And now, I said, let me show in a figure how far our nature is enlightened or unenlightened:—Behold! human beings living in a underground den, which has a mouth open towards the light and reaching all along the den; here they have been from their childhood, and have their legs and necks chained so that they cannot move, and can only see before them, being prevented by the chains from turning round their heads. Above and behind them a fire is blazing at a distance, and between the fire and the prisoners there is a raised way; and you will see, if you look, a low wall built along the way, like the screen which marionette players have in front of them, over which they show the puppets.
"And now," I said, "let me show with a picture how enlightened or unenlightened our nature is. Imagine people living in an underground cave. It has an opening that faces the light and runs along the cave. They have been there since childhood. Their legs and necks are chained so they cannot move. They can only look straight ahead. The chains stop them from turning their heads. Above and behind them a fire burns some distance away. Between the fire and the prisoners there is a raised pathway. If you look, you will see a low wall built along the pathway. It is like the screen puppet players set up in front of them, over which they show the puppets."
I see.
"I see."
And do you see, I said, men passing along the wall carrying all sorts of vessels, and statues and figures of animals made of wood and stone and various materials, which appear over the wall? Some of them are talking, others silent.
"Do you see," I said, "people passing along the wall carrying all sorts of vessels, statues, and animal figures. They are made of wood, stone, and other materials and appear above the wall. Some of them are talking. Others are silent."
You have shown me a strange image, and they are strange prisoners.
"You've shown me a strange image. The prisoners in it are strange."
Like ourselves, I replied; and they see only their own shadows, or the shadows of one another, which the fire throws on the opposite wall of the cave?
"Like us," I replied. "They see only their own shadows, or each other's, cast by the fire on the cave wall opposite them?"
True, he said; how could they see anything but the shadows if they were never allowed to move their heads?
"True," he said. "How could they see anything but the shadows? They were never allowed to move their heads."
And of the objects which are being carried in like manner they would only see the shadows?
"And the objects being carried in the same way, would they only see the shadows?"
Yes, he said.
"Yes," he said.
And if they were able to converse with one another, would they not suppose that they were naming what was actually before them?
"And if they could talk to one another, wouldn't they think they were naming the things right in front of them?"
Very true.
"That's true."
And suppose further that the prison had an echo which came from the other side, would they not be sure to fancy when one of the passers-by spoke that the voice which they heard came from the passing shadow?
"Imagine the prison had an echo coming from the far side. Wouldn't they be sure that when a passerby spoke, the voice they heard came from the passing shadow?"
No question, he replied.
"No question," he said.
To them, I said, the truth would be literally nothing but the shadows of the images.
I said, "For those people, the truth would be nothing but the shadows of the images."
That is certain.
"That's certain."
And now look again, and see what will naturally follow if the prisoners are released and disabused of their error. At first, when any of them is liberated and compelled suddenly to stand up and turn his neck round and walk and look towards the light, he will suffer sharp pains; the glare will distress him, and he will be unable to see the realities of which in his former state he had seen the shadows; and then conceive some one saying to him, that what he saw before was an illusion, but that now, when he is approaching nearer to being and his eye is turned towards more real existence, he has a clearer vision,—what will be his reply? And you may further imagine that his instructor is pointing to the objects as they pass and requiring him to name them,—will he not be perplexed? Will he not fancy that the shadows which he formerly saw are truer than the objects which are now shown to him?
"And now look again and see what would naturally happen if the prisoners were freed and freed from their mistake. At first, someone suddenly forced to stand up will feel sharp pain. He must turn his head, walk, and look toward the light. The glare will hurt his eyes. He will not be able to see the real things that he once saw only as shadows. Imagine someone saying to him, 'What you saw before was an illusion. Now, as you move closer to reality and your eye turns toward truer existence, you see more clearly.' How will he reply? Now suppose his teacher points to the passing objects and asks him to name them. He will be confused, won't he? He will likely think the shadows he saw before are truer than the objects shown to him now."
Far truer.
"Much truer."
And if he is compelled to look straight at the light, will he not have a pain in his eyes which will make him turn away to take refuge in the objects of vision which he can see, and which he will conceive to be in reality clearer than the things which are now being shown to him?
"And if he is forced to look straight at the light, won't his eyes hurt? He will turn away and take refuge in the things he can see. He will believe those things are clearer than the ones now shown to him."
True, he said.
"That's true," he said.
And suppose once more, that he is reluctantly dragged up a steep and rugged ascent, and held fast until he is forced into the presence of the sun himself, is he not likely to be pained and irritated? When he approaches the light his eyes will be dazzled, and he will not be able to see anything at all of what are now called realities.
"Imagine again that someone is dragged up a steep, rough slope against their will. They are held there until forced to face the sun itself. Wouldn't they be pained and irritated? As they come into the light, their eyes would be dazzled. They would not be able to see any of what we now call reality."
Not all in a moment, he said.
"Not all at once," he said.
He will require to grow accustomed to the sight of the upper world. And first he will see the shadows best, next the reflections of men and other objects in the water, and then the objects themselves; then he will gaze upon the light of the moon and the stars and the spangled heaven; and he will see the sky and the stars by night better than the sun or the light of the sun by day?
"He will need to get used to seeing the upper world. First he will notice the shadows most clearly. Next he will see reflections of people and objects in the water. After that he will see the objects themselves. Then he will look at the light of the moon, the stars, and the starry sky. He will see the night sky and stars more easily than the sun or sunlight by day?"
Certainly.
"Of course."
Last of all he will be able to see the sun, and not mere reflections of him in the water, but he will see him in his own proper place, and not in another; and he will contemplate him as he is.
"Finally, he will see the sun itself, not just its reflections in the water. He will see it in its proper place, not somewhere else. He will see it as it truly is."
Certainly.
"Of course."
He will then proceed to argue that this is he who gives the season and the years, and is the guardian of all that is in the visible world, and in a certain way the cause of all things which he and his fellows have been accustomed to behold?
"He will then argue that this is the one who gives the seasons and the years. He is the guardian of everything in the visible world. In a way, he is the cause of all the things that he and his companions have been used to seeing?"
Clearly, he said, he would first see the sun and then reason about him.
"Clearly," he said, "he would first see the sun and then think about it."
And when he remembered his old habitation, and the wisdom of the den and his fellow-prisoners, do you not suppose that he would felicitate himself on the change, and pity them?
"And when he remembers his old home and the cave's supposed wisdom, won't he be glad he left? He will pity his fellow prisoners."
Certainly, he would.
"Certainly he would."
And if they were in the habit of conferring honours among themselves on those who were quickest to observe the passing shadows and to remark which of them went before, and which followed after, and which were together; and who were therefore best able to draw conclusions as to the future, do you think that he would care for such honours and glories, or envy the possessors of them? Would he not say with Homer,
They were in the habit of giving honors to those who were quickest to notice the passing shadows. Those people could say which shadow came first, which followed, and which moved together. They were therefore best at predicting the future. Do you think he would care for such honors and glory, or envy those who had them? Would he not, with Homer, say,
‘Better to be the poor servant of a poor master,’
"Better to be a poor servant to a poor master."
and to endure anything, rather than think as they do and live after their manner?
"and put up with anything, rather than think like them and live the way they do?"
Yes, he said, I think that he would rather suffer anything than entertain these false notions and live in this miserable manner.
"Yes," he said. "I think he would rather suffer anything than hold these false beliefs and live like that."
Imagine once more, I said, such an one coming suddenly out of the sun to be replaced in his old situation; would he not be certain to have his eyes full of darkness?
"Imagine again," I said, "someone who suddenly steps into the sunlight and is then returned to his old place. Wouldn't his eyes be full of darkness?"
To be sure, he said.
"Certainly," he said.
And if there were a contest, and he had to compete in measuring the shadows with the prisoners who had never moved out of the den, while his sight was still weak, and before his eyes had become steady (and the time which would be needed to acquire this new habit of sight might be very considerable), would he not be ridiculous? Men would say of him that up he went and down he came without his eyes; and that it was better not even to think of ascending; and if any one tried to loose another and lead him up to the light, let them only catch the offender, and they would put him to death.
"Suppose there was a contest. He would have to judge the shadows against prisoners who never left the cave. His sight would still be weak. His eyes would not yet be steady. Wouldn't he seem ridiculous? People would say he went up and came down blind. They would say it's better not even to try to go up. If anyone tried to free someone and lead him into the light, they would catch the offender. They would kill him."
No question, he said.
"No question," he said.
This entire allegory, I said, you may now append, dear Glaucon, to the previous argument; the prison-house is the world of sight, the light of the fire is the sun, and you will not misapprehend me if you interpret the journey upwards to be the ascent of the soul into the intellectual world according to my poor belief, which, at your desire, I have expressed—whether rightly or wrongly God knows. But, whether true or false, my opinion is that in the world of knowledge the idea of good appears last of all, and is seen only with an effort; and, when seen, is also inferred to be the universal author of all things beautiful and right, parent of light and of the lord of light in this visible world, and the immediate source of reason and truth in the intellectual; and that this is the power upon which he who would act rationally either in public or private life must have his eye fixed.
"You can now add this whole allegory to the previous argument, I said, dear Glaucon. The prison-house is the world of sight. The light of the fire is the sun. Don't misunderstand me if you take the upward journey as the soul's rising into the intellectual world. That is my humble belief, which I have given because you asked. Whether it is right or wrong, only God knows. Whether true or false, I believe this. In the world of knowledge, the idea of the good appears last of all. It only comes into view with effort. And when we do see it, we recognize it as the universal source of everything beautiful and right. It is the parent of light and of the ruler of light in the visible world. It is also the immediate source of reason and truth in the intellectual world. This is the power anyone who wants to act rationally, in public or private life, must keep their eye on."
I agree, he said, as far as I am able to understand you.
"I agree," he said, "as far as I can understand you."
Moreover, I said, you must not wonder that those who attain to this beatific vision are unwilling to descend to human affairs; for their souls are ever hastening into the upper world where they desire to dwell; which desire of theirs is very natural, if our allegory may be trusted.
I said, "Don't be surprised that those who reach this blessed vision don't want to return to human affairs. Their souls are always hastening into the upper world where they long to live. That longing is natural, if our allegory is true."
Yes, very natural.
"Yes, it's perfectly natural."
And is there anything surprising in one who passes from divine contemplations to the evil state of man, misbehaving himself in a ridiculous manner; if, while his eyes are blinking and before he has become accustomed to the surrounding darkness, he is compelled to fight in courts of law, or in other places, about the images or the shadows of images of justice, and is endeavouring to meet the conceptions of those who have never yet seen absolute justice?
"Is it surprising when someone leaves thoughts of the divine and returns to the corrupt life of people? Does he act foolishly? Imagine his eyes are still blinking, before he's used to the darkness around him. He is forced to argue in courts or elsewhere about images or shadows of justice. He is trying to match the ideas of people who have never seen true justice."
Anything but surprising, he replied.
"Not surprising," he replied.
