BOOK X

Of the many excellences which I perceive in the order of our State, there is none which upon reflection pleases me better than the rule about poetry.

"I see many strengths in the order of our State. None on reflection pleases me more than the rule about poetry."

To what do you refer?

"What are you referring to?"

To the rejection of imitative poetry, which certainly ought not to be received; as I see far more clearly now that the parts of the soul have been distinguished.

"I now favor rejecting imitative poetry. It certainly should not be accepted. I see this far more clearly now that we've distinguished the parts of the soul."

What do you mean?

"What do you mean?"

Speaking in confidence, for I should not like to have my words repeated to the tragedians and the rest of the imitative tribe—but I do not mind saying to you, that all poetical imitations are ruinous to the understanding of the hearers, and that the knowledge of their true nature is the only antidote to them.

"I'll speak in confidence. I would not like my words repeated to the tragedians and the rest of the imitative tribe. I do not mind telling you, though, that all poetic imitations ruin the listeners' understanding. The only cure is to know what they really are."

Explain the purport of your remark.

"Please explain what you meant by that."

Well, I will tell you, although I have always from my earliest youth had an awe and love of Homer, which even now makes the words falter on my lips, for he is the great captain and teacher of the whole of that charming tragic company; but a man is not to be reverenced more than the truth, and therefore I will speak out.

"Well, I'll tell you. From my earliest youth I've felt awe and love for Homer. Even now I hesitate to say his name. He is the great captain and teacher of that whole charming tragic company. Still, we must not honor a man above the truth. So I will speak out."

Very good, he said.

"Very good," he said.

Listen to me then, or rather, answer me.

"Listen to me, then. Or rather, answer me."

Put your question.

"Ask your question."

Can you tell me what imitation is? for I really do not know.

"Can you tell me what imitation is? I really don't know."

A likely thing, then, that I should know.

"Then it's likely I should know."

Why not? for the duller eye may often see a thing sooner than the keener.

"Why not? The duller eye often sees something before the keener does."

Very true, he said; but in your presence, even if I had any faint notion, I could not muster courage to utter it. Will you enquire yourself?

"Very true," he said. "But with you here, even if I had the faintest idea, I wouldn't have the courage to say it. Will you ask?"

Well then, shall we begin the enquiry in our usual manner: Whenever a number of individuals have a common name, we assume them to have also a corresponding idea or form:—do you understand me?

"Well then, shall we begin the inquiry in our usual way? Whenever several people share a common name, we assume they also share a corresponding idea or form. Do you understand me?"

I do.

"I do."

Let us take any common instance; there are beds and tables in the world—plenty of them, are there not?

"Let's take a common example. There are beds and tables in the world, plenty of them, aren't there?"

Yes.

"Yes."

But there are only two ideas or forms of them—one the idea of a bed, the other of a table.

"But there are only two ideas or forms of them. One is the idea of a bed. The other is the idea of a table."

True.

"True."

And the maker of either of them makes a bed or he makes a table for our use, in accordance with the idea—that is our way of speaking in this and similar instances—but no artificer makes the ideas themselves: how could he?

"The maker of a bed or a table makes it for our use, following the idea. That's how we speak in cases like this. But no craftsman makes the ideas themselves. How could he?"

Impossible.

"Impossible."

And there is another artist,—I should like to know what you would say of him.

"And there is another artist. I'd like to know what you would say about him."

Who is he?

"Who is he?"

One who is the maker of all the works of all other workmen.

"Someone who makes all the works of every other craftsman."

What an extraordinary man!

"What an extraordinary man!"

Wait a little, and there will be more reason for your saying so. For this is he who is able to make not only vessels of every kind, but plants and animals, himself and all other things—the earth and heaven, and the things which are in heaven or under the earth; he makes the gods also.

"Wait a moment. You'll have more reason to say that. He is the one who can make not only all kinds of vessels, but also plants and animals. He can make himself and every other thing. He forms the earth and the sky, and everything above or below. He even makes the gods."

He must be a wizard and no mistake.

"He must be a wizard. No doubt about it."

Oh! you are incredulous, are you? Do you mean that there is no such maker or creator, or that in one sense there might be a maker of all these things but in another not? Do you see that there is a way in which you could make them all yourself?

"Oh, you're skeptical, are you? Do you mean there is no such maker or creator? Or do you mean there could be a maker in one sense but not in another? Do you see a way you could make them all yourself?"

What way?

"In what way?"

An easy way enough; or rather, there are many ways in which the feat might be quickly and easily accomplished, none quicker than that of turning a mirror round and round—you would soon enough make the sun and the heavens, and the earth and yourself, and other animals and plants, and all the other things of which we were just now speaking, in the mirror.

"There's an easy way. Actually, there are many simple ways to do it quickly. None is quicker than turning a mirror round and round. You would soon see the sun, the sky, the earth, and yourself in the mirror. Other animals, plants, and everything else we were just talking about would appear too."

Yes, he said; but they would be appearances only.

"Yes," he said. "But they would be only appearances."

Very good, I said, you are coming to the point now. And the painter too is, as I conceive, just such another—a creator of appearances, is he not?

"Very good," I said. "You are coming to the point now. And the painter, I think, is just the same. He is a creator of appearances, isn't he?"

Of course.

"Of course."

But then I suppose you will say that what he creates is untrue. And yet there is a sense in which the painter also creates a bed?

"But I suppose you'll say that what he makes isn't true. Yet in a way the painter makes a bed too?"

Yes, he said, but not a real bed.

"Yes," he said, "but not a real bed."

And what of the maker of the bed? were you not saying that he too makes, not the idea which, according to our view, is the essence of the bed, but only a particular bed?

"And what about the maker of the bed? Didn't you say he doesn't make the idea, the ideal form we regard as the bed's essence? He only makes a single, particular bed."

Yes, I did.

"Yes, I did."

Then if he does not make that which exists he cannot make true existence, but only some semblance of existence; and if any one were to say that the work of the maker of the bed, or of any other workman, has real existence, he could hardly be supposed to be speaking the truth.

"Then, if he does not make what truly exists, he cannot produce real existence. He can only make a likeness. If anyone claims the bed-maker's work, or any craftsman's work, has real existence, we could hardly accept that."

At any rate, he replied, philosophers would say that he was not speaking the truth.

"At any rate," he replied. "Philosophers would say he is not telling the truth."

No wonder, then, that his work too is an indistinct expression of truth.

"No wonder, then, that his work is only a vague expression of truth."

No wonder.

"No wonder."

Suppose now that by the light of the examples just offered we enquire who this imitator is?

"Now, in light of those examples, who is this imitator?"

If you please.

"If you wish."

Well then, here are three beds: one existing in nature, which is made by God, as I think that we may say—for no one else can be the maker?

"Well then, here are three beds. One exists in nature and was made by God, I think we may say. No one else could be the maker?"

No.

"No."

There is another which is the work of the carpenter?

"Is there another that is the carpenter's work?"

Yes.

"Yes."

And the work of the painter is a third?

"So the painter's work is the third?"

Yes.

"Yes."

Beds, then, are of three kinds, and there are three artists who superintend them: God, the maker of the bed, and the painter?

"So beds are of three kinds. Are three artists in charge of them: God, the bed-maker, and the painter?"

Yes, there are three of them.

"Yes. There are three of them."

God, whether from choice or from necessity, made one bed in nature and one only; two or more such ideal beds neither ever have been nor ever will be made by God.

"God, whether by choice or necessity, made only one ideal bed in nature. He has never made two or more such beds, and never will."

Why is that?

"Why is that?"

Because even if He had made but two, a third would still appear behind them which both of them would have for their idea, and that would be the ideal bed and not the two others.

"Because even if he had made only two, a third would still appear behind them. Both of those two would take that third as their idea. That third would be the ideal bed, not the other two."

Very true, he said.

"That's very true," he said.

God knew this, and He desired to be the real maker of a real bed, not a particular maker of a particular bed, and therefore He created a bed which is essentially and by nature one only.

"God knew this. He wanted to be the real maker of a real bed, not the maker of a particular bed. So He created a bed that is, by nature, only one."

So we believe.

"That's what we believe."

Shall we, then, speak of Him as the natural author or maker of the bed?

"Shall we then call him the natural maker of the bed?"

Yes, he replied; inasmuch as by the natural process of creation He is the author of this and of all other things.

"Yes," he replied. "By the natural process of creation, He made this and all other things."

And what shall we say of the carpenter—is not he also the maker of the bed?

"And what about the carpenter? Isn't he also the maker of the bed?"

Yes.

"Yes."

But would you call the painter a creator and maker?

"But would you say the painter is a creator and a maker?"

Certainly not.

"Certainly not."

Yet if he is not the maker, what is he in relation to the bed?

"But if he isn't the maker, what is his relation to the bed?"

I think, he said, that we may fairly designate him as the imitator of that which the others make.

"I think we can fairly call him the imitator of what the others make," he said.

Good, I said; then you call him who is third in the descent from nature an imitator?

"Good," I said. "So you call him who is third in the descent from nature an imitator?"

Certainly, he said.

"Certainly," he said.

And the tragic poet is an imitator, and therefore, like all other imitators, he is thrice removed from the king and from the truth?

"And the tragic poet is an imitator. So, like all other imitators, he is three steps removed from the king and from the truth?"

That appears to be so.

"That seems to be the case."

Then about the imitator we are agreed. And what about the painter?—I would like to know whether he may be thought to imitate that which originally exists in nature, or only the creations of artists?

"So we're agreed about the imitator. What about the painter? Does he copy things that exist in nature, or only the works made by other artists?"

The latter.

"The second one."

As they are or as they appear? you have still to determine this.

"As they are, or as they appear? You still have to decide."

What do you mean?

"What do you mean?"

I mean, that you may look at a bed from different points of view, obliquely or directly or from any other point of view, and the bed will appear different, but there is no difference in reality. And the same of all things.

"I mean, you can look at a bed from different angles, obliquely, directly, or any other way. It will appear different, but in reality nothing has changed. The same is true of all things."

Yes, he said, the difference is only apparent.

"Yes," he said. "The difference is only apparent."

Now let me ask you another question: Which is the art of painting designed to be—an imitation of things as they are, or as they appear—of appearance or of reality?

"Let me ask you another question. Is painting meant to imitate things as they really are, or only how they appear? Is it an imitation of appearance or of reality?"

Of appearance.

On Appearance.

Then the imitator, I said, is a long way off the truth, and can do all things because he lightly touches on a small part of them, and that part an image. For example: A painter will paint a cobbler, carpenter, or any other artist, though he knows nothing of their arts; and, if he is a good artist, he may deceive children or simple persons, when he shows them his picture of a carpenter from a distance, and they will fancy that they are looking at a real carpenter.

I said, "The imitator is far from the truth. He seems able to do everything because he touches only a small part of things. That part is only an image. For example, a painter can paint a cobbler, a carpenter, or any craftsman. He may know nothing about their trade. If he is skilled, he can fool children or the naive. From a distance they may see his painting of a carpenter and think it is a real person."

Certainly.

"Certainly."

And whenever any one informs us that he has found a man who knows all the arts, and all things else that anybody knows, and every single thing with a higher degree of accuracy than any other man—whoever tells us this, I think that we can only imagine him to be a simple creature who is likely to have been deceived by some wizard or actor whom he met, and whom he thought all-knowing, because he himself was unable to analyse the nature of knowledge and ignorance and imitation.

