The Republic of Plato is the longest of his works with the exception of the Laws, and is certainly the greatest of them. There are nearer approaches to modern metaphysics in the Philebus and in the Sophist; the Politicus or Statesman is more ideal; the form and institutions of the State are more clearly drawn out in the Laws; as works of art, the Symposium and the Protagoras are of higher excellence. But no other Dialogue of Plato has the same largeness of view and the same perfection of style; no other shows an equal knowledge of the world, or contains more of those thoughts which are new as well as old, and not of one age only but of all. Nowhere in Plato is there a deeper irony or a greater wealth of humour or imagery, or more dramatic power. Nor in any other of his writings is the attempt made to interweave life and speculation, or to connect politics with philosophy. The Republic is the centre around which the other Dialogues may be grouped; here philosophy reaches the highest point (cp, especially in Books V, VI, VII) to which ancient thinkers ever attained. Plato among the Greeks, like Bacon among the moderns, was the first who conceived a method of knowledge, although neither of them always distinguished the bare outline or form from the substance of truth; and both of them had to be content with an abstraction of science which was not yet realized. He was the greatest metaphysical genius whom the world has seen; and in him, more than in any other ancient thinker, the germs of future knowledge are contained. The sciences of logic and psychology, which have supplied so many instruments of thought to after-ages, are based upon the analyses of Socrates and Plato. The principles of definition, the law of contradiction, the fallacy of arguing in a circle, the distinction between the essence and accidents of a thing or notion, between means and ends, between causes and conditions; also the division of the mind into the rational, concupiscent, and irascible elements, or of pleasures and desires into necessary and unnecessary—these and other great forms of thought are all of them to be found in the Republic, and were probably first invented by Plato. The greatest of all logical truths, and the one of which writers on philosophy are most apt to lose sight, the difference between words and things, has been most strenuously insisted on by him (cp. Rep.; Polit.; Cratyl. 435, 436 ff), although he has not always avoided the confusion of them in his own writings (e.g. Rep.). But he does not bind up truth in logical formulae,—logic is still veiled in metaphysics; and the science which he imagines to ‘contemplate all truth and all existence’ is very unlike the doctrine of the syllogism which Aristotle claims to have discovered (Soph. Elenchi, 33. 18).
Plato's Republic is his longest work except for the Laws, and it's certainly his greatest. The Philebus and Sophist come closer to modern metaphysics. The Politicus or Statesman is more idealistic. The Laws draws out the form and institutions of the State more clearly. As works of art, the Symposium and Protagoras show higher excellence. But no other Dialogue by Plato has the same broad vision and perfect style. No other shows equal knowledge of the world or contains more thoughts that are both new and old, belonging not just to one age but to all ages. Nowhere in Plato do we find deeper irony, greater wealth of humor and imagery, or more dramatic power. In no other writing does he attempt to weave together life and speculation, or connect politics with philosophy. The Republic is the center around which his other Dialogues can be grouped. Here philosophy reaches its highest point (especially in Books V, VI, VII) that ancient thinkers ever achieved. Among the Greeks, Plato was like Bacon among the moderns. He was the first to conceive a method of knowledge. Neither of them always distinguished the bare outline or form from the substance of truth. Both had to be content with an abstraction of science that wasn't yet realized. He was the greatest metaphysical genius the world has seen. In him, more than in any other ancient thinker, we find the seeds of future knowledge. The sciences of logic and psychology have supplied many tools of thought to later ages. These are based on the analyses of Socrates and Plato. The principles of definition, the law of contradiction, the fallacy of arguing in a circle, the distinction between the essence and accidents of a thing or notion, between means and ends, between causes and conditions are all found in the Republic. The division of the mind into rational, concupiscent, and irascible elements is there too. So is the division of pleasures and desires into necessary and unnecessary. These and other great forms of thought were probably first invented by Plato. The greatest of all logical truths is the difference between words and things. Writers on philosophy often lose sight of this truth. Plato insisted on it most strongly (see Rep., Polit., Cratyl. 435, 436 ff), although he didn't always avoid confusing them in his own writings (e.g. Rep.). But he doesn't bind up truth in logical formulas. Logic is still veiled in metaphysics. The science he imagines to "contemplate all truth and all existence" is very different from the doctrine of the syllogism that Aristotle claims to have discovered (Soph. Elenchi, 33. 18).
Neither must we forget that the Republic is but the third part of a still larger design which was to have included an ideal history of Athens, as well as a political and physical philosophy. The fragment of the Critias has given birth to a world-famous fiction, second only in importance to the tale of Troy and the legend of Arthur; and is said as a fact to have inspired some of the early navigators of the sixteenth century. This mythical tale, of which the subject was a history of the wars of the Athenians against the Island of Atlantis, is supposed to be founded upon an unfinished poem of Solon, to which it would have stood in the same relation as the writings of the logographers to the poems of Homer. It would have told of a struggle for Liberty (cp. Tim. 25 C), intended to represent the conflict of Persia and Hellas. We may judge from the noble commencement of the Timaeus, from the fragment of the Critias itself, and from the third book of the Laws, in what manner Plato would have treated this high argument. We can only guess why the great design was abandoned; perhaps because Plato became sensible of some incongruity in a fictitious history, or because he had lost his interest in it, or because advancing years forbade the completion of it; and we may please ourselves with the fancy that had this imaginary narrative ever been finished, we should have found Plato himself sympathising with the struggle for Hellenic independence (cp. Laws, iii. 698 ff.), singing a hymn of triumph over Marathon and Salamis, perhaps making the reflection of Herodotus (v. 78) where he contemplates the growth of the Athenian empire—‘How brave a thing is freedom of speech, which has made the Athenians so far exceed every other state of Hellas in greatness!’ or, more probably, attributing the victory to the ancient good order of Athens and to the favor of Apollo and Athene (cp. Introd. to Critias).