Any one who has common sense will remember that the bewilderments of the eyes are of two kinds, and arise from two causes, either from coming out of the light or from going into the light, which is true of the mind’s eye, quite as much as of the bodily eye; and he who remembers this when he sees any one whose vision is perplexed and weak, will not be too ready to laugh; he will first ask whether that soul of man has come out of the brighter life, and is unable to see because unaccustomed to the dark, or having turned from darkness to the day is dazzled by excess of light. And he will count the one happy in his condition and state of being, and he will pity the other; or, if he have a mind to laugh at the soul which comes from below into the light, there will be more reason in this than in the laugh which greets him who returns from above out of the light into the den.
"Anyone with common sense will remember that eye confusion comes in two kinds and from two causes. It happens when you come out of bright light. Or it happens when you go into the light. The same is true of the mind's eye as of the physical eye. So when you see someone whose vision is confused or weak, don't be quick to laugh. First ask whether their soul has just come from the brighter life and cannot see because it is unaccustomed to darkness. Or ask whether they have turned from darkness into daylight and are dazzled by too much light. Call the first person happy in their state, and pity the other. If you must laugh at the soul coming from below into the light, that laugh is more reasonable than the laugh that greets the one who returns from above into the den."
That, he said, is a very just distinction.
"That's a very fair distinction," he said.
But then, if I am right, certain professors of education must be wrong when they say that they can put a knowledge into the soul which was not there before, like sight into blind eyes.
"But then, if I'm right, certain professors of education must be wrong. They say they can put knowledge into the soul that wasn't there before, like giving sight to blind eyes."
They undoubtedly say this, he replied.
"They certainly say that," he replied.
Whereas, our argument shows that the power and capacity of learning exists in the soul already; and that just as the eye was unable to turn from darkness to light without the whole body, so too the instrument of knowledge can only by the movement of the whole soul be turned from the world of becoming into that of being, and learn by degrees to endure the sight of being, and of the brightest and best of being, or in other words, of the good.
"Our argument shows that the power to learn already exists in the soul. Just as the eye cannot turn from darkness to light without the whole body, the soul's faculty of knowledge can only be turned by the whole soul from the world of change to the world of being. It then learns, step by step, to bear the sight of being and of the brightest and best of being. In other words, it comes to see the good."
Very true.
"That's true."
And must there not be some art which will effect conversion in the easiest and quickest manner; not implanting the faculty of sight, for that exists already, but has been turned in the wrong direction, and is looking away from the truth?
"Isn't there some art that can bring about conversion quickly and easily? It wouldn't give us sight, since we already have that, but would turn our sight, which is now looking the wrong way, back toward the truth."
Yes, he said, such an art may be presumed.
"Yes," he said, "we can assume such an art exists."
And whereas the other so-called virtues of the soul seem to be akin to bodily qualities, for even when they are not originally innate they can be implanted later by habit and exercise, the virtue of wisdom more than anything else contains a divine element which always remains, and by this conversion is rendered useful and profitable; or, on the other hand, hurtful and useless. Did you never observe the narrow intelligence flashing from the keen eye of a clever rogue—how eager he is, how clearly his paltry soul sees the way to his end; he is the reverse of blind, but his keen eye-sight is forced into the service of evil, and he is mischievous in proportion to his cleverness?
"While the other so-called virtues of the soul seem like bodily qualities. Even when they are not innate, they can be formed later by habit and practice. Wisdom, more than anything, contains a divine element that remains. Through this element a person can become useful and beneficial, or harmful and useless. Have you never noticed the narrow intelligence flashing in the sharp eye of a clever rogue? He is eager. His small, paltry soul clearly sees the path to his goal. He is not blind, but his keen eyesight serves evil. He becomes as harmful as he is clever."
Very true, he said.
"That's very true," he said.
But what if there had been a circumcision of such natures in the days of their youth; and they had been severed from those sensual pleasures, such as eating and drinking, which, like leaden weights, were attached to them at their birth, and which drag them down and turn the vision of their souls upon the things that are below—if, I say, they had been released from these impediments and turned in the opposite direction, the very same faculty in them would have seen the truth as keenly as they see what their eyes are turned to now.
"But what if, in their youth, they had been cut away in that way? Suppose they had been separated from sensual pleasures like eating and drinking. These pleasures are like lead weights attached at birth. They drag them down and make the soul's gaze fall on low things. If they had been freed from these burdens and turned the other way, that same faculty would have seen the truth as clearly as it now sees what their eyes are fixed on."
Very likely.
"Very likely."
Yes, I said; and there is another thing which is likely, or rather a necessary inference from what has preceded, that neither the uneducated and uninformed of the truth, nor yet those who never make an end of their education, will be able ministers of State; not the former, because they have no single aim of duty which is the rule of all their actions, private as well as public; nor the latter, because they will not act at all except upon compulsion, fancying that they are already dwelling apart in the islands of the blest.
"Yes," I said. "And there is another point that follows from what we just said. Neither those who are uneducated and ignorant of the truth, nor those who never finish their education, can be ministers of state. Not the first group, because they lack a single guiding duty to govern all their actions, private and public. Not the second, because they will act only when forced, imagining they already live apart in the islands of the blessed."
Very true, he replied.
"That's true," he said.
Then, I said, the business of us who are the founders of the State will be to compel the best minds to attain that knowledge which we have already shown to be the greatest of all—they must continue to ascend until they arrive at the good; but when they have ascended and seen enough we must not allow them to do as they do now.
"Then I said, 'Our job as founders of the State is clear. We must make the best minds reach the knowledge we showed to be the greatest. They must keep rising until they arrive at the Good. But when they have climbed and seen enough, we must not let them go on as they do now.' "
What do you mean?
"What do you mean?"
I mean that they remain in the upper world: but this must not be allowed; they must be made to descend again among the prisoners in the den, and partake of their labours and honours, whether they are worth having or not.
"I mean that they stay in the upper world. But this must not be allowed. They must be made to go back down among the prisoners in the den. They should share the prisoners' labors and honors, whether those things are worth having or not."
But is not this unjust? he said; ought we to give them a worse life, when they might have a better?
"But isn't this unjust?" he said. "Should we give them a worse life when they could have a better one?"
You have again forgotten, my friend, I said, the intention of the legislator, who did not aim at making any one class in the State happy above the rest; the happiness was to be in the whole State, and he held the citizens together by persuasion and necessity, making them benefactors of the State, and therefore benefactors of one another; to this end he created them, not to please themselves, but to be his instruments in binding up the State.
"You have forgotten again, my friend," I said, "the purpose of the legislator. He did not want one class in the State to be happier than the others. He aimed for the happiness of the whole State. He kept the citizens together by persuasion and by necessity. He made them benefactors of the State, and so benefactors of one another. He did not create them to please themselves, but to be his instruments in binding the State together."
True, he said, I had forgotten.
"That's true," he said. "I had forgotten."
Observe, Glaucon, that there will be no injustice in compelling our philosophers to have a care and providence of others; we shall explain to them that in other States, men of their class are not obliged to share in the toils of politics: and this is reasonable, for they grow up at their own sweet will, and the government would rather not have them. Being self-taught, they cannot be expected to show any gratitude for a culture which they have never received. But we have brought you into the world to be rulers of the hive, kings of yourselves and of the other citizens, and have educated you far better and more perfectly than they have been educated, and you are better able to share in the double duty. Wherefore each of you, when his turn comes, must go down to the general underground abode, and get the habit of seeing in the dark. When you have acquired the habit, you will see ten thousand times better than the inhabitants of the den, and you will know what the several images are, and what they represent, because you have seen the beautiful and just and good in their truth. And thus our State, which is also yours, will be a reality, and not a dream only, and will be administered in a spirit unlike that of other States, in which men fight with one another about shadows only and are distracted in the struggle for power, which in their eyes is a great good. Whereas the truth is that the State in which the rulers are most reluctant to govern is always the best and most quietly governed, and the State in which they are most eager, the worst.
"Listen, Glaucon. It will not be unjust to require our philosophers to care for others. We will explain to them that in other states people like them are not expected to share the burdens of politics. That is natural. They grow up as they please, and the government would rather not have them. Being self-taught, they cannot be expected to feel grateful to a culture they never received. But we brought you into the world to be rulers of the hive, kings of yourselves and of the other citizens. We have educated you far better and more completely than they were, and you are more able to carry both duties. So each of you, when his turn comes, must go down to the common underground dwelling and learn the habit of seeing in the dark. When you have learned it, you will see ten thousand times better than the people in the den. You will recognize the images and know what they represent, because you will have seen the beautiful, the just, and the good as they really are. In this way our State, which is also yours, will be real and not just a dream. It will be governed in a different spirit from other states, where people fight over shadows and get distracted by the struggle for power, which they think is a great good. The truth is that the state whose rulers are most reluctant to govern is always the best and most calmly governed, and the state whose rulers are most eager is the worst."
Quite true, he replied.
"That's true," he said.
And will our pupils, when they hear this, refuse to take their turn at the toils of State, when they are allowed to spend the greater part of their time with one another in the heavenly light?
"When they hear this, will our students refuse to take their turn doing the state's work? They are allowed to spend most of their time together in the heavenly light."
Impossible, he answered; for they are just men, and the commands which we impose upon them are just; there can be no doubt that every one of them will take office as a stern necessity, and not after the fashion of our present rulers of State.
"Impossible," he answered. "They are just men, and the commands we give them are just. There is no doubt each will accept office out of strict necessity. They will not serve like our current rulers of the State."
Yes, my friend, I said; and there lies the point. You must contrive for your future rulers another and a better life than that of a ruler, and then you may have a well-ordered State; for only in the State which offers this, will they rule who are truly rich, not in silver and gold, but in virtue and wisdom, which are the true blessings of life. Whereas if they go to the administration of public affairs, poor and hungering after their own private advantage, thinking that hence they are to snatch the chief good, order there can never be; for they will be fighting about office, and the civil and domestic broils which thus arise will be the ruin of the rulers themselves and of the whole State.
"Yes, my friend," I said. "And that is the point. You must arrange a different, better life for your future rulers than the usual life of a ruler. Only then will you have a well-ordered state. In such a state the rulers will be truly rich, not in silver and gold, but in virtue and wisdom. Those are the real blessings of life. But if rulers go into public office poor and hungry for private gain, they will think it brings them the highest good. In that case, order can never exist. They will fight over positions. The public and domestic quarrels that follow will ruin the rulers and destroy the whole state."
Most true, he replied.
"Very true," he replied.
And the only life which looks down upon the life of political ambition is that of true philosophy. Do you know of any other?
"Only the life of true philosophy looks down on the life of political ambition. Do you know any other?"
Indeed, I do not, he said.
"No, I don't," he said.
And those who govern ought not to be lovers of the task? For, if they are, there will be rival lovers, and they will fight.
"Shouldn't those who govern avoid being in love with ruling? If they are, rivals will appear and they will fight."
No question.
"No question."
Who then are those whom we shall compel to be guardians? Surely they will be the men who are wisest about affairs of State, and by whom the State is best administered, and who at the same time have other honours and another and a better life than that of politics?
"Who, then, will we make guardians? Surely those should be the people who know state affairs best. They will be the ones who run the state most effectively. They should also have other honors and a different, better life than political life."
They are the men, and I will choose them, he replied.
"Those are the men, and I'll choose them," he replied.
And now shall we consider in what way such guardians will be produced, and how they are to be brought from darkness to light,—as some are said to have ascended from the world below to the gods?
