin by reproaching us with our ignorance of the good, and then presume our knowledge of it—for the good they define to be knowledge of the good, just as if we understood them when they use the term ‘good’—this is of course ridiculous.

"Yes," I said. "They start by blaming us for not knowing the good. Then they act as if we already know it. They define the good as knowledge of the good, as if we understood them when they use the word 'good.' That's obviously ridiculous."

Most true, he said.

"That's very true," he said.

And those who make pleasure their good are in equal perplexity; for they are compelled to admit that there are bad pleasures as well as good.

"Those who make pleasure their highest good are equally perplexed. They must admit that some pleasures are bad as well as good."

Certainly.

"Certainly."

And therefore to acknowledge that bad and good are the same?

"So are you saying that bad and good are the same?"

True.

"True."

There can be no doubt about the numerous difficulties in which this question is involved.

"There is no doubt that this question involves many difficulties."

There can be none.

"There can't be any."

Further, do we not see that many are willing to do or to have or to seem to be what is just and honourable without the reality; but no one is satisfied with the appearance of good—the reality is what they seek; in the case of the good, appearance is despised by every one.

"Don't we see many people willing to do or to have what seems just and honorable? They may even seem to be virtuous without actually being so. But no one is satisfied with mere appearances of good. People want the real thing. When it comes to genuine good, everyone despises mere appearance."

Very true, he said.

"That's very true," he said.

Of this then, which every soul of man pursues and makes the end of all his actions, having a presentiment that there is such an end, and yet hesitating because neither knowing the nature nor having the same assurance of this as of other things, and therefore losing whatever good there is in other things,—of a principle such and so great as this ought the best men in our State, to whom everything is entrusted, to be in the darkness of ignorance?

"About this, every human soul pursues it and makes it the goal of all its actions. It senses such an end exists. Yet it hesitates because it does not know its true nature. It is not as certain about this end as it is about other things. So it misses whatever good those other things offer. Should the best men in our state, who are entrusted with everything, remain ignorant of such an important principle?"

Certainly not, he said.

"Certainly not," he said.

I am sure, I said, that he who does not know how the beautiful and the just are likewise good will be but a sorry guardian of them; and I suspect that no one who is ignorant of the good will have a true knowledge of them.

"I'm sure," I said. "Anyone who doesn't know that the beautiful and the just are also good won't make a trustworthy guardian of them. I suspect no one who is ignorant of the good can truly know them."

That, he said, is a shrewd suspicion of yours.

"That's a sharp suspicion of yours," he said.

And if we only have a guardian who has this knowledge our State will be perfectly ordered?

"And if we have only one guardian with this knowledge, will our State be perfectly ordered?"

Of course, he replied; but I wish that you would tell me whether you conceive this supreme principle of the good to be knowledge or pleasure, or different from either?

"Of course," he replied. "Tell me whether you think this supreme principle of the good is knowledge, pleasure, or neither."

Aye, I said, I knew all along that a fastidious gentleman like you would not be contented with the thoughts of other people about these matters.

"Yes," I said. "I always knew a meticulous gentleman like you wouldn't be satisfied with other people's opinions on these matters."

True, Socrates; but I must say that one who like you has passed a lifetime in the study of philosophy should not be always repeating the opinions of others, and never telling his own.

"That's true, Socrates. But I must say this. Someone like you, who has spent a lifetime studying philosophy, shouldn't always repeat other people's opinions. You should say your own sometimes."

Well, but has any one a right to say positively what he does not know?

"But does anyone have the right to say for sure what they do not know?"

Not, he said, with the assurance of positive certainty; he has no right to do that: but he may say what he thinks, as a matter of opinion.

"Not with absolute certainty," he said. "He has no right to claim that. He can only say what he thinks as an opinion."

And do you not know, I said, that all mere opinions are bad, and the best of them blind? You would not deny that those who have any true notion without intelligence are only like blind men who feel their way along the road?

"Don't you know," I said, "that all mere opinions are bad, and even the best are blind? You wouldn't deny that a true idea without understanding is like a blind man feeling his way along the road?"

Very true.

"That's very true."

And do you wish to behold what is blind and crooked and base, when others will tell you of brightness and beauty?

"Do you want to see something blind, crooked, and vile when others can tell you about light and beauty?"

Still, I must implore you, Socrates, said Glaucon, not to turn away just as you are reaching the goal; if you will only give such an explanation of the good as you have already given of justice and temperance and the other virtues, we shall be satisfied.