We must remember that the Republic is only the first part of a much larger work Plato planned. This larger design would have included an ideal history of Athens, along with political and physical philosophy. The fragment of the Critias gave birth to a world-famous story. This story is second only to the tale of Troy and the legend of Arthur in importance. It reportedly inspired some of the early navigators of the sixteenth century. This mythical tale was meant to tell the history of wars between the Athenians and the Island of Atlantis. The story is supposedly based on an unfinished poem by Solon. It would have related to Solon's poem the same way the logographers' writings related to Homer's poems. The tale would have described a struggle for Liberty, representing the conflict between Persia and Greece. We can judge from the noble beginning of the Timaeus, from the Critias fragment itself, and from the third book of the Laws how Plato would have handled this great subject. We can only guess why Plato abandoned this grand design. Perhaps he realized there was something inappropriate about a fictional history. Maybe he lost interest in it, or advancing age prevented him from completing it. We can imagine that if this story had ever been finished, we would have found Plato sympathizing with the struggle for Greek independence. He might have sung a hymn of triumph over Marathon and Salamis. Perhaps he would have made the same reflection as Herodotus, who contemplated the growth of the Athenian empire: "How brave a thing is freedom of speech, which has made the Athenians so far exceed every other state of Greece in greatness!" More likely, he would have attributed the victory to the ancient good order of Athens and to the favor of Apollo and Athene.
Again, Plato may be regarded as the ‘captain’ (‘arhchegoz’) or leader of a goodly band of followers; for in the Republic is to be found the original of Cicero’s De Republica, of St. Augustine’s City of God, of the Utopia of Sir Thomas More, and of the numerous other imaginary States which are framed upon the same model. The extent to which Aristotle or the Aristotelian school were indebted to him in the Politics has been little recognised, and the recognition is the more necessary because it is not made by Aristotle himself. The two philosophers had more in common than they were conscious of; and probably some elements of Plato remain still undetected in Aristotle. In English philosophy too, many affinities may be traced, not only in the works of the Cambridge Platonists, but in great original writers like Berkeley or Coleridge, to Plato and his ideas. That there is a truth higher than experience, of which the mind bears witness to herself, is a conviction which in our own generation has been enthusiastically asserted, and is perhaps gaining ground. Of the Greek authors who at the Renaissance brought a new life into the world Plato has had the greatest influence. The Republic of Plato is also the first treatise upon education, of which the writings of Milton and Locke, Rousseau, Jean Paul, and Goethe are the legitimate descendants. Like Dante or Bunyan, he has a revelation of another life; like Bacon, he is profoundly impressed with the unity of knowledge; in the early Church he exercised a real influence on theology, and at the Revival of Literature on politics. Even the fragments of his words when ‘repeated at second-hand’ (Symp. 215 D) have in all ages ravished the hearts of men, who have seen reflected in them their own higher nature. He is the father of idealism in philosophy, in politics, in literature. And many of the latest conceptions of modern thinkers and statesmen, such as the unity of knowledge, the reign of law, and the equality of the sexes, have been anticipated in a dream by him.
Plato can be seen as the leader of an impressive group of followers. The Republic served as the inspiration for Cicero's De Republica, St. Augustine's City of God, Sir Thomas More's Utopia, and many other imaginary states built on the same model. Few people recognize how much Aristotle and his school borrowed from Plato in the Politics. This recognition is especially important because Aristotle himself doesn't acknowledge it. The two philosophers had more in common than they realized. Some elements of Plato probably remain hidden in Aristotle's work even today. English philosophy also shows many connections to Plato and his ideas. These appear not only in the Cambridge Platonists but also in great original writers like Berkeley and Coleridge. The belief that there is a truth higher than experience, which the mind recognizes within itself, has been passionately defended in our own time. It may even be gaining support. Among the Greek authors who brought new life to the world during the Renaissance, Plato has had the greatest influence. The Republic is also the first major work on education. The writings of Milton and Locke, Rousseau, Jean Paul, and Goethe are its natural descendants. Like Dante or Bunyan, Plato reveals another life. Like Bacon, he is deeply impressed by the unity of knowledge. He had real influence on theology in the early Church and on politics during the Revival of Literature. Even fragments of his words, when "repeated at second-hand," have captivated people throughout history. They see their own higher nature reflected in these fragments. Plato is the father of idealism in philosophy, politics, and literature. Many modern ideas from recent thinkers and statesmen have been anticipated in his dream-like vision. These include the unity of knowledge, the reign of law, and the equality of the sexes.