"Should we now consider how such guardians will be produced? How will they be brought from darkness into light? Some say people have ascended from the world below to the gods."
By all means, he replied.
"By all means," he replied.
The process, I said, is not the turning over of an oyster-shell (In allusion to a game in which two parties fled or pursued according as an oyster-shell which was thrown into the air fell with the dark or light side uppermost.), but the turning round of a soul passing from a day which is little better than night to the true day of being, that is, the ascent from below, which we affirm to be true philosophy?
"The process," I said, "is not like flipping an oyster shell. That alludes to a game. One side flees or chases depending on which side of the shell lands face up. It is the turning of a soul. The soul moves from a day that is hardly better than night to the true day of being. This ascent from below is what we call true philosophy?"
Quite so.
"Exactly."
And should we not enquire what sort of knowledge has the power of effecting such a change?
"And should we not inquire what kind of knowledge can bring about such a change?"
Certainly.
"Certainly."
What sort of knowledge is there which would draw the soul from becoming to being? And another consideration has just occurred to me: You will remember that our young men are to be warrior athletes?
"What kind of knowledge can draw the soul from becoming into being? I just thought of something else. Do you remember that our young men are to be warrior athletes?"
Yes, that was said.
"Yes, that was said."
Then this new kind of knowledge must have an additional quality?
"Then this new kind of knowledge must have another quality?"
What quality?
"What quality?"
Usefulness in war.
Usefulness in War.
Yes, if possible.
"Yes, if possible."
There were two parts in our former scheme of education, were there not?
"There were two parts to our earlier plan for education, weren't there?"
Just so.
"Exactly."
There was gymnastic which presided over the growth and decay of the body, and may therefore be regarded as having to do with generation and corruption?
"Wasn't there a form of gymnastics that oversaw the body's growth and decay? Could we then say it deals with generation and corruption?"
True.
"That's true."
Then that is not the knowledge which we are seeking to discover?
"So that's not the kind of knowledge we're trying to discover?"
No.
"No."
But what do you say of music, which also entered to a certain extent into our former scheme?
"But what do you think of music? It also played a role in our earlier plan."
Music, he said, as you will remember, was the counterpart of gymnastic, and trained the guardians by the influences of habit, by harmony making them harmonious, by rhythm rhythmical, but not giving them science; and the words, whether fabulous or possibly true, had kindred elements of rhythm and harmony in them. But in music there was nothing which tended to that good which you are now seeking.
"Music," he said, "as you remember, was the counterpart of gymnastics. It trained the guardians by shaping their habits. Harmony made them harmonious. Rhythm made them rhythmic. But it did not give them knowledge. The words, whether mythical or perhaps true, shared those same elements of rhythm and harmony. Yet music offered nothing that aimed at the good you are now seeking."
You are most accurate, I said, in your recollection; in music there certainly was nothing of the kind. But what branch of knowledge is there, my dear Glaucon, which is of the desired nature; since all the useful arts were reckoned mean by us?
"You're absolutely right," I said. "In music there was certainly nothing like that. But, my dear Glaucon, what branch of knowledge has the kind of nature we want? We counted all useful arts as low."
Undoubtedly; and yet if music and gymnastic are excluded, and the arts are also excluded, what remains?
"Undoubtedly. But if music and gymnastics are excluded, and the arts are excluded too, what remains?"
Well, I said, there may be nothing left of our special subjects; and then we shall have to take something which is not special, but of universal application.
"Well," I said, "there may not be any of our special subjects left. If so, we'll have to choose something that is not special but has universal application."
What may that be?
"What is that?"
A something which all arts and sciences and intelligences use in common, and which every one first has to learn among the elements of education.
"Something that all arts, sciences, and minds use in common. Everyone must learn it first among the basics of education."
What is that?
"What's that?"
The little matter of distinguishing one, two, and three—in a word, number and calculation:—do not all arts and sciences necessarily partake of them?
"The simple task of distinguishing one, two, and three. In other words, number and calculation. Don't all arts and sciences necessarily involve them?"
Yes.
"Yes."
Then the art of war partakes of them?
"Then does the art of war share in them?"
To be sure.
"Certainly."
Then Palamedes, whenever he appears in tragedy, proves Agamemnon ridiculously unfit to be a general. Did you never remark how he declares that he had invented number, and had numbered the ships and set in array the ranks of the army at Troy; which implies that they had never been numbered before, and Agamemnon must be supposed literally to have been incapable of counting his own feet—how could he if he was ignorant of number? And if that is true, what sort of general must he have been?
"Whenever Palamedes appears in tragedy, he makes Agamemnon look absurdly unfit as a general. Haven't you noticed how Palamedes claims he invented numbers? He even says he counted the ships and drew up the army's ranks at Troy. That claim implies they had never been counted before. It implies Agamemnon couldn't even count his own feet, since he supposedly didn't know numbers. If that's true, what kind of general was he?"
I should say a very strange one, if this was as you say.
"I'd say it was very strange, if that's true."
Can we deny that a warrior should have a knowledge of arithmetic?
"Can we deny that a warrior should know arithmetic?"
Certainly he should, if he is to have the smallest understanding of military tactics, or indeed, I should rather say, if he is to be a man at all.
"Certainly he should, if he is to have even the smallest understanding of military tactics. Or rather, if he is to be a man at all."
I should like to know whether you have the same notion which I have of this study?
"Do you have the same idea of this study as I do?"
What is your notion?
"What's your idea?"
It appears to me to be a study of the kind which we are seeking, and which leads naturally to reflection, but never to have been rightly used; for the true use of it is simply to draw the soul towards being.
"It seems to me to be the kind of study we are seeking. It naturally leads to reflection, but it has never been used properly. Its true purpose is simply to draw the soul toward being."
Will you explain your meaning? he said.
"Can you explain what you mean?" he asked.
I will try, I said; and I wish you would share the enquiry with me, and say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ when I attempt to distinguish in my own mind what branches of knowledge have this attracting power, in order that we may have clearer proof that arithmetic is, as I suspect, one of them.
"I'll try," I said. "I'd like you to join the inquiry with me. Say 'yes' or 'no' when I try to sort out which branches of knowledge have this attractive power. That will give us clearer proof that arithmetic is, as I suspect, one of them."
Explain, he said.
"Explain," he said.
I mean to say that objects of sense are of two kinds; some of them do not invite thought because the sense is an adequate judge of them; while in the case of other objects sense is so untrustworthy that further enquiry is imperatively demanded.
"What I mean is that objects we perceive by the senses fall into two kinds. Some do not invite further thought because the senses judge them adequately. Others make the senses so unreliable that they demand further inquiry."
You are clearly referring, he said, to the manner in which the senses are imposed upon by distance, and by painting in light and shade.
"You're clearly referring," he said, "to how the senses are deceived by distance and by painting with light and shade."
No, I said, that is not at all my meaning.
"No," I said, "that's not what I mean at all."
Then what is your meaning?
"What do you mean, then?"
When speaking of uninviting objects, I mean those which do not pass from one sensation to the opposite; inviting objects are those which do; in this latter case the sense coming upon the object, whether at a distance or near, gives no more vivid idea of anything in particular than of its opposite. An illustration will make my meaning clearer:—here are three fingers—a little finger, a second finger, and a middle finger.
"When I speak of uninviting objects, I mean those that do not shift from one sensation to its opposite. Inviting objects are those that do. In that case, when a sense meets the object, near or far, it gives no clearer idea of one thing. It gives no clearer idea of its opposite. An example will make this clearer. Here are three fingers: a little finger, a second finger, and a middle finger."
Very good.
"Very good."
You may suppose that they are seen quite close: And here comes the point.
"You might think they're seen up close. Here's the point."
What is it?
"What is it?"
Each of them equally appears a finger, whether seen in the middle or at the extremity, whether white or black, or thick or thin—it makes no difference; a finger is a finger all the same. In these cases a man is not compelled to ask of thought the question what is a finger? for the sight never intimates to the mind that a finger is other than a finger.
"Each of them looks exactly like a finger, whether seen in the middle or at the tip. Whether white or black, thick or thin, it makes no difference. A finger is just a finger. In these cases one does not need to ask the question 'What is a finger?' because sight never suggests to the mind that a finger is anything other than a finger."
True.
"True."
And therefore, I said, as we might expect, there is nothing here which invites or excites intelligence.
"So I said, as we might expect. There is nothing here that invites or excites the mind."
There is not, he said.
"There isn't," he said.
But is this equally true of the greatness and smallness of the fingers? Can sight adequately perceive them? and is no difference made by the circumstance that one of the fingers is in the middle and another at the extremity? And in like manner does the touch adequately perceive the qualities of thickness or thinness, of softness or hardness? And so of the other senses; do they give perfect intimations of such matters? Is not their mode of operation on this wise—the sense which is concerned with the quality of hardness is necessarily concerned also with the quality of softness, and only intimates to the soul that the same thing is felt to be both hard and soft?
"But is that equally true for the size of the fingers? Can sight really tell how big or small they are? Doesn't it make a difference that one finger is in the middle and another at the tip? In the same way, can touch reliably distinguish thickness from thinness, softness from hardness? And what about the other senses, do they give exact information about these things? Isn't their way of working like this. The sense that notices hardness also notices softness. It only signals to the soul that the same thing is felt as both hard and soft."
You are quite right, he said.
"You're right," he said.
And must not the soul be perplexed at this intimation which the sense gives of a hard which is also soft? What, again, is the meaning of light and heavy, if that which is light is also heavy, and that which is heavy, light?
"Mustn't the soul be puzzled by this hint the senses give of something that is both hard and soft? What do 'light' and 'heavy' mean? If what seems light is also heavy, and what seems heavy is also light."
Yes, he said, these intimations which the soul receives are very curious and require to be explained.
"Yes," he said, "these impressions the soul receives are strange and need explaining."
Yes, I said, and in these perplexities the soul naturally summons to her aid calculation and intelligence, that she may see whether the several objects announced to her are one or two.
"Yes," I said. "In such confusion the soul naturally calls on reason and intelligence. It does this to determine whether the objects presented to it are one or two."
True.
"True."
And if they turn out to be two, is not each of them one and different?
"And if they turn out to be two, isn't each one a single, distinct thing?"
Certainly.
"Certainly."
And if each is one, and both are two, she will conceive the two as in a state of division, for if there were undivided they could only be conceived of as one?
"And if each is one and both are two, won't she see the two as divided? If they were not divided, could they be anything but one?"
True.
"True."
The eye certainly did see both small and great, but only in a confused manner; they were not distinguished.
"The eye certainly saw both small and large things, but only in a confused way. It could not tell them apart."
Yes.
"Yes."
Whereas the thinking mind, intending to light up the chaos, was compelled to reverse the process, and look at small and great as separate and not confused.
"While the thinking mind tried to bring light to the chaos, it had to reverse its approach. It had to see the small and the great as separate, not confused."
Very true.
"That's very true."
Was not this the beginning of the enquiry ‘What is great?’ and ‘What is small?’
"Wasn't this the start of the question, 'What is great?' and 'What is small?'"
Exactly so.
"Exactly."
And thus arose the distinction of the visible and the intelligible.
"And so the distinction between the visible and the intelligible came about."
Most true.
"That's very true."