"Whenever someone claims they have found a person who knows every art and everything anyone else knows, be skeptical. I think we can only picture such a man as a simple person. He was probably fooled by some magician or actor he met and thought was all-knowing. He could not analyze what knowledge, ignorance, and imitation are."

Most true.

"That's very true."

And so, when we hear persons saying that the tragedians, and Homer, who is at their head, know all the arts and all things human, virtue as well as vice, and divine things too, for that the good poet cannot compose well unless he knows his subject, and that he who has not this knowledge can never be a poet, we ought to consider whether here also there may not be a similar illusion. Perhaps they may have come across imitators and been deceived by them; they may not have remembered when they saw their works that these were but imitations thrice removed from the truth, and could easily be made without any knowledge of the truth, because they are appearances only and not realities? Or, after all, they may be in the right, and poets do really know the things about which they seem to the many to speak so well?

"And so, when we hear people say that the tragedians, with Homer at their head, know all the arts and all human things, we should pause. They mean virtue as well as vice, and even divine matters. Their argument is that a good poet cannot compose well unless he knows his subject. And that someone who lacks this knowledge can never be a poet. We ought to consider whether this might be another illusion. Maybe they met clever imitators and were fooled. Maybe they forgot that what they saw were only imitations, three steps removed from the truth. Such copies can be made without real knowledge, because they are appearances and not realities. Or perhaps they are right, and poets really do know the things they seem so skilled at describing."

The question, he said, should by all means be considered.

"We must consider the question," he said.

Now do you suppose that if a person were able to make the original as well as the image, he would seriously devote himself to the image-making branch? Would he allow imitation to be the ruling principle of his life, as if he had nothing higher in him?

"Do you think someone who could make the original as well as the image would choose to make images? Would he let imitation become the guiding principle of his life, as if he had nothing higher inside him?"

I should say not.

"I wouldn't say so."

The real artist, who knew what he was imitating, would be interested in realities and not in imitations; and would desire to leave as memorials of himself works many and fair; and, instead of being the author of encomiums, he would prefer to be the theme of them.

"The real artist, who knows what he is copying, cares about the real thing, not copies. He wants to leave many fine works as his memorials. Instead of writing praise, he would prefer to be praised."

Yes, he said, that would be to him a source of much greater honour and profit.

"Yes," he said, "that would bring him much greater honor and profit."

Then, I said, we must put a question to Homer; not about medicine, or any of the arts to which his poems only incidentally refer: we are not going to ask him, or any other poet, whether he has cured patients like Asclepius, or left behind him a school of medicine such as the Asclepiads were, or whether he only talks about medicine and other arts at second-hand; but we have a right to know respecting military tactics, politics, education, which are the chiefest and noblest subjects of his poems, and we may fairly ask him about them. ‘Friend Homer,’ then we say to him, ‘if you are only in the second remove from truth in what you say of virtue, and not in the third—not an image maker or imitator—and if you are able to discern what pursuits make men better or worse in private or public life, tell us what State was ever better governed by your help? The good order of Lacedaemon is due to Lycurgus, and many other cities great and small have been similarly benefited by others; but who says that you have been a good legislator to them and have done them any good? Italy and Sicily boast of Charondas, and there is Solon who is renowned among us; but what city has anything to say about you?’ Is there any city which he might name?

Then I said, we must put a question to Homer. Not about medicine or other arts his poems only touch on. We are not going to ask him, or any poet, whether he cured patients like Asclepius. We will not ask whether he left a medical school like the Asclepiads. We will not ask whether he mentions these arts only second-hand. We do have a right, however, to ask about military tactics, politics, and education. These are the chief and noblest subjects of his poems, so we may fairly question him about them. "Friend Homer," we say to him, "if in speaking of virtue you are only one step removed from the truth and not three. If you are not merely an image-maker or imitator. If you can tell which pursuits make people better or worse in private and public life, then tell us: which State was ever better governed thanks to your help? The good order of Lacedaemon comes from Lycurgus, and many other cities, great and small, have been improved by other founders. Italy and Sicily boast Charondas. We have the famous Solon. But what city can say you were its lawgiver and that you did them any good?" Is there any city he could name?

I think not, said Glaucon; not even the Homerids themselves pretend that he was a legislator.

"I don't think so," said Glaucon. "Not even the Homerids themselves pretend he was a lawmaker."

Well, but is there any war on record which was carried on successfully by him, or aided by his counsels, when he was alive?

"Well, is there any recorded war he fought successfully, or any that his advice helped win while he was alive?"

There is not.

"There isn't."

Or is there any invention of his, applicable to the arts or to human life, such as Thales the Milesian or Anacharsis the Scythian, and other ingenious men have conceived, which is attributed to him?

"Is there any invention of his that applies to the arts or to everyday life? Consider the inventions of Thales the Milesian, Anacharsis the Scythian, and other clever men. Are any such inventions attributed to him?"

There is absolutely nothing of the kind.

"There is absolutely nothing like that."

But, if Homer never did any public service, was he privately a guide or teacher of any? Had he in his lifetime friends who loved to associate with him, and who handed down to posterity an Homeric way of life, such as was established by Pythagoras who was so greatly beloved for his wisdom, and whose followers are to this day quite celebrated for the order which was named after him?

"But if Homer never held public office, was he privately a guide or teacher to anyone? Did he have friends who loved to be with him? Did they pass on a Homeric way of life to later generations? Is that like Pythagoras, beloved for his wisdom? His followers are even now famous for the order named after him."

Nothing of the kind is recorded of him. For surely, Socrates, Creophylus, the companion of Homer, that child of flesh, whose name always makes us laugh, might be more justly ridiculed for his stupidity, if, as is said, Homer was greatly neglected by him and others in his own day when he was alive?

"Nothing like that is recorded about him. Surely, Socrates, Creophylus, Homer's companion, that mere mortal whose name always makes us laugh, could be mocked more fairly. Wouldn't he deserve ridicule if, as people say, Homer was largely ignored by him and others while he was alive?"

Yes, I replied, that is the tradition. But can you imagine, Glaucon, that if Homer had really been able to educate and improve mankind—if he had possessed knowledge and not been a mere imitator—can you imagine, I say, that he would not have had many followers, and been honoured and loved by them? Protagoras of Abdera, and Prodicus of Ceos, and a host of others, have only to whisper to their contemporaries: ‘You will never be able to manage either your own house or your own State until you appoint us to be your ministers of education’—and this ingenious device of theirs has such an effect in making men love them that their companions all but carry them about on their shoulders. And is it conceivable that the contemporaries of Homer, or again of Hesiod, would have allowed either of them to go about as rhapsodists, if they had really been able to make mankind virtuous? Would they not have been as unwilling to part with them as with gold, and have compelled them to stay at home with them? Or, if the master would not stay, then the disciples would have followed him about everywhere, until they had got education enough?

"Yes," I said, "that's the tradition. But, Glaucon, imagine if Homer could really educate and improve people. Imagine he had real knowledge and was not just an imitator. Wouldn't he have gained many followers and been honored and loved by them? Protagoras of Abdera, Prodicus of Ceos, and a host of others only need to suggest to their contemporaries, 'You will never manage your household or the State unless you make us your teachers.' That clever pitch makes people adore them. Their peers almost carry them on their shoulders. Would the contemporaries of Homer or of Hesiod have allowed them to wander about as rhapsodists if they could truly make people virtuous? They would not have been willing to part with them. They would have kept them at home like a treasure. If the master refused to stay, the students would have followed him everywhere until they had had enough instruction."

Yes, Socrates, that, I think, is quite true.

"Yes, Socrates. I think that's true."

Then must we not infer that all these poetical individuals, beginning with Homer, are only imitators; they copy images of virtue and the like, but the truth they never reach? The poet is like a painter who, as we have already observed, will make a likeness of a cobbler though he understands nothing of cobbling; and his picture is good enough for those who know no more than he does, and judge only by colours and figures.

"Shouldn't we conclude that all these poets, starting with Homer, are only imitators? They copy images of virtue and similar things, but they never reach the truth. A poet is like a painter. As we've already said, the painter may paint a cobbler even though he knows nothing about shoemaking. His picture looks fine to people who know no more than he does and who judge only by colors and shapes."

Quite so.

"Exactly."

In like manner the poet with his words and phrases may be said to lay on the colours of the several arts, himself understanding their nature only enough to imitate them; and other people, who are as ignorant as he is, and judge only from his words, imagine that if he speaks of cobbling, or of military tactics, or of anything else, in metre and harmony and rhythm, he speaks very well—such is the sweet influence which melody and rhythm by nature have. And I think that you must have observed again and again what a poor appearance the tales of poets make when stripped of the colours which music puts upon them, and recited in simple prose.

"Similarly, the poet, with his words and phrases, can be said to paint over the different arts. He understands their nature only enough to imitate them. Other people are as ignorant as he is. Judging only by his words, they think he speaks well. This happens when he talks about cobbling, military tactics, or anything else in meter, harmony, and rhythm. Such is the natural charm of melody and rhythm. I think you've noticed this often. Poets' tales look poor when stripped of the colors music gives them and recited in plain prose."

Yes, he said.

"Yes," he said.

They are like faces which were never really beautiful, but only blooming; and now the bloom of youth has passed away from them?

"They're like faces that were never truly beautiful, only fresh with youth. Has that bloom now faded from them?"

Exactly.

"Exactly."

Here is another point: The imitator or maker of the image knows nothing of true existence; he knows appearances only. Am I not right?

"Here’s another point. The imitator, the maker of the image, knows nothing of real existence. He only knows appearances. Am I right?"

Yes.

"Yes."

Then let us have a clear understanding, and not be satisfied with half an explanation.

"Then let's be clear. Don't settle for a partial explanation."

Proceed.

"Go on."

Of the painter we say that he will paint reins, and he will paint a bit?

"Do we say the painter paints the reins and the bit?"

Yes.

"Yes."

And the worker in leather and brass will make them?

"Will the leather-and-brass craftsman make them?"

Certainly.

"Certainly."

But does the painter know the right form of the bit and reins? Nay, hardly even the workers in brass and leather who make them; only the horseman who knows how to use them—he knows their right form.

"But does the painter know the right form of the bit and reins? No. Not even the craftsmen who make them from brass and leather do. Only the horseman who knows how to use them knows their proper form."

Most true.

"That's true."

And may we not say the same of all things?

"Can't we say the same about everything?"

What?

"What?"

That there are three arts which are concerned with all things: one which uses, another which makes, a third which imitates them?

"Are there three arts concerned with all things? One uses them. Another makes them. A third imitates them?"

Yes.

"Yes."

And the excellence or beauty or truth of every structure, animate or inanimate, and of every action of man, is relative to the use for which nature or the artist has intended them.

"Beauty, excellence, or truth in any object, living or not, depends on its purpose. The same is true for every human action. It depends on the use nature or the artist intended."

True.

"True."

Then the user of them must have the greatest experience of them, and he must indicate to the maker the good or bad qualities which develop themselves in use; for example, the flute-player will tell the flute-maker which of his flutes is satisfactory to the performer; he will tell him how he ought to make them, and the other will attend to his instructions?

"The user has the most experience with them. He should tell the maker which qualities prove good or bad in use. For example, a flute-player will tell the flute-maker which of his flutes satisfy the performer. He will tell him how to make them, and the maker will follow his instructions?"