The argument of the Republic is the search after Justice, the nature of which is first hinted at by Cephalus, the just and blameless old man—then discussed on the basis of proverbial morality by Socrates and Polemarchus—then caricatured by Thrasymachus and partially explained by Socrates—reduced to an abstraction by Glaucon and Adeimantus, and having become invisible in the individual reappears at length in the ideal State which is constructed by Socrates. The first care of the rulers is to be education, of which an outline is drawn after the old Hellenic model, providing only for an improved religion and morality, and more simplicity in music and gymnastic, a manlier strain of poetry, and greater harmony of the individual and the State. We are thus led on to the conception of a higher State, in which ‘no man calls anything his own,’ and in which there is neither ‘marrying nor giving in marriage,’ and ‘kings are philosophers’ and ‘philosophers are kings;’ and there is another and higher education, intellectual as well as moral and religious, of science as well as of art, and not of youth only but of the whole of life. Such a State is hardly to be realized in this world and quickly degenerates. To the perfect ideal succeeds the government of the soldier and the lover of honour, this again declining into democracy, and democracy into tyranny, in an imaginary but regular order having not much resemblance to the actual facts. When ‘the wheel has come full circle’ we do not begin again with a new period of human life; but we have passed from the best to the worst, and there we end. The subject is then changed and the old quarrel of poetry and philosophy which had been more lightly treated in the earlier books of the Republic is now resumed and fought out to a conclusion. Poetry is discovered to be an imitation thrice removed from the truth, and Homer, as well as the dramatic poets, having been condemned as an imitator, is sent into banishment along with them. And the idea of the State is supplemented by the revelation of a future life.
The Republic explores the search for Justice. Cephalus, a just and blameless old man, first hints at its nature. Socrates and Polemarchus then discuss it based on traditional moral wisdom. Thrasymachus mocks the concept while Socrates partially explains it. Glaucon and Adeimantus reduce it to an abstract idea. Justice becomes invisible in the individual but reappears in the ideal State that Socrates constructs. The rulers' first priority is education, which follows the old Greek model but with improvements. This includes better religion and morality, simpler music and athletics, more masculine poetry, and greater harmony between individual and State. This leads us to envision a higher State where "no man calls anything his own." In this State, there is no marriage, "kings are philosophers," and "philosophers are kings." It features a higher education that is intellectual, moral, and religious. This education covers science and art and continues throughout life, not just in youth. Such a State can hardly exist in this world and quickly falls apart. The perfect ideal gives way to government by soldiers and honor-seekers. This declines into democracy, and democracy into tyranny, following an imaginary but predictable pattern that doesn't match real history. When "the wheel has come full circle," we don't start over with a new period of human life. Instead, we have moved from best to worst, and there we stop. The subject then shifts to the old conflict between poetry and philosophy, which was treated more lightly in the earlier books of the Republic. Now this conflict is resumed and settled once and for all. Poetry is revealed to be an imitation three times removed from truth. Homer and the dramatic poets are condemned as imitators and sent into exile with the rest. The idea of the State is completed by the revelation of a future life.
The division into books, like all similar divisions (Cp. Sir G.C. Lewis in the Classical Museum, vol. ii. p 1.), is probably later than the age of Plato. The natural divisions are five in number;—(1) Book I and the first half of Book II down to the paragraph beginning, ‘I had always admired the genius of Glaucon and Adeimantus,’ which is introductory; the first book containing a refutation of the popular and sophistical notions of justice, and concluding, like some of the earlier Dialogues, without arriving at any definite result. To this is appended a restatement of the nature of justice according to common opinion, and an answer is demanded to the question—What is justice, stripped of appearances? The second division (2) includes the remainder of the second and the whole of the third and fourth books, which are mainly occupied with the construction of the first State and the first education. The third division (3) consists of the fifth, sixth, and seventh books, in which philosophy rather than justice is the subject of enquiry, and the second State is constructed on principles of communism and ruled by philosophers, and the contemplation of the idea of good takes the place of the social and political virtues. In the eighth and ninth books (4) the perversions of States and of the individuals who correspond to them are reviewed in succession; and the nature of pleasure and the principle of tyranny are further analysed in the individual man. The tenth book (5) is the conclusion of the whole, in which the relations of philosophy to poetry are finally determined, and the happiness of the citizens in this life, which has now been assured, is crowned by the vision of another.
The division into books, like all similar divisions (see Sir G.C. Lewis in the Classical Museum, vol. ii. p 1.), probably came after Plato's time. The natural divisions are five in number. First, Book I and the first half of Book II down to the paragraph beginning, 'I had always admired the genius of Glaucon and Adeimantus,' serve as an introduction. The first book refutes popular and sophistical ideas about justice. Like some of the earlier Dialogues, it concludes without reaching any definite result. This section includes a restatement of justice according to common opinion. It demands an answer to the question: What is justice, stripped of appearances? The second division includes the remainder of the second book and all of the third and fourth books. These focus mainly on building the first State and the first education. The third division consists of the fifth, sixth, and seventh books. Here philosophy rather than justice becomes the main subject of inquiry. The second State is built on principles of communism and ruled by philosophers. The contemplation of the idea of good replaces the social and political virtues. In the eighth and ninth books, the corruptions of States and the individuals who match them are reviewed one by one. The nature of pleasure and the principle of tyranny are further analyzed in the individual man. The tenth book concludes the whole work. The relations of philosophy to poetry are finally determined. The happiness of the citizens in this life, which has now been secured, is crowned by the vision of another.