"Still, I must beg you, Socrates," Glaucon said. "Don't stop now just as you're reaching the goal. If you explain the good as you already explained justice, temperance, and the other virtues, we'll be satisfied."

Yes, my friend, and I shall be at least equally satisfied, but I cannot help fearing that I shall fail, and that my indiscreet zeal will bring ridicule upon me. No, sweet sirs, let us not at present ask what is the actual nature of the good, for to reach what is now in my thoughts would be an effort too great for me. But of the child of the good who is likest him, I would fain speak, if I could be sure that you wished to hear—otherwise, not.

"Yes, my friend. I will be at least as satisfied. But I can't help fearing I will fail and that my rash zeal will make me look ridiculous. No, dear sirs. Let's not ask now what the true nature of the good is. Reaching what I have in mind would be too much for me. But I would like to speak about the child of the good that most resembles it, if I could be sure you wanted to hear. If not, I will not."

By all means, he said, tell us about the child, and you shall remain in our debt for the account of the parent.

"By all means," he said. "Tell us about the child. You'll still owe us the account of the parent."

I do indeed wish, I replied, that I could pay, and you receive, the account of the parent, and not, as now, of the offspring only; take, however, this latter by way of interest, and at the same time have a care that I do not render a false account, although I have no intention of deceiving you.

"I do indeed wish," I replied. "I wish I could give you the account of the parent and have you receive it. Not just the account of the offspring, as we have now. For now, accept the latter as a starting point. And please be careful that I do not give a false account, though I do not mean to deceive you."

Yes, we will take all the care that we can: proceed.

"Yes. We'll take every care we can. Proceed."

Yes, I said, but I must first come to an understanding with you, and remind you of what I have mentioned in the course of this discussion, and at many other times.

"Yes," I said, "but first I need to make sure we understand each other. I must remind you of what I've already mentioned in this discussion and many times before."

What?

"What?"

The old story, that there is a many beautiful and a many good, and so of other things which we describe and define; to all of them the term ‘many’ is applied.

"The old story says there is a 'many' of beautiful things and a 'many' of good things. The same goes for other things we describe and define. We apply the term 'many' to all of them."

True, he said.

"That's true," he said.

And there is an absolute beauty and an absolute good, and of other things to which the term ‘many’ is applied there is an absolute; for they may be brought under a single idea, which is called the essence of each.

"There is an absolute beauty and an absolute good. For other things we call 'many,' there is an absolute too. They can be brought under one idea. That idea is the essence of each."

Very true.

"That's very true."

The many, as we say, are seen but not known, and the ideas are known but not seen.

"The many, as we say, are seen but not known. The ideas are known but not seen."

Exactly.

"Exactly."

And what is the organ with which we see the visible things?

"And what organ do we use to see visible things?"

The sight, he said.

"The sight," he said.

And with the hearing, I said, we hear, and with the other senses perceive the other objects of sense?

"And with hearing," I said, "we hear. And with our other senses we perceive their objects?"

True.

"True."

But have you remarked that sight is by far the most costly and complex piece of workmanship which the artificer of the senses ever contrived?

"But have you noticed how costly and complex sight is? It is by far the greatest work the maker of the senses ever created."

No, I never have, he said.

"No, I never have," he said.

Then reflect; has the ear or voice need of any third or additional nature in order that the one may be able to hear and the other to be heard?

"Then think. Does the ear or the voice need anything else for one to hear and the other to be heard?"

Nothing of the sort.

"Not at all."

No, indeed, I replied; and the same is true of most, if not all, the other senses—you would not say that any of them requires such an addition?

"No, certainly," I replied. "The same goes for most, if not all, of the other senses. You wouldn't say any of them needs that kind of addition, would you?"

Certainly not.

"No, certainly not."

But you see that without the addition of some other nature there is no seeing or being seen?

"You see that, without something else, there is no seeing or being seen?"

How do you mean?

"What do you mean?"

Sight being, as I conceive, in the eyes, and he who has eyes wanting to see; colour being also present in them, still unless there be a third nature specially adapted to the purpose, the owner of the eyes will see nothing and the colours will be invisible.

"I take sight to be in the eyes. Think of someone who has eyes but cannot see. Suppose colors are present too. Still, unless a third thing suited for the task is there, that person will see nothing. The colors will be invisible."

Of what nature are you speaking?

"What sort of thing are you talking about?"

Of that which you term light, I replied.

"I'm talking about what you call light," I replied.

True, he said.

"True," he said.

Noble, then, is the bond which links together sight and visibility, and great beyond other bonds by no small difference of nature; for light is their bond, and light is no ignoble thing?