Of course.

"Of course."

The one knows and therefore speaks with authority about the goodness and badness of flutes, while the other, confiding in him, will do what he is told by him?

"One of them knows, so he speaks with authority about whether flutes are good or bad. The other trusts him and does what he is told?"

True.

"True."

The instrument is the same, but about the excellence or badness of it the maker will only attain to a correct belief; and this he will gain from him who knows, by talking to him and being compelled to hear what he has to say, whereas the user will have knowledge?

"The instrument is the same. But about its excellence or faults, the maker will only reach a correct belief. He gets it from the one who knows, by talking with him and being forced to listen. The user, though, will have real knowledge?"

True.

"That's true."

But will the imitator have either? Will he know from use whether or no his drawing is correct or beautiful? or will he have right opinion from being compelled to associate with another who knows and gives him instructions about what he should draw?

"But will the imitator have either? Will he know from experience whether or not his drawing is correct or beautiful? Or will he have the right opinion only because he is forced to work with someone who knows? That person then tells him what to draw."

Neither.

"Neither."

Then he will no more have true opinion than he will have knowledge about the goodness or badness of his imitations?

"Then he will have no true opinion, any more than he will have knowledge about whether his imitations are good or bad?"

I suppose not.

"I guess not."

The imitative artist will be in a brilliant state of intelligence about his own creations?

"Won't the imitative artist be very knowledgeable about his own creations?"

Nay, very much the reverse.

"No, quite the opposite."

And still he will go on imitating without knowing what makes a thing good or bad, and may be expected therefore to imitate only that which appears to be good to the ignorant multitude?

"And he will keep imitating things without understanding what makes them good or bad. Should we then expect him to copy only what seems good to the ignorant crowd?"

Just so.

"Exactly."

Thus far then we are pretty well agreed that the imitator has no knowledge worth mentioning of what he imitates. Imitation is only a kind of play or sport, and the tragic poets, whether they write in Iambic or in Heroic verse, are imitators in the highest degree?

"So far, then, we agree that the imitator has no real knowledge of what he imitates. Imitation is only a kind of play or sport. And the tragic poets, whether they write in Iambic or in Heroic verse, are imitators in the highest degree?"

Very true.

"That's true."

And now tell me, I conjure you, has not imitation been shown by us to be concerned with that which is thrice removed from the truth?

"Now tell me, I beg you. Haven't we shown that imitation deals with something three times removed from the truth?"

Certainly.

"Certainly."

And what is the faculty in man to which imitation is addressed?

"And which human faculty does imitation aim at?"

What do you mean?

"What do you mean?"

I will explain: The body which is large when seen near, appears small when seen at a distance?

"I'll explain. A body that looks large up close will look small from far away?"

True.

"True."

And the same object appears straight when looked at out of the water, and crooked when in the water; and the concave becomes convex, owing to the illusion about colours to which the sight is liable. Thus every sort of confusion is revealed within us; and this is that weakness of the human mind on which the art of conjuring and of deceiving by light and shadow and other ingenious devices imposes, having an effect upon us like magic.

"And the same object looks straight when seen out of the water, but crooked when seen in it. A hollow shape can seem rounded. Colour tricks can fool our sight. This shows how much confusion lives inside us. It reveals a weakness of the human mind that conjurers exploit. They deceive us with light, shadow, and other clever devices, and the effect feels almost like magic."

True.

"True."

And the arts of measuring and numbering and weighing come to the rescue of the human understanding—there is the beauty of them—and the apparent greater or less, or more or heavier, no longer have the mastery over us, but give way before calculation and measure and weight?

"Don't the arts of measuring, numbering, and weighing come to the rescue of the human mind? There is beauty in them. Things that only seem greater or smaller, or heavier or lighter, no longer have power over us. They give way to calculation, measurement, and weight."

Most true.

"Very true."

And this, surely, must be the work of the calculating and rational principle in the soul?

"Isn't this the work of the soul's rational, calculating part?"

To be sure.

"Of course."

And when this principle measures and certifies that some things are equal, or that some are greater or less than others, there occurs an apparent contradiction?

"And when this principle measures and declares some things equal, or some greater or less than others. Doesn't that produce an apparent contradiction?"

True.

"True."

But were we not saying that such a contradiction is impossible—the same faculty cannot have contrary opinions at the same time about the same thing?

"But didn't we say that such a contradiction is impossible? The same faculty can't have opposite opinions at the same time about the same thing?"

Very true.

"Very true."

Then that part of the soul which has an opinion contrary to measure is not the same with that which has an opinion in accordance with measure?

"So the part of the soul that opposes measure isn't the same as the part that agrees with it?"

True.

"True."

And the better part of the soul is likely to be that which trusts to measure and calculation?

"Isn't the better part of the soul the one that relies on measurement and calculation?"

Certainly.

"Certainly."

And that which is opposed to them is one of the inferior principles of the soul?

"And is what opposes them one of the lower parts of the soul?"

No doubt.

"No doubt."

This was the conclusion at which I was seeking to arrive when I said that painting or drawing, and imitation in general, when doing their own proper work, are far removed from truth, and the companions and friends and associates of a principle within us which is equally removed from reason, and that they have no true or healthy aim.

"This was the conclusion I was trying to reach. I meant that painting and drawing, and imitation in general, when doing their proper work, are far from truth. They are the companions and friends of a principle within us that is also far from reason. They have no true or healthy aim."

Exactly.

"Exactly."

The imitative art is an inferior who marries an inferior, and has inferior offspring.

"The imitative art is inferior. It pairs with something inferior and produces inferior offspring."

Very true.

"Very true."

And is this confined to the sight only, or does it extend to the hearing also, relating in fact to what we term poetry?

"Is this limited to sight alone? Or does it also include hearing, meaning what we call poetry?"

Probably the same would be true of poetry.

"Poetry would probably be the same."

Do not rely, I said, on a probability derived from the analogy of painting; but let us examine further and see whether the faculty with which poetical imitation is concerned is good or bad.

"Don't rely on a probability drawn from the painting analogy," I said. "Let's examine whether the faculty involved in poetic imitation is good or bad."

By all means.

"Go ahead."

We may state the question thus:—Imitation imitates the actions of men, whether voluntary or involuntary, on which, as they imagine, a good or bad result has ensued, and they rejoice or sorrow accordingly. Is there anything more?

We can state the question like this: "Imitation copies people's actions, whether voluntary or involuntary. It copies those actions that, as they think, led to good or bad results. It also copies the joy or sorrow that follows. Is there anything more?"

No, there is nothing else.

"No. There's nothing else."

But in all this variety of circumstances is the man at unity with himself—or rather, as in the instance of sight there was confusion and opposition in his opinions about the same things, so here also is there not strife and inconsistency in his life? Though I need hardly raise the question again, for I remember that all this has been already admitted; and the soul has been acknowledged by us to be full of these and ten thousand similar oppositions occurring at the same moment?

"With all these different situations, is the person at peace with himself? Or think of sight. There were confused, opposing opinions about the same things. Isn't life similarly full of conflict and inconsistency? I hardly need to ask. I remember we've already admitted this. We acknowledged that the soul is full of these and countless similar opposing impulses all happening at once."

And we were right, he said.

"We were right," he said.

Yes, I said, thus far we were right; but there was an omission which must now be supplied.

"Yes," I said, "so far we have been right. But we missed something that must be added now."

What was the omission?

"What did he omit?"

Were we not saying that a good man, who has the misfortune to lose his son or anything else which is most dear to him, will bear the loss with more equanimity than another?

"Didn't we say a good man who loses his son, or anything he loves most, will bear it calmly? He will handle the loss better than another person."

Yes.

"Yes."

But will he have no sorrow, or shall we say that although he cannot help sorrowing, he will moderate his sorrow?

"But will he have no sorrow? Or should we say that although he cannot help feeling sorrow, he will keep it under control?"

The latter, he said, is the truer statement.

"The latter is the truer statement," he said.

Tell me: will he be more likely to struggle and hold out against his sorrow when he is seen by his equals, or when he is alone?

"Tell me. Is he more likely to struggle and resist his grief when his equals see him, or when he is alone?"

It will make a great difference whether he is seen or not.

"It will make a big difference whether he is seen or not."

When he is by himself he will not mind saying or doing many things which he would be ashamed of any one hearing or seeing him do?

"When he's alone, he won't mind saying or doing things he'd be ashamed of if anyone heard or saw?"

True.

"True."

There is a principle of law and reason in him which bids him resist, as well as a feeling of his misfortune which is forcing him to indulge his sorrow?

"Doesn't he have a sense of law and reason that tells him to resist? Doesn't he also feel his misfortune, which pushes him to give in to sorrow?"

True.

"True."

But when a man is drawn in two opposite directions, to and from the same object, this, as we affirm, necessarily implies two distinct principles in him?

"But when a man is pulled in two opposite directions, toward and away from the same thing. As we agreed, doesn't that mean he has two separate principles inside him?"

Certainly.

"Certainly."

One of them is ready to follow the guidance of the law?

"Is one of them willing to follow the law's guidance?"

How do you mean?

"What do you mean?"

The law would say that to be patient under suffering is best, and that we should not give way to impatience, as there is no knowing whether such things are good or evil; and nothing is gained by impatience; also, because no human thing is of serious importance, and grief stands in the way of that which at the moment is most required.

"The law would say that being patient under suffering is best. It tells us not to give in to impatience, because we cannot know whether these things are good or bad. Nothing is gained by impatience. No human matter is of serious importance, and grief gets in the way of what is most needed right now."

What is most required? he asked.

"What is most needed?" he asked.

That we should take counsel about what has happened, and when the dice have been thrown order our affairs in the way which reason deems best; not, like children who have had a fall, keeping hold of the part struck and wasting time in setting up a howl, but always accustoming the soul forthwith to apply a remedy, raising up that which is sickly and fallen, banishing the cry of sorrow by the healing art.

"We should talk about what happened. Once the dice are cast, put our affairs in order as reason judges best. We must not act like children who have fallen, clutching the injured spot and wasting time crying. Train the soul to apply a remedy at once. Lift up what is sick and fallen. Banish the cry of sorrow by the healing art."

Yes, he said, that is the true way of meeting the attacks of fortune.

"Yes," he said. "That is the true way to face misfortune."

Yes, I said; and the higher principle is ready to follow this suggestion of reason?

"Yes," I said. "Is the higher principle ready to follow this suggestion of reason?"

Clearly.

"Clearly."

And the other principle, which inclines us to recollection of our troubles and to lamentation, and can never have enough of them, we may call irrational, useless, and cowardly?

"And the other principle makes us keep recalling and lamenting our troubles. It can never get enough of them. Should we call it irrational, useless, and cowardly?"

Indeed, we may.

"Yes, we can."

And does not the latter—I mean the rebellious principle—furnish a great variety of materials for imitation? Whereas the wise and calm temperament, being always nearly equable, is not easy to imitate or to appreciate when imitated, especially at a public festival when a promiscuous crowd is assembled in a theatre. For the feeling represented is one to which they are strangers.

"Doesn't the latter, I mean the rebellious principle, supply a wide range of material to imitate? The calm, wise temperament stays nearly steady. That makes it hard to copy. People also struggle to appreciate it when it is imitated. This is especially true at a public festival, where a mixed crowd gathers in the theatre. They are strangers to that feeling."