This was what I meant when I spoke of impressions which invited the intellect, or the reverse—those which are simultaneous with opposite impressions, invite thought; those which are not simultaneous do not.
"This is what I meant when I spoke of impressions that invite the intellect, or the opposite. Impressions that come at the same time as opposing impressions call for thought. Those that do not occur together do not."
I understand, he said, and agree with you.
"I understand," he said. "I agree with you."
And to which class do unity and number belong?
"Which class do unity and number belong to?"
I do not know, he replied.
"I don't know," he replied.
Think a little and you will see that what has preceded will supply the answer; for if simple unity could be adequately perceived by the sight or by any other sense, then, as we were saying in the case of the finger, there would be nothing to attract towards being; but when there is some contradiction always present, and one is the reverse of one and involves the conception of plurality, then thought begins to be aroused within us, and the soul perplexed and wanting to arrive at a decision asks ‘What is absolute unity?’ This is the way in which the study of the one has a power of drawing and converting the mind to the contemplation of true being.
"Think for a moment and you will see that what came before gives the answer. If pure unity could be fully perceived by sight or any other sense, nothing would draw us toward being. We said this before, using the example of the finger. But when a contradiction is always present, thought wakes up inside us. When one appears to oppose itself and implies many, the mind is stirred. The soul, confused and wanting a decision, asks, 'What is absolute unity?' This is how studying the one draws the mind to contemplate true being."
And surely, he said, this occurs notably in the case of one; for we see the same thing to be both one and infinite in multitude?
He said, "Surely this happens especially with the one. We see the same thing as both one and infinitely many?"
Yes, I said; and this being true of one must be equally true of all number?
"Yes," I said. "And if this is true of one, must it not be true of every number?"
Certainly.
"Certainly."
And all arithmetic and calculation have to do with number?
"And isn't all arithmetic and calculation about number?"
Yes.
"Yes."
And they appear to lead the mind towards truth?
"Do they seem to guide the mind toward truth?"
Yes, in a very remarkable manner.
"Yes, in a very remarkable way."
Then this is knowledge of the kind for which we are seeking, having a double use, military and philosophical; for the man of war must learn the art of number or he will not know how to array his troops, and the philosopher also, because he has to rise out of the sea of change and lay hold of true being, and therefore he must be an arithmetician.
"Then this is the kind of knowledge we are seeking. It has two uses, military and philosophical. A soldier must learn the art of number, or he will not know how to arrange his troops. The philosopher must learn it too. He must rise out of the sea of change and grasp true being. So he must be an arithmetician."
That is true.
"That's true."
And our guardian is both warrior and philosopher?
"So our guardian is both a warrior and a philosopher?"
Certainly.
"Certainly."
Then this is a kind of knowledge which legislation may fitly prescribe; and we must endeavour to persuade those who are to be the principal men of our State to go and learn arithmetic, not as amateurs, but they must carry on the study until they see the nature of numbers with the mind only; nor again, like merchants or retail-traders, with a view to buying or selling, but for the sake of their military use, and of the soul herself; and because this will be the easiest way for her to pass from becoming to truth and being.
"This kind of knowledge is something laws should require. We must persuade the future leaders of our State to study arithmetic. Not as amateurs. They must study until they can see the nature of numbers with the mind alone. Not like merchants or shopkeepers studying to buy and sell. They should learn it for military use and for the soul itself. This is the easiest path for the soul to move from becoming to truth and being."
That is excellent, he said.
"That's excellent," he said.
Yes, I said, and now having spoken of it, I must add how charming the science is! and in how many ways it conduces to our desired end, if pursued in the spirit of a philosopher, and not of a shopkeeper!
"Yes," I said. "Now that I have spoken of it, I must add how charming the science is. It helps us reach our goal in many ways. But only if we pursue it like philosophers, not like shopkeepers."
How do you mean?
"What do you mean?"
I mean, as I was saying, that arithmetic has a very great and elevating effect, compelling the soul to reason about abstract number, and rebelling against the introduction of visible or tangible objects into the argument. You know how steadily the masters of the art repel and ridicule any one who attempts to divide absolute unity when he is calculating, and if you divide, they multiply (Meaning either (1) that they integrate the number because they deny the possibility of fractions; or (2) that division is regarded by them as a process of multiplication, for the fractions of one continue to be units.), taking care that one shall continue one and not become lost in fractions.
"I mean, as I was saying, arithmetic has a very powerful, uplifting effect. It forces the soul to think about numbers in the abstract. It resists bringing visible or tangible things into the argument. You know how firmly the masters of the art reject and mock anyone who tries to split absolute unity. They do this when they calculate. And if you do divide, they 'multiply.' This can mean one of two things. Either they restore the number because they deny true fractions. Or they treat division as a kind of multiplication, since parts of one remain units. In either case, they make sure that one stays one and does not get lost in fractions."
That is very true.
"That's very true."
Now, suppose a person were to say to them: O my friends, what are these wonderful numbers about which you are reasoning, in which, as you say, there is a unity such as you demand, and each unit is equal, invariable, indivisible,—what would they answer?
Now suppose someone said to them, "My friends, what are these wonderful numbers you are discussing? You say they have the kind of unity you require. You say each unit is equal, unchanging, and indivisible. What would you answer?"
They would answer, as I should conceive, that they were speaking of those numbers which can only be realized in thought.
"They would reply, I suppose, that they were talking about numbers that exist only in thought."
Then you see that this knowledge may be truly called necessary, necessitating as it clearly does the use of the pure intelligence in the attainment of pure truth?
"Do you see that this knowledge can rightly be called necessary? It clearly requires pure intelligence to reach pure truth."
Yes; that is a marked characteristic of it.
"Yes, that is a defining characteristic of it."
And have you further observed, that those who have a natural talent for calculation are generally quick at every other kind of knowledge; and even the dull, if they have had an arithmetical training, although they may derive no other advantage from it, always become much quicker than they would otherwise have been.
"Have you noticed that people naturally talented at arithmetic are usually quick at other kinds of learning? Even slow learners, if they get arithmetic training, become much quicker than they would otherwise have been. They may gain nothing else from it, but it still makes them sharper."
Very true, he said.
"Very true," he said.
And indeed, you will not easily find a more difficult study, and not many as difficult.
"You won't easily find a more difficult study. There are few as hard."
You will not.
"You won't."
And, for all these reasons, arithmetic is a kind of knowledge in which the best natures should be trained, and which must not be given up.
"For all these reasons, arithmetic is a kind of knowledge the best minds should be trained in. It must not be abandoned."
I agree.
"I agree."
Let this then be made one of our subjects of education. And next, shall we enquire whether the kindred science also concerns us?
"Then let's make this one of the subjects we teach. Next, should we ask whether the related science applies to us as well?"
You mean geometry?
"Do you mean geometry?"
Exactly so.
"Exactly."
Clearly, he said, we are concerned with that part of geometry which relates to war; for in pitching a camp, or taking up a position, or closing or extending the lines of an army, or any other military manoeuvre, whether in actual battle or on a march, it will make all the difference whether a general is or is not a geometrician.
"Clearly," he said, "we are concerned with the part of geometry that relates to war. When you pitch a camp or take up a position, it matters. When you close or extend an army's lines, it matters. Any military maneuver, whether in battle or on the march, will show this. It makes all the difference whether a general is a geometrician."
Yes, I said, but for that purpose a very little of either geometry or calculation will be enough; the question relates rather to the greater and more advanced part of geometry—whether that tends in any degree to make more easy the vision of the idea of good; and thither, as I was saying, all things tend which compel the soul to turn her gaze towards that place, where is the full perfection of being, which she ought, by all means, to behold.
"Yes," I said, "but for that purpose only a little geometry or calculation is needed. The real question is about the higher, more advanced part of geometry. Does that, in any way, make it easier to see the idea of the Good? All things that push the soul to look in that direction aim at the same goal. That direction leads to the place of full perfection of being. She must, above all, behold it."
True, he said.
"True," he said.
Then if geometry compels us to view being, it concerns us; if becoming only, it does not concern us?
"Then if geometry forces us to look at being, does it matter to us? If it looks only at becoming, does it not?"
Yes, that is what we assert.
"Yes, that's what we say."
Yet anybody who has the least acquaintance with geometry will not deny that such a conception of the science is in flat contradiction to the ordinary language of geometricians.
"Anyone with even a little knowledge of geometry won't deny it. This view directly contradicts the usual language of geometers."
How so?
"How so?"
They have in view practice only, and are always speaking, in a narrow and ridiculous manner, of squaring and extending and applying and the like—they confuse the necessities of geometry with those of daily life; whereas knowledge is the real object of the whole science.
"They are only concerned with practice. They keep talking in a narrow, ridiculous way about squaring, extending, applying, and things like that. They confuse the needs of daily life with the needs of geometry. The true aim of the whole science is knowledge."
Certainly, he said.
"Certainly," he said.
Then must not a further admission be made?
"Then shouldn't we admit one more thing?"
What admission?
"What admission?"
That the knowledge at which geometry aims is knowledge of the eternal, and not of aught perishing and transient.
"Geometry seeks knowledge of what is eternal. It does not concern itself with anything perishing or temporary."
That, he replied, may be readily allowed, and is true.
"That's easily allowed," he replied. "It's true."
Then, my noble friend, geometry will draw the soul towards truth, and create the spirit of philosophy, and raise up that which is now unhappily allowed to fall down.
"Then, my noble friend, geometry will lead the soul toward truth. It will create the spirit of philosophy and lift up what is now sadly allowed to fall."
Nothing will be more likely to have such an effect.
"Nothing will be more likely to bring that about."
Then nothing should be more sternly laid down than that the inhabitants of your fair city should by all means learn geometry. Moreover the science has indirect effects, which are not small.
"Nothing should be more strictly required than that the people of your city learn geometry. Geometry also produces important indirect benefits."
Of what kind? he said.
"Of what kind?" he said.
There are the military advantages of which you spoke, I said; and in all departments of knowledge, as experience proves, any one who has studied geometry is infinitely quicker of apprehension than one who has not.
"There are the military advantages you mentioned," I said. "Experience shows this across every field. Anyone who has studied geometry grasps things far faster than someone who has not."
Yes indeed, he said, there is an infinite difference between them.
"Yes," he said. "There is an infinite difference between them."
Then shall we propose this as a second branch of knowledge which our youth will study?
"Then, should we make this a second branch of knowledge for our youth to study?"
Let us do so, he replied.
"Let's do that," he replied.
And suppose we make astronomy the third—what do you say?
"And suppose we make astronomy the third. What do you say?"
I am strongly inclined to it, he said; the observation of the seasons and of months and years is as essential to the general as it is to the farmer or sailor.
"I'm strongly inclined to agree," he said. "Keeping track of seasons, months, and years is as important to a general as to a farmer or sailor."
I am amused, I said, at your fear of the world, which makes you guard against the appearance of insisting upon useless studies; and I quite admit the difficulty of believing that in every man there is an eye of the soul which, when by other pursuits lost and dimmed, is by these purified and re-illumined; and is more precious far than ten thousand bodily eyes, for by it alone is truth seen. Now there are two classes of persons: one class of those who will agree with you and will take your words as a revelation; another class to whom they will be utterly unmeaning, and who will naturally deem them to be idle tales, for they see no sort of profit which is to be obtained from them. And therefore you had better decide at once with which of the two you are proposing to argue. You will very likely say with neither, and that your chief aim in carrying on the argument is your own improvement; at the same time you do not grudge to others any benefit which they may receive.