"Isn't the bond that links sight and the visible noble? It is far greater than other bonds in its nature. Light is the bond between them. Light is no ignoble thing."

Nay, he said, the reverse of ignoble.

"No," he said. "It's the opposite of dishonorable."

And which, I said, of the gods in heaven would you say was the lord of this element? Whose is that light which makes the eye to see perfectly and the visible to appear?

"And which," I said, "of the gods in heaven would you call the lord of this element? Whose light lets the eye see clearly and makes things visible?"

You mean the sun, as you and all mankind say.

"You mean the sun, as you and everyone says."

May not the relation of sight to this deity be described as follows?

"Can't we describe the relationship of sight to this deity like this?"

How?

"How?"

Neither sight nor the eye in which sight resides is the sun?

"So neither sight nor the eye where sight resides is the sun?"

No.

"No."

Yet of all the organs of sense the eye is the most like the sun?

"But of all the sense organs, isn't the eye most like the sun?"

By far the most like.

"It's by far the most similar."

And the power which the eye possesses is a sort of effluence which is dispensed from the sun?

"And is the eye's power a kind of emission sent out by the sun?"

Exactly.

"Exactly."

Then the sun is not sight, but the author of sight who is recognised by sight?

"So the sun is not sight itself, but the source of sight that sight recognizes?"

True, he said.

"True," he said.

And this is he whom I call the child of the good, whom the good begat in his own likeness, to be in the visible world, in relation to sight and the things of sight, what the good is in the intellectual world in relation to mind and the things of mind:

"This is the one I call the child of the Good. The Good fathered him in its own likeness. In the visible world he corresponds to sight and visible things. In the intellectual world, the Good corresponds to mind and mental things."

Will you be a little more explicit? he said.

"Could you be a bit more specific?" he asked.

Why, you know, I said, that the eyes, when a person directs them towards objects on which the light of day is no longer shining, but the moon and stars only, see dimly, and are nearly blind; they seem to have no clearness of vision in them?

"You know, I said that when someone looks at things by moonlight or starlight, the eyes see dimly and are almost blind. They seem to have no clear vision, don't they?"

Very true.

"That's very true."

But when they are directed towards objects on which the sun shines, they see clearly and there is sight in them?

"But when they look at things lit by the sun, don't they see clearly and have sight?"

Certainly.

"Of course."

And the soul is like the eye: when resting upon that on which truth and being shine, the soul perceives and understands, and is radiant with intelligence; but when turned towards the twilight of becoming and perishing, then she has opinion only, and goes blinking about, and is first of one opinion and then of another, and seems to have no intelligence?

"And the soul is like the eye. When it rests on what is true and real, it sees and understands and is radiant with intelligence. But when it turns toward the dim light of becoming and perishing, it has only opinion. It blinks about, holding one view and then another, and seems to have no intelligence?"

Just so.

"Exactly."

Now, that which imparts truth to the known and the power of knowing to the knower is what I would have you term the idea of good, and this you will deem to be the cause of science, and of truth in so far as the latter becomes the subject of knowledge; beautiful too, as are both truth and knowledge, you will be right in esteeming this other nature as more beautiful than either; and, as in the previous instance, light and sight may be truly said to be like the sun, and yet not to be the sun, so in this other sphere, science and truth may be deemed to be like the good, but not the good; the good has a place of honour yet higher.

"Now, there is a thing that gives truth to what can be known and gives the knower the power to know. I want you to call that the idea of the Good. See it as the cause of knowledge and of truth, insofar as truth becomes the object of knowledge. Truth and knowledge are both beautiful. You would be right to call this other nature more beautiful than either. And just as, in the earlier example, light and sight can be said to be like the sun but are not the sun, so in this other realm knowledge and truth may be thought of as like the Good, but they are not the Good. The Good holds a higher, more honored place."

What a wonder of beauty that must be, he said, which is the author of science and truth, and yet surpasses them in beauty; for you surely cannot mean to say that pleasure is the good?

"What a marvel of beauty that must be," he said. "It is the source of knowledge and truth, yet it surpasses them in beauty. You surely do not mean to say that pleasure is the good?"

God forbid, I replied; but may I ask you to consider the image in another point of view?

"God forbid," I replied. "Could you look at the image from a different point of view?"

In what point of view?

"From what point of view?"

You would say, would you not, that the sun is not only the author of visibility in all visible things, but of generation and nourishment and growth, though he himself is not generation?

"You would say, wouldn't you, that the sun is not only the source of visibility for all visible things. It is also the source of generation, nourishment, and growth. Yet the sun itself is not generated."