Certainly.

"Certainly."

Then the imitative poet who aims at being popular is not by nature made, nor is his art intended, to please or to affect the rational principle in the soul; but he will prefer the passionate and fitful temper, which is easily imitated?

"So the imitative poet who wants popularity is not naturally suited to please the rational part of the soul. His art is not meant to do that. He prefers the passionate, changeable temper that is easy to imitate?"

Clearly.

"Clearly."

And now we may fairly take him and place him by the side of the painter, for he is like him in two ways: first, inasmuch as his creations have an inferior degree of truth—in this, I say, he is like him; and he is also like him in being concerned with an inferior part of the soul; and therefore we shall be right in refusing to admit him into a well-ordered State, because he awakens and nourishes and strengthens the feelings and impairs the reason. As in a city when the evil are permitted to have authority and the good are put out of the way, so in the soul of man, as we maintain, the imitative poet implants an evil constitution, for he indulges the irrational nature which has no discernment of greater and less, but thinks the same thing at one time great and at another small—he is a manufacturer of images and is very far removed from the truth.

"Now we can rightly place him beside the painter. He resembles the painter in two ways. First, his works have a lower degree of truth. Second, he deals with a lower part of the soul. For these reasons we should refuse to admit him into a well-ordered State. He awakens, feeds, and strengthens the feelings, and he weakens reason. Just as a city goes wrong when bad people rule and good people are pushed aside, so the imitative poet implants a corrupt constitution in the soul. He caters to the irrational part, which cannot judge greater from lesser. It treats the same thing as great at one moment and small at another. The imitative poet makes images and is far removed from the truth."

Exactly.

"Exactly."

But we have not yet brought forward the heaviest count in our accusation:—the power which poetry has of harming even the good (and there are very few who are not harmed), is surely an awful thing?

"But we have not yet put forward the most serious charge against poetry. Its power to harm even the good is surely awful. Very few escape that harm. Isn't that terrible?"

Yes, certainly, if the effect is what you say.

"Yes, certainly, if the result is what you say."

Hear and judge: The best of us, as I conceive, when we listen to a passage of Homer, or one of the tragedians, in which he represents some pitiful hero who is drawling out his sorrows in a long oration, or weeping, and smiting his breast—the best of us, you know, delight in giving way to sympathy, and are in raptures at the excellence of the poet who stirs our feelings most.

"Listen and judge. I think the best of us, when we hear Homer or a tragedian, enjoy giving in to sympathy. If the poet shows a pitiable hero pouring out his sorrows in a long speech, we yield to the feeling. If the hero is weeping and beating his chest, we are delighted by the poet who moves us most."

Yes, of course I know.

"Yes, of course I know."

But when any sorrow of our own happens to us, then you may observe that we pride ourselves on the opposite quality—we would fain be quiet and patient; this is the manly part, and the other which delighted us in the recitation is now deemed to be the part of a woman.

"You'll notice that when we suffer our own sorrow, we pride ourselves on the opposite quality. We want to be calm and patient. That is considered the manly part. The other side, the one that used to delight us in recitations, is now thought to be a woman's role."

Very true, he said.

"That's very true," he said.

Now can we be right in praising and admiring another who is doing that which any one of us would abominate and be ashamed of in his own person?

"Can we rightly praise and admire someone who does what any of us would detest? Wouldn't we be ashamed to do it ourselves?"

No, he said, that is certainly not reasonable.

"No," he said. "That's certainly not reasonable."

Nay, I said, quite reasonable from one point of view.

"No," I said. "That's quite reasonable from one point of view."

What point of view?

"What point of view?"

If you consider, I said, that when in misfortune we feel a natural hunger and desire to relieve our sorrow by weeping and lamentation, and that this feeling which is kept under control in our own calamities is satisfied and delighted by the poets;—the better nature in each of us, not having been sufficiently trained by reason or habit, allows the sympathetic element to break loose because the sorrow is another’s; and the spectator fancies that there can be no disgrace to himself in praising and pitying any one who comes telling him what a good man he is, and making a fuss about his troubles; he thinks that the pleasure is a gain, and why should he be supercilious and lose this and the poem too? Few persons ever reflect, as I should imagine, that from the evil of other men something of evil is communicated to themselves. And so the feeling of sorrow which has gathered strength at the sight of the misfortunes of others is with difficulty repressed in our own.

"If you think about it," I said, "when we suffer we naturally want to cry and lament. That urge is usually kept under control when the trouble is our own. Poets, however, let it be satisfied and even enjoyed. Our better nature has not been trained enough by reason or habit. So our sympathy breaks loose when the sorrow belongs to someone else. An onlooker thinks there is no shame in praising and pitying someone who comes and tells him what a good man he is and makes a fuss about his troubles. He treats the pleasure as a gain. Why be proud and miss both the pleasure and the poem? Few people, I imagine, stop to consider that some harm from other people's misfortune passes to themselves. So the sorrow that grows at the sight of others' misfortunes is hard to suppress in our own case."

How very true!

"That's very true!"

And does not the same hold also of the ridiculous? There are jests which you would be ashamed to make yourself, and yet on the comic stage, or indeed in private, when you hear them, you are greatly amused by them, and are not at all disgusted at their unseemliness;—the case of pity is repeated;—there is a principle in human nature which is disposed to raise a laugh, and this which you once restrained by reason, because you were afraid of being thought a buffoon, is now let out again; and having stimulated the risible faculty at the theatre, you are betrayed unconsciously to yourself into playing the comic poet at home.

"Doesn't the same thing happen with the ridiculous? There are jokes you'd be ashamed to tell yourself. Yet on the comic stage, or even in private, when you hear them you laugh. You are not disgusted by how improper they are. The same thing happens with pity. There is a natural tendency in people to laugh. What you once held back with reason, because you feared being seen as a buffoon, is now released. After the theatre stirs your laugh response, you find yourself acting like a comic poet at home. You don't even realize it."

Quite true, he said.

"That's true," he said.

And the same may be said of lust and anger and all the other affections, of desire and pain and pleasure, which are held to be inseparable from every action—in all of them poetry feeds and waters the passions instead of drying them up; she lets them rule, although they ought to be controlled, if mankind are ever to increase in happiness and virtue.

"The same is true of lust and anger. It is also true for other feelings, like desire, pain, and pleasure. People think these feelings are inseparable from every action. In all of them, poetry feeds and waters the passions instead of drying them up. Poetry lets these passions rule when they should be kept in check. If people are to grow in happiness and virtue, those passions must be controlled."

I cannot deny it.

"I can't deny it."

Therefore, Glaucon, I said, whenever you meet with any of the eulogists of Homer declaring that he has been the educator of Hellas, and that he is profitable for education and for the ordering of human things, and that you should take him up again and again and get to know him and regulate your whole life according to him, we may love and honour those who say these things—they are excellent people, as far as their lights extend; and we are ready to acknowledge that Homer is the greatest of poets and first of tragedy writers; but we must remain firm in our conviction that hymns to the gods and praises of famous men are the only poetry which ought to be admitted into our State. For if you go beyond this and allow the honeyed muse to enter, either in epic or lyric verse, not law and the reason of mankind, which by common consent have ever been deemed best, but pleasure and pain will be the rulers in our State.

"So, Glaucon," I said, "whenever you meet anyone who praises Homer as the teacher of Hellas, saying he is useful for education and for ordering human affairs, remember this. They tell you to read him again and again, learn him, and shape your whole life by him. We can love and honor those people. They are good people, as far as their understanding goes. We will admit that Homer is the greatest of poets and the leading writer of tragedies. But we must be firm that only hymns to the gods and praises of famous men should be allowed in our city. If you go beyond that and let the honeyed muse in, whether in epic or lyric verse, then law and human reason, which people have long agreed are best, will not rule. Pleasure and pain will become the rulers in our city."

That is most true, he said.

"That's very true," he said.

And now since we have reverted to the subject of poetry, let this our defence serve to show the reasonableness of our former judgment in sending away out of our State an art having the tendencies which we have described; for reason constrained us. But that she may not impute to us any harshness or want of politeness, let us tell her that there is an ancient quarrel between philosophy and poetry; of which there are many proofs, such as the saying of ‘the yelping hound howling at her lord,’ or of one ‘mighty in the vain talk of fools,’ and ‘the mob of sages circumventing Zeus,’ and the ‘subtle thinkers who are beggars after all’; and there are innumerable other signs of ancient enmity between them. Notwithstanding this, let us assure our sweet friend and the sister arts of imitation, that if she will only prove her title to exist in a well-ordered State we shall be delighted to receive her—we are very conscious of her charms; but we may not on that account betray the truth. I dare say, Glaucon, that you are as much charmed by her as I am, especially when she appears in Homer?

"Now that we've returned to poetry, let this defense show why we sent that art out of our State. Reason forced us. It showed the dangers we described. But so she won't think us harsh or rude, let's tell her there's an old quarrel between philosophy and poetry. There are many signs of it. For example, the lines about "the yelping hound howling at her lord," "one mighty in the vain talk of fools," "the mob of sages circumventing Zeus," and "the subtle thinkers who are beggars after all." There are countless other marks of their ancient hostility. Still, let's reassure our dear friend and the sister arts of imitation. If she can prove she belongs in a well-ordered State, we'll gladly welcome her. We know her charms. That does not mean we will betray the truth. I suppose, Glaucon, you are as charmed by her as I am, especially when she appears in Homer?"

Yes, indeed, I am greatly charmed.

"Yes, I'm very pleased."

Shall I propose, then, that she be allowed to return from exile, but upon this condition only—that she make a defence of herself in lyrical or some other metre?

"Shall I suggest that she be allowed to return from exile, but only on this condition? That she defend herself in lyric verse or another meter."

Certainly.

"Certainly."

And we may further grant to those of her defenders who are lovers of poetry and yet not poets the permission to speak in prose on her behalf: let them show not only that she is pleasant but also useful to States and to human life, and we will listen in a kindly spirit; for if this can be proved we shall surely be the gainers—I mean, if there is a use in poetry as well as a delight?

"We can also allow those who love poetry but are not poets to speak for her in prose. Let them show she is not only pleasant but also useful to states and to human life. We will listen with an open mind. If they can prove that, we will surely gain. I mean, if poetry has a use as well as giving pleasure?"

Certainly, he said, we shall be the gainers.

"Certainly," he said. "We will benefit."

If her defence fails, then, my dear friend, like other persons who are enamoured of something, but put a restraint upon themselves when they think their desires are opposed to their interests, so too must we after the manner of lovers give her up, though not without a struggle. We too are inspired by that love of poetry which the education of noble States has implanted in us, and therefore we would have her appear at her best and truest; but so long as she is unable to make good her defence, this argument of ours shall be a charm to us, which we will repeat to ourselves while we listen to her strains; that we may not fall away into the childish love of her which captivates the many. At all events we are well aware that poetry being such as we have described is not to be regarded seriously as attaining to the truth; and he who listens to her, fearing for the safety of the city which is within him, should be on his guard against her seductions and make our words his law.