"I'm amused," I said, "by your fear of the world. It makes you avoid appearing to press useless studies on people. I admit it's hard to believe that every person has an 'eye of the soul.' When other pursuits cloud or dim it, these studies can purify and relight it. That eye is far more valuable than ten thousand bodily eyes, because only by it can we see the truth. There are two kinds of people. One kind will agree with you and take your words like a revelation. The other will find them meaningless and call them idle tales, since they see no profit in them. So decide now which of the two you plan to argue with. You will likely say with neither. You will say your main aim is your own improvement, but you do not begrudge any benefit others may gain."
I think that I should prefer to carry on the argument mainly on my own behalf.
"I think I'd rather argue mainly on my own behalf."
Then take a step backward, for we have gone wrong in the order of the sciences.
"Then take a step back. We have gone wrong in the order of the sciences."
What was the mistake? he said.
"What was the mistake?" he said.
After plane geometry, I said, we proceeded at once to solids in revolution, instead of taking solids in themselves; whereas after the second dimension the third, which is concerned with cubes and dimensions of depth, ought to have followed.
"After plane geometry," I said, "we went straight to solids of revolution instead of studying solids in themselves. After the second dimension, the third should have followed. The third concerns cubes and depth."
That is true, Socrates; but so little seems to be known as yet about these subjects.
"That's true, Socrates. But so little seems to be known about these subjects so far."
Why, yes, I said, and for two reasons:—in the first place, no government patronises them; this leads to a want of energy in the pursuit of them, and they are difficult; in the second place, students cannot learn them unless they have a director. But then a director can hardly be found, and even if he could, as matters now stand, the students, who are very conceited, would not attend to him. That, however, would be otherwise if the whole State became the director of these studies and gave honour to them; then disciples would want to come, and there would be continuous and earnest search, and discoveries would be made; since even now, disregarded as they are by the world, and maimed of their fair proportions, and although none of their votaries can tell the use of them, still these studies force their way by their natural charm, and very likely, if they had the help of the State, they would some day emerge into light.
"Yes," I said, "for two reasons. First, no government supports these studies. That leads to a lack of energy in pursuing them, and they are difficult. Second, students cannot learn them without a director. But a director is hard to find. Even if one were found, the students, who are very conceited, would not pay attention. Things would be different if the whole State took charge of these studies and honored them. Then students would want to come. There would be steady, serious inquiry, and discoveries would be made. Even now the world ignores these studies and shortchanges them. None of their followers can say what use they have. Still, they push forward because of their natural appeal. If the State helped, they would likely come into the light one day."
Yes, he said, there is a remarkable charm in them. But I do not clearly understand the change in the order. First you began with a geometry of plane surfaces?
"Yes," he said. "They have a remarkable charm. But I don't clearly understand the change in the order. First you began with a geometry of plane surfaces?"
Yes, I said.
"Yes," I said.
And you placed astronomy next, and then you made a step backward?
"So you put astronomy next, and then took a step back?"
Yes, and I have delayed you by my hurry; the ludicrous state of solid geometry, which, in natural order, should have followed, made me pass over this branch and go on to astronomy, or motion of solids.
"Yes, and I delayed you because I was in a hurry. The sorry state of solid geometry, which in the natural order should have come next, made me skip that branch. I went on to astronomy, or the motion of solids."
True, he said.
"That's true," he said.
Then assuming that the science now omitted would come into existence if encouraged by the State, let us go on to astronomy, which will be fourth.
"Then assume the science we just omitted would arise if the State encouraged it. Let us go on to astronomy. That will be the fourth."
The right order, he replied. And now, Socrates, as you rebuked the vulgar manner in which I praised astronomy before, my praise shall be given in your own spirit. For every one, as I think, must see that astronomy compels the soul to look upwards and leads us from this world to another.
"The right order," he replied. "And now, Socrates, because you rebuked my crude praise of astronomy, I will praise it in your spirit. I think everyone can see that astronomy forces the soul to look up. It leads us from this world to another."
Every one but myself, I said; to every one else this may be clear, but not to me.
"Everyone but me," I said. "It may be clear to everyone else, but not to me."
And what then would you say?
"And what would you say, then?"
I should rather say that those who elevate astronomy into philosophy appear to me to make us look downwards and not upwards.
"I'd rather say that those who turn astronomy into philosophy seem to make us look down, not up."
What do you mean? he asked.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
You, I replied, have in your mind a truly sublime conception of our knowledge of the things above. And I dare say that if a person were to throw his head back and study the fretted ceiling, you would still think that his mind was the percipient, and not his eyes. And you are very likely right, and I may be a simpleton: but, in my opinion, that knowledge only which is of being and of the unseen can make the soul look upwards, and whether a man gapes at the heavens or blinks on the ground, seeking to learn some particular of sense, I would deny that he can learn, for nothing of that sort is matter of science; his soul is looking downwards, not upwards, whether his way to knowledge is by water or by land, whether he floats, or only lies on his back.
"You," I replied, "have a truly lofty idea of our knowledge of the things above. I would even say this. If someone tilted his head back to study the ornate ceiling, you'd still think the mind was perceiving. You would not credit the eyes. You are probably right, and I might be a simpleton. But I think only knowledge of being and of the unseen can make the soul look upward. Whether a man stares at the sky or looks down at the ground trying to learn some sensory detail, I would deny he can truly learn. Nothing like that is the subject of real knowledge. His soul is looking downward, not upward. It does not matter whether he seeks knowledge by water or by land, whether he floats or merely lies on his back."
I acknowledge, he said, the justice of your rebuke. Still, I should like to ascertain how astronomy can be learned in any manner more conducive to that knowledge of which we are speaking?
"I admit your rebuke is justified," he said. "Still, I want to know how astronomy can be learned in a way that better serves the knowledge we're discussing."
I will tell you, I said: The starry heaven which we behold is wrought upon a visible ground, and therefore, although the fairest and most perfect of visible things, must necessarily be deemed inferior far to the true motions of absolute swiftness and absolute slowness, which are relative to each other, and carry with them that which is contained in them, in the true number and in every true figure. Now, these are to be apprehended by reason and intelligence, but not by sight.
"I'll tell you," I said. "The starry sky we see is built on a visible foundation. Even though it is the most beautiful and perfect of visible things, it is far inferior to the true motions of absolute swiftness and absolute slowness. Those motions are relative to each other. They carry what is contained in them in the true number and in every true figure. These can be grasped by reason and intelligence, not by sight."
True, he replied.
"True," he said.
The spangled heavens should be used as a pattern and with a view to that higher knowledge; their beauty is like the beauty of figures or pictures excellently wrought by the hand of Daedalus, or some other great artist, which we may chance to behold; any geometrician who saw them would appreciate the exquisiteness of their workmanship, but he would never dream of thinking that in them he could find the true equal or the true double, or the truth of any other proportion.
"The starry sky should be used as a model to aim at higher knowledge. Its beauty is like pictures or figures excellently worked by Daedalus or another great artist. Any geometer who saw them would admire their fine workmanship. But he would never think he could find the true equal or the true double in them. He would also not find the true nature of any other proportion there."
No, he replied, such an idea would be ridiculous.
"No," he replied. "That idea is ridiculous."
And will not a true astronomer have the same feeling when he looks at the movements of the stars? Will he not think that heaven and the things in heaven are framed by the Creator of them in the most perfect manner? But he will never imagine that the proportions of night and day, or of both to the month, or of the month to the year, or of the stars to these and to one another, and any other things that are material and visible can also be eternal and subject to no deviation—that would be absurd; and it is equally absurd to take so much pains in investigating their exact truth.
"Won't a true astronomer feel the same when he watches the stars move? Won't he think that the heavens and everything in them were made by their Creator in the most perfect way? He would not suppose that the proportions of night and day are eternal. Nor would he suppose the ratio of night and day to the month is fixed forever. He would not think a month always relates to a year in the same unchanging way. Nor would he claim the stars keep those ratios to each other or to those cycles without any variation. To say so would be absurd. It is equally absurd to spend so much effort trying to prove those proportions exactly."
I quite agree, though I never thought of this before.
"I completely agree. I never thought of this before."
Then, I said, in astronomy, as in geometry, we should employ problems, and let the heavens alone if we would approach the subject in the right way and so make the natural gift of reason to be of any real use.
Then I said, "In astronomy, as in geometry, we should work on problems and leave the heavens alone. That's the right way to approach the subject and to make the natural gift of reason truly useful."
That, he said, is a work infinitely beyond our present astronomers.
"That is a task far beyond astronomers today," he said.
Yes, I said; and there are many other things which must also have a similar extension given to them, if our legislation is to be of any value. But can you tell me of any other suitable study?
"Yes," I said. "Many other things need the same kind of extension if our laws are to be useful. Can you think of any other suitable study?"
No, he said, not without thinking.
"No," he said after thinking.
Motion, I said, has many forms, and not one only; two of them are obvious enough even to wits no better than ours; and there are others, as I imagine, which may be left to wiser persons.
I said, "Motion has many forms, not just one. Two are obvious even to minds no better than ours. There are others, I imagine, which we can leave to wiser people."
But where are the two?
"But where are the two of them?"
There is a second, I said, which is the counterpart of the one already named.
"There’s a second one," I said, "that corresponds to the one we just named."
And what may that be?
"And what is that?"
The second, I said, would seem relatively to the ears to be what the first is to the eyes; for I conceive that as the eyes are designed to look up at the stars, so are the ears to hear harmonious motions; and these are sister sciences—as the Pythagoreans say, and we, Glaucon, agree with them?
"The second would be to the ears what the first is to the eyes. I think the eyes are meant to look at the stars, and the ears are meant to hear harmonious motions. These are sister disciplines, as the Pythagoreans say. We agree with them, don't we, Glaucon?"
Yes, he replied.
"Yes," he replied.
But this, I said, is a laborious study, and therefore we had better go and learn of them; and they will tell us whether there are any other applications of these sciences. At the same time, we must not lose sight of our own higher object.
"But this," I said, "is a difficult study. We should go and learn from them. They can tell us if these sciences have other uses. At the same time, we must not lose sight of our higher aim."
What is that?
"What is that?"
There is a perfection which all knowledge ought to reach, and which our pupils ought also to attain, and not to fall short of, as I was saying that they did in astronomy. For in the science of harmony, as you probably know, the same thing happens. The teachers of harmony compare the sounds and consonances which are heard only, and their labour, like that of the astronomers, is in vain.
"There is a perfection that all knowledge should reach. Our students should reach it too. They must not fall short, as I said they did in astronomy. The same thing happens in the study of harmony, as you probably know. The teachers of harmony compare only the sounds and consonances that can be heard. Their work, like the astronomers', is in vain."
Yes, by heaven! he said; and ’tis as good as a play to hear them talking about their condensed notes, as they call them; they put their ears close alongside of the strings like persons catching a sound from their neighbour’s wall—one set of them declaring that they distinguish an intermediate note and have found the least interval which should be the unit of measurement; the others insisting that the two sounds have passed into the same—either party setting their ears before their understanding.