Certainly.

"Certainly."

In like manner the good may be said to be not only the author of knowledge to all things known, but of their being and essence, and yet the good is not essence, but far exceeds essence in dignity and power.

"In the same way, the Good can be called the source of knowledge about all known things. It is also the source of their being and essence. But the Good is not essence itself. It far exceeds essence in dignity and power."

Glaucon said, with a ludicrous earnestness: By the light of heaven, how amazing!

Glaucon said, with ludicrous earnestness, "Good heavens, how amazing!"

Yes, I said, and the exaggeration may be set down to you; for you made me utter my fancies.

"Yes," I said. "You can blame yourself for the exaggeration. You made me say my fancies."

And pray continue to utter them; at any rate let us hear if there is anything more to be said about the similitude of the sun.

"Please go on. At any rate, tell us if there's anything more to say about the analogy of the sun."

Yes, I said, there is a great deal more.

"There's a lot more," I said.

Then omit nothing, however slight.

"Then leave nothing out, not even the smallest detail."

I will do my best, I said; but I should think that a great deal will have to be omitted.

"I'll do my best," I said. "But I think a great deal will have to be left out."

I hope not, he said.

"I hope not," he said.

You have to imagine, then, that there are two ruling powers, and that one of them is set over the intellectual world, the other over the visible. I do not say heaven, lest you should fancy that I am playing upon the name (‘ourhanoz, orhatoz’). May I suppose that you have this distinction of the visible and intelligible fixed in your mind?

"Imagine, then, that there are two ruling powers. One rules the intellectual world, the other the visible world. I do not say 'heaven', since you might think I am playing on the name 'ourhanoz' or 'orhatoz'. Can I assume you have this distinction between the visible and the intelligible fixed in your mind?"

I have.

"I have."

Now take a line which has been cut into two unequal parts, and divide each of them again in the same proportion, and suppose the two main divisions to answer, one to the visible and the other to the intelligible, and then compare the subdivisions in respect of their clearness and want of clearness, and you will find that the first section in the sphere of the visible consists of images. And by images I mean, in the first place, shadows, and in the second place, reflections in water and in solid, smooth and polished bodies and the like: Do you understand?

"Take a line and cut it into two unequal parts. Divide each part again in the same proportion. Let the two main divisions represent the visible and the intelligible. Now compare the smaller divisions by how clear or unclear they are. You will find that the first part of the visible realm consists of images. By images I mean, first, shadows. Second, reflections in water and on solid, smooth, polished surfaces, and similar things. Do you understand?"

Yes, I understand.

"Yes, I understand."

Imagine, now, the other section, of which this is only the resemblance, to include the animals which we see, and everything that grows or is made.

"Now imagine the other realm, of which this is only a likeness. It contains the animals we see and everything that grows or is made."

Very good.

"Very good."

Would you not admit that both the sections of this division have different degrees of truth, and that the copy is to the original as the sphere of opinion is to the sphere of knowledge?

"Wouldn't you admit that the two parts of this division have different degrees of truth? The copy relates to the original as the sphere of opinion relates to the sphere of knowledge."

Most undoubtedly.

"Most certainly."

Next proceed to consider the manner in which the sphere of the intellectual is to be divided.

"Next, let's consider how the realm of the intellect should be divided."

In what manner?

"How do you mean?"

Thus:—There are two subdivisions, in the lower of which the soul uses the figures given by the former division as images; the enquiry can only be hypothetical, and instead of going upwards to a principle descends to the other end; in the higher of the two, the soul passes out of hypotheses, and goes up to a principle which is above hypotheses, making no use of images as in the former case, but proceeding only in and through the ideas themselves.

"Thus, there are two subdivisions. In the lower one, the soul uses the figures given by the earlier division as images. The inquiry there is only hypothetical. Instead of moving upward to a principle, it descends to the opposite end. In the higher subdivision, the soul leaves hypotheses behind and rises to a principle above them. It makes no use of images as in the lower case. It proceeds only in and through the ideas themselves."

I do not quite understand your meaning, he said.

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

Then I will try again; you will understand me better when I have made some preliminary remarks. You are aware that students of geometry, arithmetic, and the kindred sciences assume the odd and the even and the figures and three kinds of angles and the like in their several branches of science; these are their hypotheses, which they and every body are supposed to know, and therefore they do not deign to give any account of them either to themselves or others; but they begin with them, and go on until they arrive at last, and in a consistent manner, at their conclusion?