"If her defense fails, my dear friend, we must give her up. We must do this like lovers. Other people in love restrain themselves when desire conflicts with their interest. We are the same. We too are moved by the love of poetry that the education of noble States has planted in us. We want her to appear at her best and truest. But as long as she cannot defend herself, our argument will serve as a charm and safeguard. We will repeat it to ourselves while we listen to her strains. That way we will not fall into the childish love of her that captivates most people. In any case, we know that poetry, as we have described it, does not seriously reach the truth. Anyone who listens to her, fearing for the safety of the city within him, should guard against her seductions and make our words his rule."

Yes, he said, I quite agree with you.

"Yes," he said. "I completely agree with you."

Yes, I said, my dear Glaucon, for great is the issue at stake, greater than appears, whether a man is to be good or bad. And what will any one be profited if under the influence of honour or money or power, aye, or under the excitement of poetry, he neglect justice and virtue?

"Yes," I said to my dear Glaucon. "The matter at stake is huge. It's bigger than it seems. It asks whether a person should be good or bad. And what would anyone gain if driven by honor, money, or power? Or if the excitement of poetry led them to abandon justice and virtue?"

Yes, he said; I have been convinced by the argument, as I believe that any one else would have been.

"Yes," he said. "I've been convinced by the argument. I think anyone else would have been too."

And yet no mention has been made of the greatest prizes and rewards which await virtue.

"And yet we haven't mentioned the greatest rewards that await virtue."

What, are there any greater still? If there are, they must be of an inconceivable greatness.

"What? Are there any even greater? If so, they must be unimaginably great."

Why, I said, what was ever great in a short time? The whole period of three score years and ten is surely but a little thing in comparison with eternity?

"Why," I said, "what has ever been great in a short time? Seventy years is surely nothing compared to eternity."

Say rather ‘nothing,’ he replied.

"Say 'nothing' instead," he replied.

And should an immortal being seriously think of this little space rather than of the whole?

"Should an immortal being really think about this tiny space instead of the whole?"

Of the whole, certainly. But why do you ask?

"Yes, the whole of it. But why do you ask?"

Are you not aware, I said, that the soul of man is immortal and imperishable?

"Aren't you aware," I said, "that the human soul is immortal and indestructible?"

He looked at me in astonishment, and said: No, by heaven: And are you really prepared to maintain this?

He looked at me in astonishment and said, "No, by heaven. Are you really prepared to stand by that?"

Yes, I said, I ought to be, and you too—there is no difficulty in proving it.

"Yes," I said. "I should be, and you should be too. There is no difficulty in proving it."

I see a great difficulty; but I should like to hear you state this argument of which you make so light.

"I see a serious difficulty. I'd like you to state the argument you treat so lightly."

Listen then.

"Listen, then."

I am attending.

"I'm listening."

There is a thing which you call good and another which you call evil?

"Is there something you call good and something else you call evil?"

Yes, he replied.

"Yes," he said.

Would you agree with me in thinking that the corrupting and destroying element is the evil, and the saving and improving element the good?

"Do you agree that the element that corrupts and destroys is evil? And that the element that saves and improves is good?"

Yes.

"Yes."

And you admit that every thing has a good and also an evil; as ophthalmia is the evil of the eyes and disease of the whole body; as mildew is of corn, and rot of timber, or rust of copper and iron: in everything, or in almost everything, there is an inherent evil and disease?

"You admit that everything has both a good and a bad side. For example, ophthalmia is an eye disease that affects the whole body. Mildew spoils grain. Rot destroys wood. Rust eats copper and iron. So in almost everything there is some natural harm or disease?"

Yes, he said.

"Yes," he said.

And anything which is infected by any of these evils is made evil, and at last wholly dissolves and dies?

"And anything that is affected by any of these evils becomes corrupt, and eventually falls apart and dies?"

True.

"That's true."

The vice and evil which is inherent in each is the destruction of each; and if this does not destroy them there is nothing else that will; for good certainly will not destroy them, nor again, that which is neither good nor evil.

"The vice and evil inherent in each thing will destroy that thing. If these forces do not destroy it, nothing else will. Good will certainly not destroy them. Nor will what is neither good nor evil."

Certainly not.

"Certainly not."

If, then, we find any nature which having this inherent corruption cannot be dissolved or destroyed, we may be certain that of such a nature there is no destruction?

"So if we find a nature with this corruption that cannot be dissolved or destroyed, what then? Can we be sure it has no destruction?"

That may be assumed.

"We can assume that."

Well, I said, and is there no evil which corrupts the soul?

"Well," I said, "is there no evil that corrupts the soul?"

Yes, he said, there are all the evils which we were just now passing in review: unrighteousness, intemperance, cowardice, ignorance.

"Yes," he said. "There are all the evils we just reviewed: injustice, lack of self-control, cowardice, and ignorance."

But does any of these dissolve or destroy her?—and here do not let us fall into the error of supposing that the unjust and foolish man, when he is detected, perishes through his own injustice, which is an evil of the soul. Take the analogy of the body: The evil of the body is a disease which wastes and reduces and annihilates the body; and all the things of which we were just now speaking come to annihilation through their own corruption attaching to them and inhering in them and so destroying them. Is not this true?

"But do any of these things dissolve or destroy her? We must not make the mistake of thinking that the unjust and foolish man, when exposed, perishes because of his injustice. That injustice is an evil of the soul. Think of the body. Its evil is disease. Disease wastes, shrinks, and destroys the body. The things we were just talking about meet the same end. Their own corruption sticks to them and becomes part of them, and so destroys them. Is that not true?"

Yes.

"Yes."

Consider the soul in like manner. Does the injustice or other evil which exists in the soul waste and consume her? Do they by attaching to the soul and inhering in her at last bring her to death, and so separate her from the body?

"Consider the soul in the same way. Does injustice or other evil in the soul wear it down and destroy it? Do these things attach to the soul and stay there? Do they eventually kill it and separate it from the body?"

Certainly not.

"No, certainly not."

And yet, I said, it is unreasonable to suppose that anything can perish from without through affection of external evil which could not be destroyed from within by a corruption of its own?

"And yet," I said. "Isn't it unreasonable to think anything could perish from outside if it couldn't be destroyed from within by its corruption?"

It is, he replied.

"It is," he said.

Consider, I said, Glaucon, that even the badness of food, whether staleness, decomposition, or any other bad quality, when confined to the actual food, is not supposed to destroy the body; although, if the badness of food communicates corruption to the body, then we should say that the body has been destroyed by a corruption of itself, which is disease, brought on by this; but that the body, being one thing, can be destroyed by the badness of food, which is another, and which does not engender any natural infection—this we shall absolutely deny?

"Consider," I said to Glaucon, "that even when food is bad, whether stale, rotten, or otherwise spoiled, if the fault stays only in the food, it does not destroy the body. If the bad food spreads corruption into the body, then we should say the body has been destroyed by a corruption of itself. That is disease caused in this way. But we will deny that the body, which is one thing, can be destroyed by the badness of the food, which is another and does not produce a natural infection. Shouldn't we?"

Very true.

"That's true."

And, on the same principle, unless some bodily evil can produce an evil of the soul, we must not suppose that the soul, which is one thing, can be dissolved by any merely external evil which belongs to another?

"By the same principle, can bodily harm ever cause harm to the soul? If it cannot, should we think the soul can be destroyed by an external evil? The soul is one thing, and external evils belong to something else."

Yes, he said, there is reason in that.

"Yes," he said. "That makes sense."

Either, then, let us refute this conclusion, or, while it remains unrefuted, let us never say that fever, or any other disease, or the knife put to the throat, or even the cutting up of the whole body into the minutest pieces, can destroy the soul, until she herself is proved to become more unholy or unrighteous in consequence of these things being done to the body; but that the soul, or anything else if not destroyed by an internal evil, can be destroyed by an external one, is not to be affirmed by any man.

"So either we must refute this conclusion. Or, while it remains unrefuted, we should never say that fever, or any other disease, or a knife at the throat, can destroy the soul. Not even cutting the entire body into the smallest pieces can do that. Not until it is shown that she herself becomes more unholy or unrighteous because these things happen to the body. No one should claim that the soul, or anything else not destroyed by an internal evil, can be destroyed by an external one."

And surely, he replied, no one will ever prove that the souls of men become more unjust in consequence of death.

"Surely," he replied, "no one can ever prove that people's souls become more unjust because of death."

But if some one who would rather not admit the immortality of the soul boldly denies this, and says that the dying do really become more evil and unrighteous, then, if the speaker is right, I suppose that injustice, like disease, must be assumed to be fatal to the unjust, and that those who take this disorder die by the natural inherent power of destruction which evil has, and which kills them sooner or later, but in quite another way from that in which, at present, the wicked receive death at the hands of others as the penalty of their deeds?

"Suppose someone refuses to admit the soul's immortality and boldly denies it. Suppose he says the dying become worse and more unrighteous. If he is right, then injustice must be fatal to the unjust, like disease. Those who carry this disorder die by the natural destructive power of evil. It kills them sooner or later. That would be quite different from how the wicked now die at others' hands as punishment."

Nay, he said, in that case injustice, if fatal to the unjust, will not be so very terrible to him, for he will be delivered from evil. But I rather suspect the opposite to be the truth, and that injustice which, if it have the power, will murder others, keeps the murderer alive—aye, and well awake too; so far removed is her dwelling-place from being a house of death.

"No," he said. "If that were true, injustice, if it killed the wrongdoer, would not be so terrible for him. He would be delivered from harm. But I suspect the opposite is true. Injustice that, if it could, would murder others actually keeps the murderer alive, yes, and wide awake too. Its home is nowhere near a house of death."

True, I said; if the inherent natural vice or evil of the soul is unable to kill or destroy her, hardly will that which is appointed to be the destruction of some other body, destroy a soul or anything else except that of which it was appointed to be the destruction.

"True," I said. "If the soul's own flaw cannot kill it, then what destroys a body will hardly kill the soul. It will only destroy what it was meant to destroy."

Yes, that can hardly be.

"Yes, that's hardly possible."

But the soul which cannot be destroyed by an evil, whether inherent or external, must exist for ever, and if existing for ever, must be immortal?

"But a soul that cannot be destroyed by evil, whether from within or without, must exist forever. And if it exists forever, isn't it immortal?"

Certainly.

Of course.

That is the conclusion, I said; and, if a true conclusion, then the souls must always be the same, for if none be destroyed they will not diminish in number. Neither will they increase, for the increase of the immortal natures must come from something mortal, and all things would thus end in immortality.

"That is the conclusion," I said. If it's true, the souls must always be the same. If none are destroyed, their number cannot diminish. They also cannot increase. An increase in immortal beings would have to come from something mortal. Then everything would end in immortality.

Very true.

"That's very true."

But this we cannot believe—reason will not allow us—any more than we can believe the soul, in her truest nature, to be full of variety and difference and dissimilarity.

"But we can't believe this. Reason won't allow it. Nor can we believe the soul in its true nature is full of variation or difference."

What do you mean? he said.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

The soul, I said, being, as is now proven, immortal, must be the fairest of compositions and cannot be compounded of many elements?

"I said, 'Since the soul is now proven immortal, it must be the finest composition. It cannot be made of many parts, can it?'"

Certainly not.

"No, definitely not."