Or a more general division into two parts may be adopted; the first (Books I - IV) containing the description of a State framed generally in accordance with Hellenic notions of religion and morality, while in the second (Books V - X) the Hellenic State is transformed into an ideal kingdom of philosophy, of which all other governments are the perversions. These two points of view are really opposed, and the opposition is only veiled by the genius of Plato. The Republic, like the Phaedrus (see Introduction to Phaedrus), is an imperfect whole; the higher light of philosophy breaks through the regularity of the Hellenic temple, which at last fades away into the heavens. Whether this imperfection of structure arises from an enlargement of the plan; or from the imperfect reconcilement in the writer’s own mind of the struggling elements of thought which are now first brought together by him; or, perhaps, from the composition of the work at different times—are questions, like the similar question about the Iliad and the Odyssey, which are worth asking, but which cannot have a distinct answer. In the age of Plato there was no regular mode of publication, and an author would have the less scruple in altering or adding to a work which was known only to a few of his friends. There is no absurdity in supposing that he may have laid his labours aside for a time, or turned from one work to another; and such interruptions would be more likely to occur in the case of a long than of a short writing. In all attempts to determine the chronological order of the Platonic writings on internal evidence, this uncertainty about any single Dialogue being composed at one time is a disturbing element, which must be admitted to affect longer works, such as the Republic and the Laws, more than shorter ones. But, on the other hand, the seeming discrepancies of the Republic may only arise out of the discordant elements which the philosopher has attempted to unite in a single whole, perhaps without being himself able to recognise the inconsistency which is obvious to us. For there is a judgment of after ages which few great writers have ever been able to anticipate for themselves. They do not perceive the want of connexion in their own writings, or the gaps in their systems which are visible enough to those who come after them. In the beginnings of literature and philosophy, amid the first efforts of thought and language, more inconsistencies occur than now, when the paths of speculation are well worn and the meaning of words precisely defined. For consistency, too, is the growth of time; and some of the greatest creations of the human mind have been wanting in unity. Tried by this test, several of the Platonic Dialogues, according to our modern ideas, appear to be defective, but the deficiency is no proof that they were composed at different times or by different hands. And the supposition that the Republic was written uninterruptedly and by a continuous effort is in some degree confirmed by the numerous references from one part of the work to another.
We can divide the text into two main parts. The first part (Books I - IV) describes a state built on traditional Greek ideas about religion and morality. The second part (Books V - X) transforms this Greek state into an ideal kingdom ruled by philosophy. All other governments are corrupted versions of this ideal. These two viewpoints actually oppose each other, but Plato's genius hides this conflict. The Republic, like the Phaedrus (see Introduction to Phaedrus), is an incomplete whole. The higher light of philosophy breaks through the orderly structure of the Greek temple, which eventually fades into the heavens. We might ask whether this structural flaw comes from expanding the original plan, or from Plato's struggle to reconcile conflicting ideas he was bringing together for the first time, or perhaps from writing the work at different times. These questions are worth asking, like similar questions about the Iliad and the Odyssey, but we cannot answer them definitively. In Plato's time, there was no standard way to publish books. An author would feel free to change or add to a work that only a few friends knew about. It makes sense that he might have set his work aside for a while or switched to another project. Such interruptions would be more likely with a long work than a short one. When we try to date Plato's writings based on internal evidence, this uncertainty about whether any single dialogue was written all at once creates problems. This issue affects longer works like the Republic and the Laws more than shorter ones. On the other hand, the apparent contradictions in the Republic might simply come from conflicting elements that the philosopher tried to unite in one work. He may not have recognized the inconsistency that seems obvious to us. Few great writers can anticipate how later generations will judge their work. They do not see the lack of connection in their own writing or the gaps in their systems that are clear to those who come after them. In the early days of literature and philosophy, when thought and language were just beginning to develop, more inconsistencies occurred than now. Today, the paths of thinking are well-established and words have precise meanings. Consistency also develops over time. Some of the greatest creations of the human mind have lacked unity. By this standard, several of Plato's dialogues seem flawed by our modern standards. But this deficiency does not prove they were written at different times or by different people. The idea that the Republic was written without interruption and in one continuous effort gains some support from the many references from one part of the work to another.
The second title, ‘Concerning Justice,’ is not the one by which the Republic is quoted, either by Aristotle or generally in antiquity, and, like the other second titles of the Platonic Dialogues, may therefore be assumed to be of later date. Morgenstern and others have asked whether the definition of justice, which is the professed aim, or the construction of the State is the principal argument of the work. The answer is, that the two blend in one, and are two faces of the same truth; for justice is the order of the State, and the State is the visible embodiment of justice under the conditions of human society. The one is the soul and the other is the body, and the Greek ideal of the State, as of the individual, is a fair mind in a fair body. In Hegelian phraseology the state is the reality of which justice is the idea. Or, described in Christian language, the kingdom of God is within, and yet developes into a Church or external kingdom; ‘the house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens,’ is reduced to the proportions of an earthly building. Or, to use a Platonic image, justice and the State are the warp and the woof which run through the whole texture. And when the constitution of the State is completed, the conception of justice is not dismissed, but reappears under the same or different names throughout the work, both as the inner law of the individual soul, and finally as the principle of rewards and punishments in another life. The virtues are based on justice, of which common honesty in buying and selling is the shadow, and justice is based on the idea of good, which is the harmony of the world, and is reflected both in the institutions of states and in motions of the heavenly bodies (cp. Tim. 47). The Timaeus, which takes up the political rather than the ethical side of the Republic, and is chiefly occupied with hypotheses concerning the outward world, yet contains many indications that the same law is supposed to reign over the State, over nature, and over man.