"Yes, by heaven!" he said. "It's as good as a play to hear them arguing about their 'condensed notes,' as they call them. They press their ears close to the strings like people listening through a neighbor's wall. One group claims they can hear an intermediate note and have found the smallest interval, the unit of measurement. The others insist the two sounds have become the same. Either way, they put their ears before their understanding."
You mean, I said, those gentlemen who tease and torture the strings and rack them on the pegs of the instrument: I might carry on the metaphor and speak after their manner of the blows which the plectrum gives, and make accusations against the strings, both of backwardness and forwardness to sound; but this would be tedious, and therefore I will only say that these are not the men, and that I am referring to the Pythagoreans, of whom I was just now proposing to enquire about harmony. For they too are in error, like the astronomers; they investigate the numbers of the harmonies which are heard, but they never attain to problems—that is to say, they never reach the natural harmonies of number, or reflect why some numbers are harmonious and others not.
"You mean," I said, "those men who tease and torture the strings and tighten them on the pegs of the instrument. I could keep the metaphor and speak in their terms about the plectrum's blows. I could accuse the strings of being too slow or too quick to sound. But that would be tedious. So I'll only say these are not the men I mean. I am talking about the Pythagoreans, whom I was just about to question about harmony. They are mistaken too, like the astronomers. They study the numbers behind the harmonies we hear, but they never get to the real questions. They never find the natural harmonies in numbers. They never ask why some numbers are harmonious and others are not."
That, he said, is a thing of more than mortal knowledge.
"That's something beyond human knowledge," he said.
A thing, I replied, which I would rather call useful; that is, if sought after with a view to the beautiful and good; but if pursued in any other spirit, useless.
"Something," I replied, "that I would rather call useful. But only if it is sought for the sake of the beautiful and the good. If pursued for any other reason, it is useless."
Very true, he said.
"Very true," he said.
Now, when all these studies reach the point of inter-communion and connection with one another, and come to be considered in their mutual affinities, then, I think, but not till then, will the pursuit of them have a value for our objects; otherwise there is no profit in them.
"Now, when these studies connect and are considered together, then, I think, but not until then. Their study will have value for our purposes. Otherwise, there is no profit in them."
I suspect so; but you are speaking, Socrates, of a vast work.
"I think so. But, Socrates, you're talking about a huge undertaking."
What do you mean? I said; the prelude or what? Do you not know that all this is but the prelude to the actual strain which we have to learn? For you surely would not regard the skilled mathematician as a dialectician?
"What do you mean?" I said. "The prelude, or what? Don't you realize all this is only the prelude to the main part we have to learn? You surely wouldn't regard a skilled mathematician as a dialectician, would you?"
Assuredly not, he said; I have hardly ever known a mathematician who was capable of reasoning.
"Certainly not," he said. "I've almost never known a mathematician who could reason."
But do you imagine that men who are unable to give and take a reason will have the knowledge which we require of them?
"Do you think people who can't present and respond to reasons will have the knowledge we need from them?"
Neither can this be supposed.
"We can't suppose that either."
And so, Glaucon, I said, we have at last arrived at the hymn of dialectic. This is that strain which is of the intellect only, but which the faculty of sight will nevertheless be found to imitate; for sight, as you may remember, was imagined by us after a while to behold the real animals and stars, and last of all the sun himself. And so with dialectic; when a person starts on the discovery of the absolute by the light of reason only, and without any assistance of sense, and perseveres until by pure intelligence he arrives at the perception of the absolute good, he at last finds himself at the end of the intellectual world, as in the case of sight at the end of the visible.
"And so, Glaucon," I said, "we have finally reached the hymn of dialectic. This strain belongs to the intellect alone, yet sight will still imitate it. You may recall that we imagined sight to behold the real animals and the stars. At last it sees the sun itself. The same is true of dialectic. When someone starts to seek the absolute by reason alone, without help from the senses, they press on. Pure intelligence then perceives the absolute good. At that point they reach the end of the intellectual world. It is like sight arriving at the limit of the visible."
Exactly, he said.
"Exactly," he said.
Then this is the progress which you call dialectic?
"So this is the progress you call dialectic?"
True.
"True."
But the release of the prisoners from chains, and their translation from the shadows to the images and to the light, and the ascent from the underground den to the sun, while in his presence they are vainly trying to look on animals and plants and the light of the sun, but are able to perceive even with their weak eyes the images in the water (which are divine), and are the shadows of true existence (not shadows of images cast by a light of fire, which compared with the sun is only an image)—this power of elevating the highest principle in the soul to the contemplation of that which is best in existence, with which we may compare the raising of that faculty which is the very light of the body to the sight of that which is brightest in the material and visible world—this power is given, as I was saying, by all that study and pursuit of the arts which has been described.
"But when the prisoners are freed from their chains and led out of the cave into the light, they move from shadows to real images and finally toward the sun. At first, standing in his presence, they try in vain to look at animals, plants, and the sun's brightness. Their eyes are weak. They can barely make out the reflections in water. Those reflected images are, in a way, divine. They are shadows of true reality, not mere shadows cast by a fire's light. That fire, compared with the sun, is only an image. All the study and practice of the arts I described gives the soul the power to lift its highest part. It enables that part to contemplate what is best in existence. This is like training the eye, the body's inner light, to see the brightest things in the visible world, as I was saying."
I agree in what you are saying, he replied, which may be hard to believe, yet, from another point of view, is harder still to deny. This, however, is not a theme to be treated of in passing only, but will have to be discussed again and again. And so, whether our conclusion be true or false, let us assume all this, and proceed at once from the prelude or preamble to the chief strain (A play upon the Greek word, which means both ‘law’ and ‘strain.’), and describe that in like manner. Say, then, what is the nature and what are the divisions of dialectic, and what are the paths which lead thither; for these paths will also lead to our final rest.
"I agree with what you are saying," he replied. "That may be hard to believe, but from another point of view it is even harder to deny. This is not a topic to be treated in passing. It must be discussed again and again. So, whether our conclusion is true or false, let's assume it for now. Move immediately from the prelude to the main theme. (The Greek word plays on both 'law' and 'strain.') Describe that in the same way. Now tell me: what is the nature of dialectic, and how is it divided? What paths lead to it? Those paths will also bring us to our final goal."
Dear Glaucon, I said, you will not be able to follow me here, though I would do my best, and you should behold not an image only but the absolute truth, according to my notion. Whether what I told you would or would not have been a reality I cannot venture to say; but you would have seen something like reality; of that I am confident.
"Dear Glaucon," I said. "You won't be able to follow me here, though I'll do my best. You should see not just an image but the absolute truth, as I see it. I can't say whether what I described would actually be real. But you would have seen something like reality. Of that I am confident."
Doubtless, he replied.
“No doubt,” he replied.
But I must also remind you, that the power of dialectic alone can reveal this, and only to one who is a disciple of the previous sciences.
"I must also remind you that only the power of dialectic can reveal this. It will reveal it only to someone who is a student of the earlier sciences."
Of that assertion you may be as confident as of the last.
"You can be as confident about that as you were about the last."
And assuredly no one will argue that there is any other method of comprehending by any regular process all true existence or of ascertaining what each thing is in its own nature; for the arts in general are concerned with the desires or opinions of men, or are cultivated with a view to production and construction, or for the preservation of such productions and constructions; and as to the mathematical sciences which, as we were saying, have some apprehension of true being—geometry and the like—they only dream about being, but never can they behold the waking reality so long as they leave the hypotheses which they use unexamined, and are unable to give an account of them. For when a man knows not his own first principle, and when the conclusion and intermediate steps are also constructed out of he knows not what, how can he imagine that such a fabric of convention can ever become science?
"And surely no one will claim there is another way to grasp all true being by a regular method. Nor is there any other way to find out what each thing is in its own nature. The arts deal with people's desires and opinions. They are practiced to make and build things or to preserve those products and constructions. As for the mathematical sciences, like geometry, they do have some sense of true being. Still, they only dream about it. They cannot see waking reality so long as they leave their hypotheses unexamined and cannot explain them. If a person does not know his first principle, and if his conclusions and middle steps are built from things he does not understand, how can he imagine that such a fabric of conventions could ever become true knowledge?"
Impossible, he said.
"That's impossible," he said.
Then dialectic, and dialectic alone, goes directly to the first principle and is the only science which does away with hypotheses in order to make her ground secure; the eye of the soul, which is literally buried in an outlandish slough, is by her gentle aid lifted upwards; and she uses as handmaids and helpers in the work of conversion, the sciences which we have been discussing. Custom terms them sciences, but they ought to have some other name, implying greater clearness than opinion and less clearness than science: and this, in our previous sketch, was called understanding. But why should we dispute about names when we have realities of such importance to consider?
"Then dialectic, and dialectic alone, reaches the first principle directly. It is the only method that abandons assumptions to secure its foundation. The soul's eye, literally buried in a strange swamp, is gently lifted up. It uses the disciplines we've been discussing as helpers in this turning. People call them sciences, but they need a different name. That name should show they are clearer than opinion but not as clear as full knowledge. In our earlier sketch we called that 'understanding.' Why argue over names when these realities are so important to consider?"
Why indeed, he said, when any name will do which expresses the thought of the mind with clearness?
"Why?" he said. "Any name will do if it clearly expresses the thought."
At any rate, we are satisfied, as before, to have four divisions; two for intellect and two for opinion, and to call the first division science, the second understanding, the third belief, and the fourth perception of shadows, opinion being concerned with becoming, and intellect with being; and so to make a proportion:—
"In any case, let's stick with four divisions, as before. Two belong to intellect and two to opinion. Call the first 'science' and the second 'understanding'. The third is 'belief' and the fourth 'perception of shadows'. Opinion deals with becoming. Intellect deals with being. So we establish a proportion."
As being is to becoming, so is pure intellect to opinion. And as intellect is to opinion, so is science to belief, and understanding to the perception of shadows.
"As being is to becoming, so pure intellect is to opinion. As intellect is to opinion, so science is to belief, and understanding is to the perception of shadows."
But let us defer the further correlation and subdivision of the subjects of opinion and of intellect, for it will be a long enquiry, many times longer than this has been.
"Let's put off further sorting and dividing the topics of opinion and intellect. That would be a long inquiry, many times longer than this one."
As far as I understand, he said, I agree.
"I think I understand," he said. "I agree."
And do you also agree, I said, in describing the dialectician as one who attains a conception of the essence of each thing? And he who does not possess and is therefore unable to impart this conception, in whatever degree he fails, may in that degree also be said to fail in intelligence? Will you admit so much?
"Do you also agree," I asked, "that a dialectician is someone who grasps the essence of each thing? And someone who does not have that grasp, and so cannot explain it, is lacking in intelligence to that degree? Will you admit that?"
Yes, he said; how can I deny it?
"Yes," he said. "How can I deny it?"
And you would say the same of the conception of the good? Until the person is able to abstract and define rationally the idea of good, and unless he can run the gauntlet of all objections, and is ready to disprove them, not by appeals to opinion, but to absolute truth, never faltering at any step of the argument—unless he can do all this, you would say that he knows neither the idea of good nor any other good; he apprehends only a shadow, if anything at all, which is given by opinion and not by science;—dreaming and slumbering in this life, before he is well awake here, he arrives at the world below, and has his final quietus.