Her immortality is demonstrated by the previous argument, and there are many other proofs; but to see her as she really is, not as we now behold her, marred by communion with the body and other miseries, you must contemplate her with the eye of reason, in her original purity; and then her beauty will be revealed, and justice and injustice and all the things which we have described will be manifested more clearly. Thus far, we have spoken the truth concerning her as she appears at present, but we must remember also that we have seen her only in a condition which may be compared to that of the sea-god Glaucus, whose original image can hardly be discerned because his natural members are broken off and crushed and damaged by the waves in all sorts of ways, and incrustations have grown over them of seaweed and shells and stones, so that he is more like some monster than he is to his own natural form. And the soul which we behold is in a similar condition, disfigured by ten thousand ills. But not there, Glaucon, not there must we look.

"Her immortality is shown by the argument we just gave, and there are many other proofs. But to see her as she really is, not as we see her now, spoiled by connection to the body and other sufferings, you must look with the eye of reason. See her in her original purity, and her beauty will be revealed. Justice and injustice and all the things we've described will become clearer. So far we have told the truth about her as she appears now. But remember, we have only seen her in a state like that of the sea-god Glaucus. His true form is hard to recognize because the waves have broken, crushed, and damaged his limbs in many ways. Seaweed, shells, and stones have grown over him, so he looks more like a monster than his natural self. The soul we behold is in the same condition, disfigured by countless ills. But not there, Glaucon. We must not look there."

Where then?

"Where, then?"

At her love of wisdom. Let us see whom she affects, and what society and converse she seeks in virtue of her near kindred with the immortal and eternal and divine; also how different she would become if wholly following this superior principle, and borne by a divine impulse out of the ocean in which she now is, and disengaged from the stones and shells and things of earth and rock which in wild variety spring up around her because she feeds upon earth, and is overgrown by the good things of this life as they are termed: then you would see her as she is, and know whether she have one shape only or many, or what her nature is. Of her affections and of the forms which she takes in this present life I think that we have now said enough.

"At her love of wisdom. Let us see whom she affects. Let us see what company and conversation she seeks because of her close kinship with the immortal, eternal, and divine. Also consider how different she would be if she completely followed this higher principle. Imagine a divine impulse lifting her out of the ocean where she now floats. Imagine her freed from the stones, shells, and other bits of earth and rock. These grow about her in wild variety. They cling because she feeds on the earth and becomes overgrown by the so-called good things of life. Then you would see her as she really is. You would know whether she has one shape or many, and what her true nature is. I think we have said enough about her desires and the forms she takes in this present life."

True, he replied.

"True," he said.

And thus, I said, we have fulfilled the conditions of the argument; we have not introduced the rewards and glories of justice, which, as you were saying, are to be found in Homer and Hesiod; but justice in her own nature has been shown to be best for the soul in her own nature. Let a man do what is just, whether he have the ring of Gyges or not, and even if in addition to the ring of Gyges he put on the helmet of Hades.

"And thus," I said, "we have fulfilled the conditions of the argument. We have not introduced the rewards and glories of justice you mentioned in Homer and Hesiod. Justice itself has been shown, by its own nature, to be best for the soul. A person should do what is just, whether they have the ring of Gyges or not. Even if, on top of the ring, they put on the helmet of Hades."

Very true.

"That's very true."

And now, Glaucon, there will be no harm in further enumerating how many and how great are the rewards which justice and the other virtues procure to the soul from gods and men, both in life and after death.

"And now, Glaucon, it won't hurt to list the many and great rewards that justice and the other virtues bring. They benefit the soul through gods and through people, both in life and after death."

Certainly not, he said.

"Certainly not," he said.

Will you repay me, then, what you borrowed in the argument?

"Will you give me back what you borrowed during the argument?"

What did I borrow?

"What did I borrow?"

The assumption that the just man should appear unjust and the unjust just: for you were of opinion that even if the true state of the case could not possibly escape the eyes of gods and men, still this admission ought to be made for the sake of the argument, in order that pure justice might be weighed against pure injustice. Do you remember?

"You assumed that the just man should appear unjust and the unjust appear just. You thought the truth could not escape the notice of gods and men. Still, you said we should accept that assumption for the sake of the argument. This was so pure justice could be weighed against pure injustice. Do you remember?"

I should be much to blame if I had forgotten.

"I'd be to blame if I had forgotten."

Then, as the cause is decided, I demand on behalf of justice that the estimation in which she is held by gods and men and which we acknowledge to be her due should now be restored to her by us; since she has been shown to confer reality, and not to deceive those who truly possess her, let what has been taken from her be given back, that so she may win that palm of appearance which is hers also, and which she gives to her own.

"Now that the case is decided, I demand, on behalf of justice, that we restore to her the reputation she deserves among gods and men. We all acknowledge this is her due. She has been shown to give reality, not to deceive those who truly possess her. Return what was taken from her. Then she can win the palm of appearance that belongs to her and that she gives to her own."

The demand, he said, is just.

"The demand is just," he said.

In the first place, I said—and this is the first thing which you will have to give back—the nature both of the just and unjust is truly known to the gods.

"First, I said this, and it is the first thing you will have to give back. The gods truly know the nature of both the just and the unjust."

Granted.

"Granted."

And if they are both known to them, one must be the friend and the other the enemy of the gods, as we admitted from the beginning?

"And if they both know them, one must be the gods' friend and the other their enemy. Isn't that what we agreed at the start?"

True.

"True."

And the friend of the gods may be supposed to receive from them all things at their best, excepting only such evil as is the necessary consequence of former sins?

"And shouldn't the friend of the gods receive from them everything at its best? Only the evils that necessarily follow from past sins would be excluded."

Certainly.

"Of course."

Then this must be our notion of the just man, that even when he is in poverty or sickness, or any other seeming misfortune, all things will in the end work together for good to him in life and death: for the gods have a care of any one whose desire is to become just and to be like God, as far as man can attain the divine likeness, by the pursuit of virtue?

"Then our idea of the just man should be this. Even in poverty, sickness, or other apparent misfortune, things will finally work for his good. That holds in life and in death. The gods look after anyone who wants to become just. They watch over those who want to be like God. Can a human reach that divine likeness by pursuing virtue?"

Yes, he said; if he is like God he will surely not be neglected by him.

"Yes," he said. "If he is like God, God will surely not neglect him."

And of the unjust may not the opposite be supposed?

"Can't we suppose the opposite about the unjust?"

Certainly.

"Certainly."

Such, then, are the palms of victory which the gods give the just?

"So these are the palms of victory the gods give to the just?"

That is my conviction.

"That's my conviction."

And what do they receive of men? Look at things as they really are, and you will see that the clever unjust are in the case of runners, who run well from the starting-place to the goal but not back again from the goal: they go off at a great pace, but in the end only look foolish, slinking away with their ears draggling on their shoulders, and without a crown; but the true runner comes to the finish and receives the prize and is crowned. And this is the way with the just; he who endures to the end of every action and occasion of his entire life has a good report and carries off the prize which men have to bestow.

"And what do they get from people? Look at things as they really are. You will see that clever but unjust people are like runners. They sprint from the starting line to the finish but cannot run back. They rush off at great speed, yet in the end they only look foolish. They slink away with their ears dragging on their shoulders and without a crown. The true runner reaches the finish, wins the prize, and is crowned. The same is true of the just. Whoever endures to the end in every action and through his whole life will earn a good reputation. He wins the prize people give."

True.

"True."

And now you must allow me to repeat of the just the blessings which you were attributing to the fortunate unjust. I shall say of them, what you were saying of the others, that as they grow older, they become rulers in their own city if they care to be; they marry whom they like and give in marriage to whom they will; all that you said of the others I now say of these. And, on the other hand, of the unjust I say that the greater number, even though they escape in their youth, are found out at last and look foolish at the end of their course, and when they come to be old and miserable are flouted alike by stranger and citizen; they are beaten and then come those things unfit for ears polite, as you truly term them; they will be racked and have their eyes burned out, as you were saying. And you may suppose that I have repeated the remainder of your tale of horrors. But will you let me assume, without reciting them, that these things are true?

"Now let me repeat, for the just, the blessings you were giving to the lucky unjust. I will say of them what you said of the others. As they grow older, they can become rulers in their own city if they wish. They marry whoever they like and marry off whom they choose. Everything you said about the others I now say about these. On the other hand, I say that most unjust people are eventually found out. Even if they escape when young, they look foolish by the end. When they become old and miserable, both strangers and fellow citizens mock them. They are beaten, and then come those things unfit for polite ears, as you rightly called them. They will be tortured and have their eyes burned out, as you said. You may suppose I've repeated the rest of your tale of horrors. Will you let me assume, without repeating it, that these things are true?"

Certainly, he said, what you say is true.

"Certainly," he said. "What you say is true."

These, then, are the prizes and rewards and gifts which are bestowed upon the just by gods and men in this present life, in addition to the other good things which justice of herself provides.

"These, then, are the prizes, rewards, and gifts that gods and people give to the just in this life. They are in addition to the other good things that justice itself provides."

Yes, he said; and they are fair and lasting.

"Yes," he said. "And they are fair and lasting."

And yet, I said, all these are as nothing either in number or greatness in comparison with those other recompenses which await both just and unjust after death. And you ought to hear them, and then both just and unjust will have received from us a full payment of the debt which the argument owes to them.

I said, "Yet all of these are nothing in number or importance. They pale beside the other rewards that await both the just and the unjust after death. You should hear them. Then both the just and the unjust will have received full payment of the debt our argument owes them."

Speak, he said; there are few things which I would more gladly hear.

"Speak," he said. "There are few things I'd rather hear."

Well, I said, I will tell you a tale; not one of the tales which Odysseus tells to the hero Alcinous, yet this too is a tale of a hero, Er the son of Armenius, a Pamphylian by birth. He was slain in battle, and ten days afterwards, when the bodies of the dead were taken up already in a state of corruption, his body was found unaffected by decay, and carried away home to be buried. And on the twelfth day, as he was lying on the funeral pile, he returned to life and told them what he had seen in the other world. He said that when his soul left the body he went on a journey with a great company, and that they came to a mysterious place at which there were two openings in the earth; they were near together, and over against them were two other openings in the heaven above. In the intermediate space there were judges seated, who commanded the just, after they had given judgment on them and had bound their sentences in front of them, to ascend by the heavenly way on the right hand; and in like manner the unjust were bidden by them to descend by the lower way on the left hand; these also bore the symbols of their deeds, but fastened on their backs. He drew near, and they told him that he was to be the messenger who would carry the report of the other world to men, and they bade him hear and see all that was to be heard and seen in that place. Then he beheld and saw on one side the souls departing at either opening of heaven and earth when sentence had been given on them; and at the two other openings other souls, some ascending out of the earth dusty and worn with travel, some descending out of heaven clean and bright. And arriving ever and anon they seemed to have come from a long journey, and they went forth with gladness into the meadow, where they encamped as at a festival; and those who knew one another embraced and conversed, the souls which came from earth curiously enquiring about the things above, and the souls which came from heaven about the things beneath. And they told one another of what had happened by the way, those from below weeping and sorrowing at the remembrance of the things which they had endured and seen in their journey beneath the earth (now the journey lasted a thousand years), while those from above were describing heavenly delights and visions of inconceivable beauty. The story, Glaucon, would take too long to tell; but the sum was this:—He said that for every wrong which they had done to any one they suffered tenfold; or once in a hundred years—such being reckoned to be the length of man’s life, and the penalty being thus paid ten times in a thousand years. If, for example, there were any who had been the cause of many deaths, or had betrayed or enslaved cities or armies, or been guilty of any other evil behaviour, for each and all of their offences they received punishment ten times over, and the rewards of beneficence and justice and holiness were in the same proportion. I need hardly repeat what he said concerning young children dying almost as soon as they were born. Of piety and impiety to gods and parents, and of murderers, there were retributions other and greater far which he described. He mentioned that he was present when one of the spirits asked another, ‘Where is Ardiaeus the Great?’ (Now this Ardiaeus lived a thousand years before the time of Er: he had been the tyrant of some city of Pamphylia, and had murdered his aged father and his elder brother, and was said to have committed many other abominable crimes.) The answer of the other spirit was: ‘He comes not hither and will never come. And this,’ said he, ‘was one of the dreadful sights which we ourselves witnessed. We were at the mouth of the cavern, and, having completed all our experiences, were about to reascend, when of a sudden Ardiaeus appeared and several others, most of whom were tyrants; and there were also besides the tyrants private individuals who had been great criminals: they were just, as they fancied, about to return into the upper world, but the mouth, instead of admitting them, gave a roar, whenever any of these incurable sinners or some one who had not been sufficiently punished tried to ascend; and then wild men of fiery aspect, who were standing by and heard the sound, seized and carried them off; and Ardiaeus and others they bound head and foot and hand, and threw them down and flayed them with scourges, and dragged them along the road at the side, carding them on thorns like wool, and declaring to the passers-by what were their crimes, and that they were being taken away to be cast into hell.’ And of all the many terrors which they had endured, he said that there was none like the terror which each of them felt at that moment, lest they should hear the voice; and when there was silence, one by one they ascended with exceeding joy. These, said Er, were the penalties and retributions, and there were blessings as great.