The second title, 'Concerning Justice,' is not how the Republic was quoted by Aristotle or other ancient writers. Like the other second titles of Plato's Dialogues, it was probably added later. Morgenstern and others have asked whether defining justice or constructing the State is the main argument of the work. The answer is that both blend together as two faces of the same truth. Justice is the order of the State, and the State is the visible form of justice in human society. One is the soul and the other is the body. The Greek ideal of the State, like that of the individual, is a fair mind in a fair body. In Hegelian terms, the state is the reality of which justice is the idea. In Christian language, the kingdom of God is within, yet develops into a Church or external kingdom. 'The house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens,' is reduced to the size of an earthly building. Using a Platonic image, justice and the State are the warp and the woof that run through the whole fabric. When the constitution of the State is completed, the concept of justice doesn't disappear. It reappears under the same or different names throughout the work, both as the inner law of the individual soul and finally as the principle of rewards and punishments in another life. The virtues are based on justice, of which common honesty in buying and selling is just a shadow. Justice is based on the idea of good, which is the harmony of the world. This harmony is reflected both in the institutions of states and in the movements of the heavenly bodies (cp. Tim. 47). The Timaeus takes up the political rather than the ethical side of the Republic. It focuses mainly on theories about the physical world, yet contains many signs that the same law is supposed to rule over the State, over nature, and over man.
Too much, however, has been made of this question both in ancient and modern times. There is a stage of criticism in which all works, whether of nature or of art, are referred to design. Now in ancient writings, and indeed in literature generally, there remains often a large element which was not comprehended in the original design. For the plan grows under the author’s hand; new thoughts occur to him in the act of writing; he has not worked out the argument to the end before he begins. The reader who seeks to find some one idea under which the whole may be conceived, must necessarily seize on the vaguest and most general. Thus Stallbaum, who is dissatisfied with the ordinary explanations of the argument of the Republic, imagines himself to have found the true argument ‘in the representation of human life in a State perfected by justice, and governed according to the idea of good.’ There may be some use in such general descriptions, but they can hardly be said to express the design of the writer. The truth is, that we may as well speak of many designs as of one; nor need anything be excluded from the plan of a great work to which the mind is naturally led by the association of ideas, and which does not interfere with the general purpose. What kind or degree of unity is to be sought after in a building, in the plastic arts, in poetry, in prose, is a problem which has to be determined relatively to the subject-matter. To Plato himself, the enquiry ‘what was the intention of the writer,’ or ‘what was the principal argument of the Republic’ would have been hardly intelligible, and therefore had better be at once dismissed (cp. the Introduction to the Phaedrus).
People have made too much of this question, both in ancient and modern times. There's a stage of criticism where all works, whether natural or artistic, are judged by their supposed design. But in ancient writings, and in literature generally, there's often a large element that wasn't part of the original plan. The plan grows as the author writes. New thoughts come to him while he's working. He hasn't figured out the whole argument before he starts. A reader who tries to find one single idea that explains everything must settle for something vague and general. Take Stallbaum, for example. He wasn't satisfied with the usual explanations of the Republic's argument. So he imagined he'd found the true argument "in the representation of human life in a State perfected by justice, and governed according to the idea of good." Such general descriptions might have some use, but they hardly express what the writer actually intended. The truth is, we might as well talk about many designs instead of just one. Nothing needs to be excluded from a great work's plan if the mind naturally leads there through connected ideas, and if it doesn't interfere with the general purpose. What kind or degree of unity should we look for in a building, in sculpture, in poetry, or in prose? This is a problem that must be solved based on the subject matter itself. To Plato himself, the question "what was the writer's intention" or "what was the main argument of the Republic" would have made little sense. So we'd better dismiss it right away (compare the Introduction to the Phaedrus).
Is not the Republic the vehicle of three or four great truths which, to Plato’s own mind, are most naturally represented in the form of the State? Just as in the Jewish prophets the reign of Messiah, or ‘the day of the Lord,’ or the suffering Servant or people of God, or the ‘Sun of righteousness with healing in his wings’ only convey, to us at least, their great spiritual ideals, so through the Greek State Plato reveals to us his own thoughts about divine perfection, which is the idea of good—like the sun in the visible world;—about human perfection, which is justice—about education beginning in youth and continuing in later years—about poets and sophists and tyrants who are the false teachers and evil rulers of mankind—about ‘the world’ which is the embodiment of them—about a kingdom which exists nowhere upon earth but is laid up in heaven to be the pattern and rule of human life. No such inspired creation is at unity with itself, any more than the clouds of heaven when the sun pierces through them. Every shade of light and dark, of truth, and of fiction which is the veil of truth, is allowable in a work of philosophical imagination. It is not all on the same plane; it easily passes from ideas to myths and fancies, from facts to figures of speech. It is not prose but poetry, at least a great part of it, and ought not to be judged by the rules of logic or the probabilities of history. The writer is not fashioning his ideas into an artistic whole; they take possession of him and are too much for him. We have no need therefore to discuss whether a State such as Plato has conceived is practicable or not, or whether the outward form or the inward life came first into the mind of the writer. For the practicability of his ideas has nothing to do with their truth; and the highest thoughts to which he attains may be truly said to bear the greatest ‘marks of design’—justice more than the external frame-work of the State, the idea of good more than justice. The great science of dialectic or the organisation of ideas has no real content; but is only a type of the method or spirit in which the higher knowledge is to be pursued by the spectator of all time and all existence. It is in the fifth, sixth, and seventh books that Plato reaches the ‘summit of speculation,’ and these, although they fail to satisfy the requirements of a modern thinker, may therefore be regarded as the most important, as they are also the most original, portions of the work.