"And would you say the same about the idea of the good? A person must be able to separate and define the idea of the good by reason. He must face every objection and be ready to refute them, not by appealing to opinion but by appealing to absolute truth, without hesitating at any step of the argument. Unless he can do all this, you would say he knows neither the idea of the good nor any other good. At best he grasps a shadow, if anything at all, a thing given by opinion and not by knowledge. Dreaming and half-asleep in this life, before he is fully awake here he goes down to the world below and meets his final end."
In all that I should most certainly agree with you.
"I agree with you about all of that."
And surely you would not have the children of your ideal State, whom you are nurturing and educating—if the ideal ever becomes a reality—you would not allow the future rulers to be like posts (Literally ‘lines,’ probably the starting-point of a race-course.), having no reason in them, and yet to be set in authority over the highest matters?
"Surely you would not want the children of your ideal State to become like posts. They are the ones you are raising and educating, if the ideal ever becomes real. You would not let the future rulers be people without reason and give them authority over the highest matters."
Certainly not.
"Certainly not."
Then you will make a law that they shall have such an education as will enable them to attain the greatest skill in asking and answering questions?
"Then you'll pass a law to give them an education that makes them masters in asking and answering questions?"
Yes, he said, you and I together will make it.
"Yes," he said. "You and I will make it together."
Dialectic, then, as you will agree, is the coping-stone of the sciences, and is set over them; no other science can be placed higher—the nature of knowledge can no further go?
"You will agree that dialectic is the capstone of the sciences. It stands above them. No other science can be placed higher. Can knowledge go any further?"
I agree, he said.
"I agree," he said.
But to whom we are to assign these studies, and in what way they are to be assigned, are questions which remain to be considered.
"But who should we assign these studies to, and how should we assign them? Those questions still need to be considered."
Yes, clearly.
"Yes, clearly."
You remember, I said, how the rulers were chosen before?
"Do you remember how I said the rulers were chosen earlier?"
Certainly, he said.
"Certainly," he said.
The same natures must still be chosen, and the preference again given to the surest and the bravest, and, if possible, to the fairest; and, having noble and generous tempers, they should also have the natural gifts which will facilitate their education.
"We should choose the same kinds of people. Give preference to those who are most reliable and brave, and, when possible, the most beautiful. Let them have noble, generous temperaments. They should also possess natural gifts that make their education easier."
And what are these?
"What are these?"
Such gifts as keenness and ready powers of acquisition; for the mind more often faints from the severity of study than from the severity of gymnastics: the toil is more entirely the mind’s own, and is not shared with the body.
"Gifts like sharpness and a ready ability to learn. The mind more often gives out from the strain of study than from the strain of exercise. The work falls mostly on the mind and is not shared with the body."
Very true, he replied.
"That's very true," he said.
Further, he of whom we are in search should have a good memory, and be an unwearied solid man who is a lover of labour in any line; or he will never be able to endure the great amount of bodily exercise and to go through all the intellectual discipline and study which we require of him.
"He we are looking for should have a good memory. He must be a sturdy, tireless man who loves work in any field. Otherwise he will never be able to endure the heavy physical training. He will not be able to go through the intellectual discipline and study we require of him."
Certainly, he said; he must have natural gifts.
"Certainly," he said. "He must have natural gifts."
The mistake at present is, that those who study philosophy have no vocation, and this, as I was before saying, is the reason why she has fallen into disrepute: her true sons should take her by the hand and not bastards.
"The mistake now is that those who study philosophy lack a true calling. I said that before. That is why she has fallen into disrepute. Her true children should take her by the hand, not impostors."
What do you mean?
"What do you mean?"
In the first place, her votary should not have a lame or halting industry—I mean, that he should not be half industrious and half idle: as, for example, when a man is a lover of gymnastic and hunting, and all other bodily exercises, but a hater rather than a lover of the labour of learning or listening or enquiring. Or the occupation to which he devotes himself may be of an opposite kind, and he may have the other sort of lameness.
"First, her follower should not show a lopsided effort. I mean he should not be half industrious and half idle. For example, a man may love gymnastics, hunting, and other physical exercises, but hate learning, listening, or asking questions. Or he might devote himself to study and neglect physical training, creating the opposite imbalance."
Certainly, he said.
"Certainly," he said.
And as to truth, I said, is not a soul equally to be deemed halt and lame which hates voluntary falsehood and is extremely indignant at herself and others when they tell lies, but is patient of involuntary falsehood, and does not mind wallowing like a swinish beast in the mire of ignorance, and has no shame at being detected?
"And about truth," I said, "isn't the soul equally lame if it hates deliberate lies? Isn't it angry at itself and others when they lie, yet tolerates accidental falsehoods? What if it doesn't mind wallowing like a pig in the mud of ignorance and feels no shame when exposed?"
To be sure.
"Certainly."
And, again, in respect of temperance, courage, magnificence, and every other virtue, should we not carefully distinguish between the true son and the bastard? for where there is no discernment of such qualities states and individuals unconsciously err; and the state makes a ruler, and the individual a friend, of one who, being defective in some part of virtue, is in a figure lame or a bastard.
"Again, regarding temperance, courage, magnificence, and other virtues, shouldn't we distinguish the true son from the bastard? If we cannot see these qualities, states and people make mistakes without knowing it. The state may choose a ruler, and a person may choose a friend, who lacks some part of virtue. He is, in a sense, lame or a bastard."
That is very true, he said.
"That's very true," he said.
All these things, then, will have to be carefully considered by us; and if only those whom we introduce to this vast system of education and training are sound in body and mind, justice herself will have nothing to say against us, and we shall be the saviours of the constitution and of the State; but, if our pupils are men of another stamp, the reverse will happen, and we shall pour a still greater flood of ridicule on philosophy than she has to endure at present.
"All these matters must be carefully considered. If those we introduce to this broad system of education and training are sound in body and mind, justice will have nothing to say against us. We will be the saviors of the constitution and of the State. But if our pupils are of a different sort, the opposite will happen. We will heap an even greater flood of ridicule on philosophy than it now endures."
That would not be creditable.
"That wouldn't be believable."
Certainly not, I said; and yet perhaps, in thus turning jest into earnest I am equally ridiculous.
"Certainly not," I said. "And yet perhaps, by turning a joke into seriousness, I am just as ridiculous."
In what respect?
"How so?"
I had forgotten, I said, that we were not serious, and spoke with too much excitement. For when I saw philosophy so undeservedly trampled under foot of men I could not help feeling a sort of indignation at the authors of her disgrace: and my anger made me too vehement.
"I had forgotten that we were not being serious," I said. "I spoke too excitedly. When I saw philosophy so undeservedly trampled by men, I couldn't help feeling indignant toward those who caused her disgrace. My anger made me overly forceful."
Indeed! I was listening, and did not think so.
"Really! I was listening, and I didn't think so."
But I, who am the speaker, felt that I was. And now let me remind you that, although in our former selection we chose old men, we must not do so in this. Solon was under a delusion when he said that a man when he grows old may learn many things—for he can no more learn much than he can run much; youth is the time for any extraordinary toil.
"But I, who am speaking, felt that I was. Now let me remind you: although in our previous choice we picked old men, we should not do that here. Solon was wrong when he said a man can learn many things when he grows old. An old man can no more learn much than he can run far. Youth is the time for any exceptional toil."
Of course.
"Of course."
And, therefore, calculation and geometry and all the other elements of instruction, which are a preparation for dialectic, should be presented to the mind in childhood; not, however, under any notion of forcing our system of education.
"Arithmetic, geometry, and the other basic subjects that prepare the mind for dialectic should be introduced in childhood. But not as a way of forcing our educational system on them."
Why not?
"Why not?"
Because a freeman ought not to be a slave in the acquisition of knowledge of any kind. Bodily exercise, when compulsory, does no harm to the body; but knowledge which is acquired under compulsion obtains no hold on the mind.
"Because a free person should not be a slave when learning anything. Physical exercise, even if forced, does no harm to the body. But knowledge gained under force does not take hold in the mind."
Very true.
"That's very true."
Then, my good friend, I said, do not use compulsion, but let early education be a sort of amusement; you will then be better able to find out the natural bent.
"Then, my good friend," I said, "do not use force. Let early education be a kind of play. You will then be better able to discover their natural inclination."
That is a very rational notion, he said.
"That's a very reasonable idea," he said.
Do you remember that the children, too, were to be taken to see the battle on horseback; and that if there were no danger they were to be brought close up and, like young hounds, have a taste of blood given them?
"Do you remember that the children were also to be taken to watch the battle on horseback? If there was no danger, they were to be brought close and, like young hounds, given a taste of blood."
Yes, I remember.
"Yes, I remember."
The same practice may be followed, I said, in all these things—labours, lessons, dangers—and he who is most at home in all of them ought to be enrolled in a select number.
"The same practice can be followed in all these things," I said. "Work, study, and danger. Whoever is most at home in all of them should be counted among a select few."
At what age?
"How old?"
At the age when the necessary gymnastics are over: the period whether of two or three years which passes in this sort of training is useless for any other purpose; for sleep and exercise are unpropitious to learning; and the trial of who is first in gymnastic exercises is one of the most important tests to which our youth are subjected.
When the required physical training ends, the two or three years of that program are lost for other purposes. Sleep and exercise are not helpful to learning. The contest that decides who is first in gymnastics is one of the most important tests our youth face.
Certainly, he replied.
"Certainly," he replied.
After that time those who are selected from the class of twenty years old will be promoted to higher honour, and the sciences which they learned without any order in their early education will now be brought together, and they will be able to see the natural relationship of them to one another and to true being.
"After that time, those chosen from the class of twenty-year-olds will be promoted to higher honor. The sciences they learned early on, without any order, will now be gathered together. They will see how these sciences naturally relate to one another and to true being."
Yes, he said, that is the only kind of knowledge which takes lasting root.
"Yes," he said. "That's the only kind of knowledge that takes lasting root."
Yes, I said; and the capacity for such knowledge is the great criterion of dialectical talent: the comprehensive mind is always the dialectical.
"Yes," I said. "The ability to grasp such knowledge is the main test of dialectical skill. A comprehensive mind is always dialectical."
I agree with you, he said.
"I agree with you," he said.
These, I said, are the points which you must consider; and those who have most of this comprehension, and who are most steadfast in their learning, and in their military and other appointed duties, when they have arrived at the age of thirty have to be chosen by you out of the select class, and elevated to higher honour; and you will have to prove them by the help of dialectic, in order to learn which of them is able to give up the use of sight and the other senses, and in company with truth to attain absolute being: And here, my friend, great caution is required.
"These," I said, "are the points you must consider. Choose those with the greatest understanding. Pick those most steady in study and in their military and other assigned duties. When they reach thirty, select them from the chosen class and raise them to higher honor. Test them by means of dialectic. This will show which can give up relying on sight and the other senses. It will show who, together with truth, can attain absolute being. Here, my friend, great care is needed."
Why great caution?
"Why be so cautious?"
Do you not remark, I said, how great is the evil which dialectic has introduced?
"Don't you notice," I said, "how much harm dialectic has caused?"
What evil? he said.
"What evil?" he asked.
The students of the art are filled with lawlessness.