"Well," I said, "I will tell you a tale. Not one of the stories Odysseus tells King Alcinous, yet it is a hero's tale. It is about Er, son of Armenius, a Pamphylian. He was killed in battle. Ten days later, when the dead were already decaying, his body was found untouched by rot and taken home to be buried. On the twelfth day, while he lay on the funeral pyre, he came back to life and told them what he had seen in the other world. He said that when his soul left the body he traveled with a large company. They reached a strange place with two openings in the earth close together. Opposite them, high above, were two openings in the sky. Between those openings sat judges. After they gave judgment, they tied the sentences in front of the just and told them to climb the heavenly way on the right. The unjust were ordered to go down by the lower way on the left. They also carried the marks of their deeds fastened to their backs. He came near, and they told him he would be their messenger. He was to bring back word of the other world to men. They told him to watch and listen to everything there. Then he saw souls passing out through the openings in earth and sky as their sentences were read. At the other pair of openings, other souls arrived. Some came up from the earth dusty and worn. Others came down from heaven clean and bright. They arrived again and again, as if from a long journey, and they moved into a meadow and camped like people at a festival. Those who knew one another embraced and talked. Souls from earth asked about things above. Souls from heaven asked about things below. They told each other what had happened on the way. Those from below wept as they remembered the hardships of their thousand-year journey underground. Those from above described heavenly delights and visions beyond description. The full story would take too long to tell, Glaucon, he said. The summary is this. For every wrong they had done, they suffered ten times over. A human life was counted as a hundred years, so in a thousand years they paid the penalty ten times. If someone had caused many deaths, betrayed or enslaved cities or armies, or done other evil, they were punished tenfold for each offense. The rewards for goodness and justice were given in the same measure. I need not repeat what he said about children who die almost as soon as they are born. He spoke of piety and impiety toward gods and parents, and of murderers; those crimes brought other and much greater retributions. He said he was present when one spirit asked another, "Where is Ardiaeus the Great?" Ardiaeus had lived a thousand years earlier. He had been a tyrant of a Pamphylian city. He had murdered his old father and his elder brother and was said to have committed many other awful crimes. The other spirit answered, "He does not come here and never will." He added, "This was one of the terrible sights we saw. We were at the mouth of the cavern, and after finishing our experiences we were about to go back up. Suddenly Ardiaeus appeared with several others. Most of them were tyrants. There were also private citizens who had been great criminals. They thought they were about to return to the upper world. But the entrance, instead of admitting them, let out a roar whenever any incurable sinner tried to ascend." Wild men with fiery faces stood by and heard the sound. They seized and carried the sinners off. They bound Ardiaeus and the others by hands and feet. They threw them down and flayed them with scourges. They dragged them along the road and carded them on thorns like wool. They told passers-by what their crimes were and that the sinners were being taken to be cast into hell. Of all the terrors they endured, none matched the fear each one felt at that moment, afraid they might hear the voice. When silence followed, they went up one by one with great joy. These, Er said, were the punishments and retributions. The blessings were just as great."

Now when the spirits which were in the meadow had tarried seven days, on the eighth they were obliged to proceed on their journey, and, on the fourth day after, he said that they came to a place where they could see from above a line of light, straight as a column, extending right through the whole heaven and through the earth, in colour resembling the rainbow, only brighter and purer; another day’s journey brought them to the place, and there, in the midst of the light, they saw the ends of the chains of heaven let down from above: for this light is the belt of heaven, and holds together the circle of the universe, like the under-girders of a trireme. From these ends is extended the spindle of Necessity, on which all the revolutions turn. The shaft and hook of this spindle are made of steel, and the whorl is made partly of steel and also partly of other materials. Now the whorl is in form like the whorl used on earth; and the description of it implied that there is one large hollow whorl which is quite scooped out, and into this is fitted another lesser one, and another, and another, and four others, making eight in all, like vessels which fit into one another; the whorls show their edges on the upper side, and on their lower side all together form one continuous whorl. This is pierced by the spindle, which is driven home through the centre of the eighth. The first and outermost whorl has the rim broadest, and the seven inner whorls are narrower, in the following proportions—the sixth is next to the first in size, the fourth next to the sixth; then comes the eighth; the seventh is fifth, the fifth is sixth, the third is seventh, last and eighth comes the second. The largest (or fixed stars) is spangled, and the seventh (or sun) is brightest; the eighth (or moon) coloured by the reflected light of the seventh; the second and fifth (Saturn and Mercury) are in colour like one another, and yellower than the preceding; the third (Venus) has the whitest light; the fourth (Mars) is reddish; the sixth (Jupiter) is in whiteness second. Now the whole spindle has the same motion; but, as the whole revolves in one direction, the seven inner circles move slowly in the other, and of these the swiftest is the eighth; next in swiftness are the seventh, sixth, and fifth, which move together; third in swiftness appeared to move according to the law of this reversed motion the fourth; the third appeared fourth and the second fifth. The spindle turns on the knees of Necessity; and on the upper surface of each circle is a siren, who goes round with them, hymning a single tone or note. The eight together form one harmony; and round about, at equal intervals, there is another band, three in number, each sitting upon her throne: these are the Fates, daughters of Necessity, who are clothed in white robes and have chaplets upon their heads, Lachesis and Clotho and Atropos, who accompany with their voices the harmony of the sirens—Lachesis singing of the past, Clotho of the present, Atropos of the future; Clotho from time to time assisting with a touch of her right hand the revolution of the outer circle of the whorl or spindle, and Atropos with her left hand touching and guiding the inner ones, and Lachesis laying hold of either in turn, first with one hand and then with the other.

"When the spirits who were in the meadow had stayed seven days, they had to move on the eighth. Four days later he said they reached a place where, from above, they could see a straight column of light running through heaven and earth. It looked like a rainbow, but brighter and purer. After another day's journey they came to the place. There, in the middle of the light, they saw the ends of heaven's chains hanging down. This light is the belt of heaven. It holds the universe together, like the under-girders of a trireme. From those ends hangs the spindle of Necessity. All revolutions turn on that spindle. The spindle's shaft and hook are made of steel. The whorl is partly steel and partly other materials. The whorl looks like the whorl used on earth. One large hollow whorl is scooped out, and into it fits a smaller one. Then another fits into that, and so on. There are eight altogether, like nested vessels. Their rims show on the top. Together on the bottom they form one continuous whorl. The spindle pierces them and runs through the center of the eighth. The outermost whorl is widest. The seven inner whorls are narrower in this order. Next in size to the outermost comes the sixth. Next comes the fourth. Then the eighth follows. The seventh is fifth in size. The fifth is sixth. The third is seventh. Last comes the second. The largest, the fixed stars, is spangled. The seventh, the sun, is the brightest. The eighth, the moon, shines by the sun's reflected light. The second and the fifth, Saturn and Mercury, look alike and are yellower than the others. The third, Venus, gives the whitest light. The fourth, Mars, is reddish. The sixth, Jupiter, is second in whiteness. The whole spindle moves together. But while the whole revolves one way, the seven inner circles move slowly the other way. The fastest of these reversed circles is the eighth. Next fastest are the seventh, sixth, and fifth, which move together. Then comes the fourth, then the third, and finally the second. The spindle turns on the knees of Necessity. On the top surface of each circle sits a siren. Each siren moves with her circle, singing a single note. The eight notes combine into one harmony. Around them, at equal intervals, sit three more figures on thrones. These are the Fates, daughters of Necessity. They wear white robes and garlands. Their names are Lachesis, Clotho, and Atropos. Their voices join the sirens'. Lachesis sings of the past. Clotho sings of the present. Atropos sings of the future. Now and then Clotho touches the outer circle with her right hand to help it turn. Atropos uses her left hand to touch and guide the inner circles. Lachesis takes hold of either circle in turn, first with one hand, then with the other."

When Er and the spirits arrived, their duty was to go at once to Lachesis; but first of all there came a prophet who arranged them in order; then he took from the knees of Lachesis lots and samples of lives, and having mounted a high pulpit, spoke as follows: ‘Hear the word of Lachesis, the daughter of Necessity. Mortal souls, behold a new cycle of life and mortality. Your genius will not be allotted to you, but you will choose your genius; and let him who draws the first lot have the first choice, and the life which he chooses shall be his destiny. Virtue is free, and as a man honours or dishonours her he will have more or less of her; the responsibility is with the chooser—God is justified.’ When the Interpreter had thus spoken he scattered lots indifferently among them all, and each of them took up the lot which fell near him, all but Er himself (he was not allowed), and each as he took his lot perceived the number which he had obtained. Then the Interpreter placed on the ground before them the samples of lives; and there were many more lives than the souls present, and they were of all sorts. There were lives of every animal and of man in every condition. And there were tyrannies among them, some lasting out the tyrant’s life, others which broke off in the middle and came to an end in poverty and exile and beggary; and there were lives of famous men, some who were famous for their form and beauty as well as for their strength and success in games, or, again, for their birth and the qualities of their ancestors; and some who were the reverse of famous for the opposite qualities. And of women likewise; there was not, however, any definite character in them, because the soul, when choosing a new life, must of necessity become different. But there was every other quality, and the all mingled with one another, and also with elements of wealth and poverty, and disease and health; and there were mean states also. And here, my dear Glaucon, is the supreme peril of our human state; and therefore the utmost care should be taken. Let each one of us leave every other kind of knowledge and seek and follow one thing only, if peradventure he may be able to learn and may find some one who will make him able to learn and discern between good and evil, and so to choose always and everywhere the better life as he has opportunity. He should consider the bearing of all these things which have been mentioned severally and collectively upon virtue; he should know what the effect of beauty is when combined with poverty or wealth in a particular soul, and what are the good and evil consequences of noble and humble birth, of private and public station, of strength and weakness, of cleverness and dullness, and of all the natural and acquired gifts of the soul, and the operation of them when conjoined; he will then look at the nature of the soul, and from the consideration of all these qualities he will be able to determine which is the better and which is the worse; and so he will choose, giving the name of evil to the life which will make his soul more unjust, and good to the life which will make his soul more just; all else he will disregard. For we have seen and know that this is the best choice both in life and after death. A man must take with him into the world below an adamantine faith in truth and right, that there too he may be undazzled by the desire of wealth or the other allurements of evil, lest, coming upon tyrannies and similar villainies, he do irremediable wrongs to others and suffer yet worse himself; but let him know how to choose the mean and avoid the extremes on either side, as far as possible, not only in this life but in all that which is to come. For this is the way of happiness.