Isn't the Republic really a way to express three or four great truths? To Plato's mind, these truths are best shown through the form of the State. Think of the Jewish prophets and their visions. The reign of the Messiah, "the day of the Lord," the suffering Servant or people of God, the "Sun of righteousness with healing in his wings" - these all convey great spiritual ideals, at least to us. In the same way, Plato uses the Greek State to reveal his thoughts about divine perfection, which is the idea of good. It's like the sun in the visible world. He shows us human perfection, which is justice. He explores education that begins in youth and continues through life. He examines poets and sophists and tyrants who are the false teachers and evil rulers of mankind. He considers "the world" which embodies all of these. He envisions a kingdom that exists nowhere on earth but is laid up in heaven to be the pattern and rule of human life. No inspired creation like this is perfectly unified with itself. It's no more unified than the clouds of heaven when the sun pierces through them. Every shade of light and dark, of truth, and of fiction that veils truth is allowed in a work of philosophical imagination. It's not all on the same level. It easily moves from ideas to myths and fantasies, from facts to figures of speech. It's not prose but poetry, at least a great part of it. It shouldn't be judged by the rules of logic or the probabilities of history. The writer isn't carefully shaping his ideas into an artistic whole. Instead, they take possession of him and overwhelm him. We don't need to discuss whether a State like Plato imagined could actually work. We don't need to debate whether the outward form or the inward life came first to the writer's mind. The practicality of his ideas has nothing to do with their truth. The highest thoughts he reaches truly bear the greatest "marks of design." Justice matters more than the external framework of the State. The idea of good matters more than justice. The great science of dialectic or the organization of ideas has no real content. It's only a model of the method or spirit in which higher knowledge should be pursued by the observer of all time and all existence. Plato reaches the "summit of speculation" in the fifth, sixth, and seventh books. These books fail to satisfy the requirements of a modern thinker. But they can be regarded as the most important portions of the work. They are also the most original.
It is not necessary to discuss at length a minor question which has been raised by Boeckh, respecting the imaginary date at which the conversation was held (the year 411 B.C. which is proposed by him will do as well as any other); for a writer of fiction, and especially a writer who, like Plato, is notoriously careless of chronology (cp. Rep., Symp., 193 A, etc.), only aims at general probability. Whether all the persons mentioned in the Republic could ever have met at any one time is not a difficulty which would have occurred to an Athenian reading the work forty years later, or to Plato himself at the time of writing (any more than to Shakespeare respecting one of his own dramas); and need not greatly trouble us now. Yet this may be a question having no answer ‘which is still worth asking,’ because the investigation shows that we cannot argue historically from the dates in Plato; it would be useless therefore to waste time in inventing far-fetched reconcilements of them in order to avoid chronological difficulties, such, for example, as the conjecture of C.F. Hermann, that Glaucon and Adeimantus are not the brothers but the uncles of Plato (cp. Apol. 34 A), or the fancy of Stallbaum that Plato intentionally left anachronisms indicating the dates at which some of his Dialogues were written.
We don't need to spend much time on a minor question raised by Boeckh about the imaginary date when this conversation took place. His proposed year of 411 B.C. works as well as any other date. A fiction writer, especially one like Plato who famously ignores chronology (see Rep., Symp., 193 A, etc.), only aims for general believability. Whether all the people mentioned in the Republic could have actually met at one time wouldn't have bothered an Athenian reader forty years later, or Plato himself when writing it. This is no different from Shakespeare and his plays. It shouldn't trouble us much now either. Still, this question might be worth asking even if it has no answer. The investigation shows we can't use Plato's dates as historical evidence. So it would be pointless to waste time creating far-fetched explanations to solve chronological problems. For example, C.F. Hermann suggested that Glaucon and Adeimantus are Plato's uncles, not his brothers (see Apol. 34 A). Stallbaum had the idea that Plato deliberately included anachronisms to hint at when he wrote some of his Dialogues. These theories aren't worth pursuing.
The principal characters in the Republic are Cephalus, Polemarchus, Thrasymachus, Socrates, Glaucon, and Adeimantus. Cephalus appears in the introduction only, Polemarchus drops at the end of the first argument, and Thrasymachus is reduced to silence at the close of the first book. The main discussion is carried on by Socrates, Glaucon, and Adeimantus. Among the company are Lysias (the orator) and Euthydemus, the sons of Cephalus and brothers of Polemarchus, an unknown Charmantides—these are mute auditors; also there is Cleitophon, who once interrupts, where, as in the Dialogue which bears his name, he appears as the friend and ally of Thrasymachus.