"The students of the art are lawless."
Quite true, he said.
"That's true," he said.
Do you think that there is anything so very unnatural or inexcusable in their case? or will you make allowance for them?
"Do you think there is anything so unnatural or so inexcusable about them? Or will you make allowances for them?"
In what way make allowance?
"How should we allow for that?"
I want you, I said, by way of parallel, to imagine a supposititious son who is brought up in great wealth; he is one of a great and numerous family, and has many flatterers. When he grows up to manhood, he learns that his alleged are not his real parents; but who the real are he is unable to discover. Can you guess how he will be likely to behave towards his flatterers and his supposed parents, first of all during the period when he is ignorant of the false relation, and then again when he knows? Or shall I guess for you?
I said, "Imagine a supposed son raised in great wealth. He belongs to a large, powerful family and has many flatterers. When he becomes an adult, he learns his supposed parents are not his real parents. He cannot find out who his real parents are. Can you guess how he will treat his flatterers and his supposed parents—first while he doesn't know the truth, and then after he learns it? Or should I guess for you?"
If you please.
"If you don't mind."
Then I should say, that while he is ignorant of the truth he will be likely to honour his father and his mother and his supposed relations more than the flatterers; he will be less inclined to neglect them when in need, or to do or say anything against them; and he will be less willing to disobey them in any important matter.
"I would say this. While he does not know the truth, he will honor his parents and supposed relatives more than flatterers. He will be less inclined to neglect them when they need help. He will also be unlikely to speak or act against them. He will be less willing to disobey them in any serious matter."
He will.
"He will."
But when he has made the discovery, I should imagine that he would diminish his honour and regard for them, and would become more devoted to the flatterers; their influence over him would greatly increase; he would now live after their ways, and openly associate with them, and, unless he were of an unusually good disposition, he would trouble himself no more about his supposed parents or other relations.
"But once he finds out, I think he'll lose respect and affection for them. He'll cling more to the flatterers. Their influence over him will grow strong. He'll live like them and openly associate with them, and unless he has an unusually good character, he will no longer trouble himself about his supposed parents or other relatives."
Well, all that is very probable. But how is the image applicable to the disciples of philosophy?
"Well, that's very likely. But how does the image apply to students of philosophy?"
In this way: you know that there are certain principles about justice and honour, which were taught us in childhood, and under their parental authority we have been brought up, obeying and honouring them.
"You know there are certain principles of justice and honor that we were taught as children. We were raised under our parents' authority, obeying and honoring those principles."
That is true.
"That's true."
There are also opposite maxims and habits of pleasure which flatter and attract the soul, but do not influence those of us who have any sense of right, and they continue to obey and honour the maxims of their fathers.
"There are also opposing maxims and habits of pleasure that flatter and lure the soul. They do not affect those of us who have any sense of right. We continue to obey and honor the maxims of our fathers."
True.
"True."
Now, when a man is in this state, and the questioning spirit asks what is fair or honourable, and he answers as the legislator has taught him, and then arguments many and diverse refute his words, until he is driven into believing that nothing is honourable any more than dishonourable, or just and good any more than the reverse, and so of all the notions which he most valued, do you think that he will still honour and obey them as before?
"Now suppose a man is in this state and a questioning spirit asks him what is fair or honorable. He answers as the lawmaker taught him. Then many different arguments refute his words. They lead him to think that honor and dishonor are the same, and that justice and injustice are equally so. The same happens to all the beliefs he once valued most. Do you think he will still honor and obey them as before?"
Impossible.
"That's impossible."
And when he ceases to think them honourable and natural as heretofore, and he fails to discover the true, can he be expected to pursue any life other than that which flatters his desires?
"When he no longer sees them as honorable and natural, as he once did, and he cannot find the truth, what life will he live? Can it be anything other than one that flatters his desires?"
He cannot.
"He can't."
And from being a keeper of the law he is converted into a breaker of it?
"And someone who once upheld the law becomes a lawbreaker?"
Unquestionably.
"Absolutely."
Now all this is very natural in students of philosophy such as I have described, and also, as I was just now saying, most excusable.
"All this is natural in students of philosophy like the ones I described. As I just said, it is quite excusable."
Yes, he said; and, I may add, pitiable.
"Yes," he said. "I may add that it's pitiable."
Therefore, that your feelings may not be moved to pity about our citizens who are now thirty years of age, every care must be taken in introducing them to dialectic.
"Be very careful how you introduce dialectic to our citizens who are now thirty years old. That way you won't feel pity for them."
Certainly.
"Of course."
There is a danger lest they should taste the dear delight too early; for youngsters, as you may have observed, when they first get the taste in their mouths, argue for amusement, and are always contradicting and refuting others in imitation of those who refute them; like puppy-dogs, they rejoice in pulling and tearing at all who come near them.
"There is a danger they might taste that sweet pleasure too soon. Young people, as you may have noticed, once they get a taste of it, argue for amusement. They are always contradicting and refuting others, imitating those who refute them. Like puppies, they take delight in pulling and tearing at anyone who comes near."
Yes, he said, there is nothing which they like better.
"Yes," he said, "there is nothing they like better."
And when they have made many conquests and received defeats at the hands of many, they violently and speedily get into a way of not believing anything which they believed before, and hence, not only they, but philosophy and all that relates to it is apt to have a bad name with the rest of the world.
"When they go through many victories and defeats, they often abruptly stop believing what they once believed. As a result, both they and philosophy, and everything tied to it, get a bad reputation with everyone else."
Too true, he said.
"That's all too true," he said.
But when a man begins to get older, he will no longer be guilty of such insanity; he will imitate the dialectician who is seeking for truth, and not the eristic, who is contradicting for the sake of amusement; and the greater moderation of his character will increase instead of diminishing the honour of the pursuit.
"But as a man grows older, he will stop being guilty of that kind of madness. He will imitate the dialectician who seeks the truth, not the eristic who contradicts for amusement. His greater self-control will add to the honor of the pursuit, not take away from it."
Very true, he said.
"That's true," he said.
And did we not make special provision for this, when we said that the disciples of philosophy were to be orderly and steadfast, not, as now, any chance aspirant or intruder?
"Didn't we set a special rule for this? We said the disciples of philosophy must be orderly and steadfast. Not, as it is now, any random aspirant or intruder."
Very true.
"That's true."
Suppose, I said, the study of philosophy to take the place of gymnastics and to be continued diligently and earnestly and exclusively for twice the number of years which were passed in bodily exercise—will that be enough?
"Suppose," I said, "that the study of philosophy replaces gymnastics. Let it be continued diligently and exclusively for twice as many years as were spent on physical exercise. Would that be enough?"
Would you say six or four years? he asked.
"Do you mean six years or four?" he asked.
Say five years, I replied; at the end of the time they must be sent down again into the den and compelled to hold any military or other office which young men are qualified to hold: in this way they will get their experience of life, and there will be an opportunity of trying whether, when they are drawn all manner of ways by temptation, they will stand firm or flinch.
"Say five years," I replied. "At the end of that time they must be sent back down into the den. They should be made to take any military or other office a young man is fit to hold. This will give them life experience. It will also test whether, when pulled in every direction by temptation, they stand firm or falter."
And how long is this stage of their lives to last?
"And how long will this stage of their lives last?"
Fifteen years, I answered; and when they have reached fifty years of age, then let those who still survive and have distinguished themselves in every action of their lives and in every branch of knowledge come at last to their consummation: the time has now arrived at which they must raise the eye of the soul to the universal light which lightens all things, and behold the absolute good; for that is the pattern according to which they are to order the State and the lives of individuals, and the remainder of their own lives also; making philosophy their chief pursuit, but, when their turn comes, toiling also at politics and ruling for the public good, not as though they were performing some heroic action, but simply as a matter of duty; and when they have brought up in each generation others like themselves and left them in their place to be governors of the State, then they will depart to the Islands of the Blest and dwell there; and the city will give them public memorials and sacrifices and honour them, if the Pythian oracle consent, as demigods, but if not, as in any case blessed and divine.
"Fifteen years," I answered. "When they reach fifty, those who are still alive and who have shown excellence in every action and in every field of knowledge should reach their fulfillment. Now is the time for them to turn the eye of the soul to the universal light that illuminates everything and to behold the absolute Good. That is the pattern they must use to arrange the State and the lives of individuals, and to guide the rest of their own lives. Philosophy should be their chief pursuit. But when their turn comes they must also work in politics and rule for the public good, not as if performing a great deed, but simply as a duty. After they have raised in each generation others like themselves and left them in charge of the State, they will go to the Islands of the Blest and live there. The city will give them public memorials, sacrifices, and honors, if the Pythian oracle consents. If not, they will still be blessed and divine."
You are a sculptor, Socrates, and have made statues of our governors faultless in beauty.
"You are a sculptor, Socrates. You have made statues of our governors that are flawless in beauty."
Yes, I said, Glaucon, and of our governesses too; for you must not suppose that what I have been saying applies to men only and not to women as far as their natures can go.
"Yes," I said to Glaucon, "and to our female guardians as well. Don't suppose what I've been saying applies only to men. It applies to women too, as far as their natures allow."
There you are right, he said, since we have made them to share in all things like the men.
"You're right," he said. "We have made them share everything with the men."
Well, I said, and you would agree (would you not?) that what has been said about the State and the government is not a mere dream, and although difficult not impossible, but only possible in the way which has been supposed; that is to say, when the true philosopher kings are born in a State, one or more of them, despising the honours of this present world which they deem mean and worthless, esteeming above all things right and the honour that springs from right, and regarding justice as the greatest and most necessary of all things, whose ministers they are, and whose principles will be exalted by them when they set in order their own city?
"Well," I said, "you would agree, wouldn't you, that what has been said about the State and the government is not a mere dream? It is difficult, but not impossible. It can only happen in the way we supposed. That is, when true philosopher-kings are born in a State, one or more of them. They despise the honors of this present world, which they see as mean and worthless. They value above all things what is right and the honor that comes from doing right. They regard justice as the greatest and most necessary thing. They are its ministers, and when they set their city in order, they will raise its principles."
How will they proceed?
"How will they proceed?"
They will begin by sending out into the country all the inhabitants of the city who are more than ten years old, and will take possession of their children, who will be unaffected by the habits of their parents; these they will train in their own habits and laws, I mean in the laws which we have given them: and in this way the State and constitution of which we were speaking will soonest and most easily attain happiness, and the nation which has such a constitution will gain most.
"They will start by sending all city residents older than ten into the countryside. The children, not yet shaped by their parents' habits, will be taken and trained. They will learn the habits and laws we have given them. This way the State and constitution we discussed will reach happiness fastest and most easily. A nation with such a constitution will benefit most."
Yes, that will be the best way. And I think, Socrates, that you have very well described how, if ever, such a constitution might come into being.
"Yes, that will be the best way. I think, Socrates, you have very clearly described how such a constitution could ever come into being."
Enough then of the perfect State, and of the man who bears its image—there is no difficulty in seeing how we shall describe him.
"Enough about the perfect State and the man who embodies it. It's easy to see how we should describe him."
There is no difficulty, he replied; and I agree with you in thinking that nothing more need be said.
"There's no difficulty," he said. "I agree with you. Nothing more needs to be said."