When Er and the other souls arrived, their task was to go straight to Lachesis. First a prophet came and lined them up. He took from Lachesis’s knees lots and samples of lives. Then he climbed a high pulpit and spoke. “Hear the word of Lachesis, daughter of Necessity. Mortal souls, a new cycle of life and death begins. Your genius will not be assigned to you. You will choose your genius. Let the one who draws the first lot choose first. The life he picks will be his fate. Virtue is free. As a person honors or dishonors virtue, they will have more or less of it. The chooser is responsible. God is justified.” After the Interpreter spoke, he scattered the lots among them. Each soul picked the lot that fell near it. Er was the only exception; he was not allowed to choose. As they picked, each soul saw the number on its lot. The Interpreter then put the samples of lives on the ground before them. There were many more lives than souls. The lives came in every kind. There were animal lives and human lives in every condition. Some were tyrannies. Some lasted only as long as the tyrant lived. Others broke off in the middle and ended in poverty, exile, and beggary. There were lives of famous men. Some were famous for their beauty, strength, or success in contests. Others were famous for noble birth and ancestral honors. Some had the opposite kinds of fame. There were similar varieties among women. No soul had a fixed character, because a soul must change when it chooses a new life. Every other quality appeared, mixed with wealth or poverty, sickness or health, and ordinary states of life. “And here, my dear Glaucon, is the greatest danger in our human condition. We must be extremely careful. Each of us should set aside all other knowledge and seek one thing only, if he can. He should try to learn how to tell good from evil. He should find someone who can teach him to see the difference. Then he can always choose the better life when he has the chance. “He should consider how each of those qualities affects virtue. He must know what beauty does when joined with poverty or wealth in a particular soul. He must know the good and bad effects of noble or humble birth, of private or public status, of strength or weakness, of cleverness or dullness, and of all natural and acquired gifts. He must see how these traits work together. Then he can judge which life is better and which is worse. He will call evil the life that makes his soul more unjust. He will call good the life that makes his soul more just. Everything else he will ignore. We have seen that this is the best choice, in life and after death. “A man must take with him into the world below an unyielding faith in truth and right. There he must not be dazzled by the desire for wealth or other temptations. Otherwise, if he meets tyrannies or similar crimes, he may do irreparable wrong to others and suffer even worse himself. He should learn to choose the middle and avoid extremes as much as possible, not only in this life but in all that follows. This is the path to happiness.”

And according to the report of the messenger from the other world this was what the prophet said at the time: ‘Even for the last comer, if he chooses wisely and will live diligently, there is appointed a happy and not undesirable existence. Let not him who chooses first be careless, and let not the last despair.’ And when he had spoken, he who had the first choice came forward and in a moment chose the greatest tyranny; his mind having been darkened by folly and sensuality, he had not thought out the whole matter before he chose, and did not at first sight perceive that he was fated, among other evils, to devour his own children. But when he had time to reflect, and saw what was in the lot, he began to beat his breast and lament over his choice, forgetting the proclamation of the prophet; for, instead of throwing the blame of his misfortune on himself, he accused chance and the gods, and everything rather than himself. Now he was one of those who came from heaven, and in a former life had dwelt in a well-ordered State, but his virtue was a matter of habit only, and he had no philosophy. And it was true of others who were similarly overtaken, that the greater number of them came from heaven and therefore they had never been schooled by trial, whereas the pilgrims who came from earth having themselves suffered and seen others suffer, were not in a hurry to choose. And owing to this inexperience of theirs, and also because the lot was a chance, many of the souls exchanged a good destiny for an evil or an evil for a good. For if a man had always on his arrival in this world dedicated himself from the first to sound philosophy, and had been moderately fortunate in the number of the lot, he might, as the messenger reported, be happy here, and also his journey to another life and return to this, instead of being rough and underground, would be smooth and heavenly. Most curious, he said, was the spectacle—sad and laughable and strange; for the choice of the souls was in most cases based on their experience of a previous life. There he saw the soul which had once been Orpheus choosing the life of a swan out of enmity to the race of women, hating to be born of a woman because they had been his murderers; he beheld also the soul of Thamyras choosing the life of a nightingale; birds, on the other hand, like the swan and other musicians, wanting to be men. The soul which obtained the twentieth lot chose the life of a lion, and this was the soul of Ajax the son of Telamon, who would not be a man, remembering the injustice which was done him in the judgment about the arms. The next was Agamemnon, who took the life of an eagle, because, like Ajax, he hated human nature by reason of his sufferings. About the middle came the lot of Atalanta; she, seeing the great fame of an athlete, was unable to resist the temptation: and after her there followed the soul of Epeus the son of Panopeus passing into the nature of a woman cunning in the arts; and far away among the last who chose, the soul of the jester Thersites was putting on the form of a monkey. There came also the soul of Odysseus having yet to make a choice, and his lot happened to be the last of them all. Now the recollection of former toils had disenchanted him of ambition, and he went about for a considerable time in search of the life of a private man who had no cares; he had some difficulty in finding this, which was lying about and had been neglected by everybody else; and when he saw it, he said that he would have done the same had his lot been first instead of last, and that he was delighted to have it. And not only did men pass into animals, but I must also mention that there were animals tame and wild who changed into one another and into corresponding human natures—the good into the gentle and the evil into the savage, in all sorts of combinations.

According to the messenger from the other world, the prophet said at the time: "Even the last comer, if he chooses wisely and lives carefully, will have a happy life. Let the first chooser not be careless, and let the last not despair." After he spoke, the first chooser stepped forward and instantly picked the greatest tyranny. His mind was clouded by foolishness and desire. He had not thought it through and did not see at once that his fate included, among other horrors, devouring his own children. Later, when he had time to think and saw what his choice meant, he beat his breast and regretted it. He forgot the prophet's warning. Instead of blaming himself, he blamed chance, the gods, and anything but his own judgment. This man had come from heaven and had lived in a well-ordered city in a past life. His virtue was only habit. He had no real philosophy. Many others in the same boat had come from heaven too. They had never been taught by hardship. By contrast, the souls who came from earth had suffered and had seen others suffer. They were not in a hurry to choose. Because of this inexperience, and because the lots were random, many souls swapped a good fate for a bad one, or a bad for a good. If a man, upon arriving in this world, had devoted himself from the start to solid philosophy and had been reasonably lucky in drawing a lot, he might, the messenger said, be happy here. His travel to the next life and back would then be smooth and heavenly instead of rough and underground. The scene was strange, both sad and comic. Most souls chose based on their past lives. There he saw the soul that had been Orpheus choosing to be a swan out of hatred for women, because a woman had killed him. He saw the soul of Thamyras choose to be a nightingale. Birds like the swan and other musical souls wanted to be human instead. The soul that drew the twentieth lot took the life of a lion. That was Ajax, son of Telamon. He refused to be a human again, remembering the injustice done him over the arms. Next was Agamemnon, who became an eagle. Like Ajax, his suffering had made him hate human life. Midway through the choosing came Atalanta's lot. She could not resist the lure of athletic fame. After her, the soul of Epeus, son of Panopeus, took on the nature of a woman skilled in crafts. Far down among the last choosers, the soul of the jester Thersites put on the form of a monkey. Finally came the soul of Odysseus, still to choose, and his lot was the last of all. His memory of past hardships had cooled his ambition. He spent a long time looking for the life of a private, carefree man. That life was hard to find because everyone had overlooked it. When he found it, he said he would have chosen the same thing even if his lot had been first. He was pleased to have it. People did not just become animals. Animals, tame and wild, also changed into humans and into one another. The good became gentle humans. The bad became savage ones. All sorts of combinations occurred.

All the souls had now chosen their lives, and they went in the order of their choice to Lachesis, who sent with them the genius whom they had severally chosen, to be the guardian of their lives and the fulfiller of the choice: this genius led the souls first to Clotho, and drew them within the revolution of the spindle impelled by her hand, thus ratifying the destiny of each; and then, when they were fastened to this, carried them to Atropos, who spun the threads and made them irreversible, whence without turning round they passed beneath the throne of Necessity; and when they had all passed, they marched on in a scorching heat to the plain of Forgetfulness, which was a barren waste destitute of trees and verdure; and then towards evening they encamped by the river of Unmindfulness, whose water no vessel can hold; of this they were all obliged to drink a certain quantity, and those who were not saved by wisdom drank more than was necessary; and each one as he drank forgot all things. Now after they had gone to rest, about the middle of the night there was a thunderstorm and earthquake, and then in an instant they were driven upwards in all manner of ways to their birth, like stars shooting. He himself was hindered from drinking the water. But in what manner or by what means he returned to the body he could not say; only, in the morning, awaking suddenly, he found himself lying on the pyre.

All the souls had chosen their lives. They went, in the order they had chosen, to Lachesis. She sent with each soul the genius they had picked. This genius would guard the life and carry out the choice. The genius first led the souls to Clotho. Clotho drew them into the revolution of her spindle. That act confirmed each soul’s destiny. When their threads were fixed, the genius took them to Atropos. Atropos spun the threads and made them irreversible. Without turning, they passed under the throne of Necessity. After all had passed, they marched in scorching heat to the plain of Forgetfulness. It was a barren waste with no trees or greenery. Toward evening they camped by the river of Unmindfulness. No vessel can hold that water. Each soul had to drink a measure of it. Those not saved by wisdom drank too much. As they drank, each one forgot everything. After they went to rest, around midnight there was a storm and an earthquake. Then, in an instant, they were driven upward in every direction toward their births, like shooting stars. He was prevented from drinking the water. How he returned to his body he could not say. In the morning he woke suddenly and found himself lying on the pyre.

And thus, Glaucon, the tale has been saved and has not perished, and will save us if we are obedient to the word spoken; and we shall pass safely over the river of Forgetfulness and our soul will not be defiled. Wherefore my counsel is, that we hold fast ever to the heavenly way and follow after justice and virtue always, considering that the soul is immortal and able to endure every sort of good and every sort of evil. Thus shall we live dear to one another and to the gods, both while remaining here and when, like conquerors in the games who go round to gather gifts, we receive our reward. And it shall be well with us both in this life and in the pilgrimage of a thousand years which we have been describing.

"Glaucon, the story has been preserved and not lost. It will protect us if we obey what was said. Then we will cross the River of Forgetfulness safely, and our soul will not be stained. So I advise you to keep to the heavenly path and always pursue justice and virtue. Remember the soul is immortal and can endure every good and every evil. If we do this, we will be dear to one another and to the gods, both now and later. Like victors in the games who go around collecting prizes, we will receive our reward. All will be well for us in this life and in the thousand-year pilgrimage we have been describing."