The main characters in the Republic are Cephalus, Polemarchus, Thrasymachus, Socrates, Glaucon, and Adeimantus. Cephalus only appears in the introduction. Polemarchus disappears at the end of the first argument. Thrasymachus falls silent at the close of the first book. The main discussion happens between Socrates, Glaucon, and Adeimantus. Other people are present too: Lysias (the orator) and Euthydemus, who are Cephalus's sons and Polemarchus's brothers, plus an unknown man named Charmantides. These three just listen silently. Cleitophon is also there. He interrupts once, and like in the dialogue named after him, he supports Thrasymachus.
Cephalus, the patriarch of the house, has been appropriately engaged in offering a sacrifice. He is the pattern of an old man who has almost done with life, and is at peace with himself and with all mankind. He feels that he is drawing nearer to the world below, and seems to linger around the memory of the past. He is eager that Socrates should come to visit him, fond of the poetry of the last generation, happy in the consciousness of a well-spent life, glad at having escaped from the tyranny of youthful lusts. His love of conversation, his affection, his indifference to riches, even his garrulity, are interesting traits of character. He is not one of those who have nothing to say, because their whole mind has been absorbed in making money. Yet he acknowledges that riches have the advantage of placing men above the temptation to dishonesty or falsehood. The respectful attention shown to him by Socrates, whose love of conversation, no less than the mission imposed upon him by the Oracle, leads him to ask questions of all men, young and old alike, should also be noted. Who better suited to raise the question of justice than Cephalus, whose life might seem to be the expression of it? The moderation with which old age is pictured by Cephalus as a very tolerable portion of existence is characteristic, not only of him, but of Greek feeling generally, and contrasts with the exaggeration of Cicero in the De Senectute. The evening of life is described by Plato in the most expressive manner, yet with the fewest possible touches. As Cicero remarks (Ep. ad Attic. iv. 16), the aged Cephalus would have been out of place in the discussion which follows, and which he could neither have understood nor taken part in without a violation of dramatic propriety (cp. Lysimachus in the Laches).
Cephalus, the head of the household, has been properly occupied with making a sacrifice. He represents the ideal of an old man who has nearly finished with life and is at peace with himself and everyone around him. He feels that he is getting closer to the world of the dead, and he seems to dwell on memories of the past. He is eager for Socrates to visit him, enjoys the poetry of the previous generation, takes pleasure in knowing he has lived a good life, and is glad to have escaped the control of youthful desires. His love of conversation, his warmth, his lack of concern for wealth, and even his tendency to talk too much are all interesting aspects of his character. He is not one of those people who have nothing to say because their entire mind has been focused on making money. Still, he admits that wealth has the advantage of keeping people from being tempted toward dishonesty or lies. We should also notice the respectful attention that Socrates shows him. Socrates' love of conversation, as much as the mission given to him by the Oracle, leads him to question all people, both young and old. Who would be better suited to raise the question of justice than Cephalus, whose life seems to be the very expression of it? The balanced way that Cephalus describes old age as a quite bearable part of existence is typical not only of him, but of Greek attitudes in general. This contrasts with the exaggeration found in Cicero's De Senectute. Plato describes the evening of life in the most vivid way, yet with the fewest possible details. As Cicero notes (Ep. ad Attic. iv. 16), the elderly Cephalus would have been out of place in the discussion that follows. He could neither have understood it nor participated in it without breaking the rules of dramatic appropriateness (compare Lysimachus in the Laches).
His ‘son and heir’ Polemarchus has the frankness and impetuousness of youth; he is for detaining Socrates by force in the opening scene, and will not ‘let him off’ on the subject of women and children. Like Cephalus, he is limited in his point of view, and represents the proverbial stage of morality which has rules of life rather than principles; and he quotes Simonides (cp. Aristoph. Clouds) as his father had quoted Pindar. But after this he has no more to say; the answers which he makes are only elicited from him by the dialectic of Socrates. He has not yet experienced the influence of the Sophists like Glaucon and Adeimantus, nor is he sensible of the necessity of refuting them; he belongs to the pre-Socratic or pre-dialectical age. He is incapable of arguing, and is bewildered by Socrates to such a degree that he does not know what he is saying. He is made to admit that justice is a thief, and that the virtues follow the analogy of the arts. From his brother Lysias (contra Eratosth.) we learn that he fell a victim to the Thirty Tyrants, but no allusion is here made to his fate, nor to the circumstance that Cephalus and his family were of Syracusan origin, and had migrated from Thurii to Athens.
Polemarchus is Cephalus's "son and heir." He has the boldness and impulsiveness of youth. In the opening scene, he wants to force Socrates to stay. He won't "let him off" when it comes to discussing women and children. Like his father Cephalus, his viewpoint is narrow. He represents the traditional stage of morality that follows rules of life rather than principles. He quotes Simonides (compare with Aristophanes' Clouds) just as his father had quoted Pindar. But after this, he has nothing more to say. The answers he gives are only drawn out of him by Socrates' questioning method. He hasn't yet experienced the influence of the Sophists like Glaucon and Adeimantus have. He doesn't see the need to argue against them. He belongs to the pre-Socratic or pre-dialectical age. He can't argue properly. Socrates confuses him so much that he doesn't know what he's saying. He's forced to admit that justice is a thief and that the virtues follow the same pattern as the arts. From his brother Lysias (contra Eratosth.) we learn that he was killed by the Thirty Tyrants. But no mention is made here of his fate. There's also no reference to the fact that Cephalus and his family were originally from Syracuse and had moved from Thurii to Athens.