"Then I'll try again. You'll understand me better after a few preliminary remarks. You know that students of geometry, arithmetic, and related sciences take certain things as given. They assume odd and even numbers, geometric figures, three kinds of angles, and the like in their respective fields. These are their hypotheses. Everyone is supposed to know them, so they don't bother to explain them to themselves or others. They start from those assumptions and go on, consistently, until they reach their conclusion, don't they?"

Yes, he said, I know.

"Yes," he said. "I know."

And do you not know also that although they make use of the visible forms and reason about them, they are thinking not of these, but of the ideals which they resemble; not of the figures which they draw, but of the absolute square and the absolute diameter, and so on—the forms which they draw or make, and which have shadows and reflections in water of their own, are converted by them into images, but they are really seeking to behold the things themselves, which can only be seen with the eye of the mind?

"Don't you know that although they use visible shapes and think about them, they're not thinking about the shapes themselves? They are thinking of the ideal forms those shapes resemble. They're not focused on the figures they draw, but on the perfect square, the perfect diameter, and so on. The shapes they draw or make, which cast their own shadows and reflections in water, become images to them. What they really want is to behold the things themselves. Those can only be seen with the eye of the mind."

That is true.

"That's true."

And of this kind I spoke as the intelligible, although in the search after it the soul is compelled to use hypotheses; not ascending to a first principle, because she is unable to rise above the region of hypothesis, but employing the objects of which the shadows below are resemblances in their turn as images, they having in relation to the shadows and reflections of them a greater distinctness, and therefore a higher value.

"I called this the intelligible. In searching for it, the soul must rely on hypotheses. It cannot reach a first principle because it cannot rise above hypotheses. Instead, it treats the objects that the lower shadows resemble as images. Those objects are clearer than the shadows and their reflections. So they have greater value."

I understand, he said, that you are speaking of the province of geometry and the sister arts.

"I understand," he said. "You mean the field of geometry and the related arts."

And when I speak of the other division of the intelligible, you will understand me to speak of that other sort of knowledge which reason herself attains by the power of dialectic, using the hypotheses not as first principles, but only as hypotheses—that is to say, as steps and points of departure into a world which is above hypotheses, in order that she may soar beyond them to the first principle of the whole; and clinging to this and then to that which depends on this, by successive steps she descends again without the aid of any sensible object, from ideas, through ideas, and in ideas she ends.

"When I speak of the other division of the intelligible, I mean the kind of knowledge reason reaches by dialectic. Reason uses hypotheses, but not as first principles. It treats them only as steps and starting points toward a realm above hypotheses. From there it rises to the first principle of the whole. Then it holds to that principle and to what depends on it. It descends again, step by step, without relying on any sensible object. It moves from idea to idea, and in ideas it ends."

I understand you, he replied; not perfectly, for you seem to me to be describing a task which is really tremendous; but, at any rate, I understand you to say that knowledge and being, which the science of dialectic contemplates, are clearer than the notions of the arts, as they are termed, which proceed from hypotheses only: these are also contemplated by the understanding, and not by the senses: yet, because they start from hypotheses and do not ascend to a principle, those who contemplate them appear to you not to exercise the higher reason upon them, although when a first principle is added to them they are cognizable by the higher reason. And the habit which is concerned with geometry and the cognate sciences I suppose that you would term understanding and not reason, as being intermediate between opinion and reason.

"I understand you," he replied. "Not perfectly. You seem to be describing a truly immense task. Still, I take you to mean this. The knowledge of being, which dialectic studies, is clearer than the ideas of the arts that rest only on hypotheses. Those too are grasped by the intellect, not by the senses. They start from hypotheses and do not rise to a first principle. You think those who study them do not use higher reason. Yet if a first principle is added, higher reason can grasp them. The faculty that deals with geometry and related sciences, I suppose, you would call 'understanding' rather than 'reason.' It stands between opinion and reason."

You have quite conceived my meaning, I said; and now, corresponding to these four divisions, let there be four faculties in the soul—reason answering to the highest, understanding to the second, faith (or conviction) to the third, and perception of shadows to the last—and let there be a scale of them, and let us suppose that the several faculties have clearness in the same degree that their objects have truth.

"You have grasped my meaning," I said. "Now, matching those four divisions, let there be four faculties in the soul. Let reason correspond to the highest. Let understanding correspond to the second. Let faith, or conviction, correspond to the third. Let perception of shadows correspond to the last. Put them on a scale. And suppose each faculty is as clear as the truth of its object."

I understand, he replied, and give my assent, and accept your arrangement.

"I understand," he replied. "I agree and accept your arrangement."