The ‘Chalcedonian giant,’ Thrasymachus, of whom we have already heard in the Phaedrus, is the personification of the Sophists, according to Plato’s conception of them, in some of their worst characteristics. He is vain and blustering, refusing to discourse unless he is paid, fond of making an oration, and hoping thereby to escape the inevitable Socrates; but a mere child in argument, and unable to foresee that the next ‘move’ (to use a Platonic expression) will ‘shut him up.’ He has reached the stage of framing general notions, and in this respect is in advance of Cephalus and Polemarchus. But he is incapable of defending them in a discussion, and vainly tries to cover his confusion with banter and insolence. Whether such doctrines as are attributed to him by Plato were really held either by him or by any other Sophist is uncertain; in the infancy of philosophy serious errors about morality might easily grow up—they are certainly put into the mouths of speakers in Thucydides; but we are concerned at present with Plato’s description of him, and not with the historical reality. The inequality of the contest adds greatly to the humour of the scene. The pompous and empty Sophist is utterly helpless in the hands of the great master of dialectic, who knows how to touch all the springs of vanity and weakness in him. He is greatly irritated by the irony of Socrates, but his noisy and imbecile rage only lays him more and more open to the thrusts of his assailant. His determination to cram down their throats, or put ‘bodily into their souls’ his own words, elicits a cry of horror from Socrates. The state of his temper is quite as worthy of remark as the process of the argument. Nothing is more amusing than his complete submission when he has been once thoroughly beaten. At first he seems to continue the discussion with reluctance, but soon with apparent good-will, and he even testifies his interest at a later stage by one or two occasional remarks. When attacked by Glaucon he is humorously protected by Socrates ‘as one who has never been his enemy and is now his friend.’ From Cicero and Quintilian and from Aristotle’s Rhetoric we learn that the Sophist whom Plato has made so ridiculous was a man of note whose writings were preserved in later ages. The play on his name which was made by his contemporary Herodicus (Aris. Rhet.), ‘thou wast ever bold in battle,’ seems to show that the description of him is not devoid of verisimilitude.
The 'Chalcedonian giant,' Thrasymachus, whom we have already heard about in the Phaedrus, represents the Sophists as Plato saw them at their worst. He is vain and loud, refusing to speak unless he gets paid. He loves making speeches and hopes this will help him escape the inevitable Socrates. But he's just a child when it comes to real argument. He can't see that the next 'move' (to use Plato's term) will 'shut him up.' He has learned to form general ideas, which puts him ahead of Cephalus and Polemarchus. But he can't defend these ideas in discussion. He tries to hide his confusion with jokes and rudeness. We don't know if Thrasymachus or any other Sophist actually held the views Plato gives him. In philosophy's early days, serious mistakes about morality could easily develop. Similar ideas certainly appear in speeches by Thucydides. But right now we're looking at Plato's description of him, not the historical truth. The unequal contest makes the scene much funnier. The pompous and empty Sophist is completely helpless against the great master of dialectic. Socrates knows exactly how to touch all his weak spots and vanity. Thrasymachus gets very angry at Socrates' irony. But his loud and foolish rage only opens him up to more attacks. His plan to cram his words down their throats, or put them 'bodily into their souls,' makes Socrates cry out in horror. His bad temper is just as noteworthy as the argument itself. Nothing is more amusing than how completely he gives in once he's been thoroughly beaten. At first he seems to continue the discussion reluctantly. But soon he appears willing, even interested. He even makes a few comments later on. When Glaucon attacks him, Socrates humorously protects him 'as one who has never been his enemy and is now his friend.' From Cicero and Quintilian and from Aristotle's Rhetoric we learn something important. The Sophist that Plato made so ridiculous was actually a notable man. His writings survived for later ages. His contemporary Herodicus made a play on his name (Aris. Rhet.), saying 'thou wast ever bold in battle.' This suggests that Plato's description of him has some truth to it.
When Thrasymachus has been silenced, the two principal respondents, Glaucon and Adeimantus, appear on the scene: here, as in Greek tragedy (cp. Introd. to Phaedo), three actors are introduced. At first sight the two sons of Ariston may seem to wear a family likeness, like the two friends Simmias and Cebes in the Phaedo. But on a nearer examination of them the similarity vanishes, and they are seen to be distinct characters. Glaucon is the impetuous youth who can ‘just never have enough of fechting’ (cp. the character of him in Xen. Mem. iii. 6); the man of pleasure who is acquainted with the mysteries of love; the ‘juvenis qui gaudet canibus,’ and who improves the breed of animals; the lover of art and music who has all the experiences of youthful life. He is full of quickness and penetration, piercing easily below the clumsy platitudes of Thrasymachus to the real difficulty; he turns out to the light the seamy side of human life, and yet does not lose faith in the just and true. It is Glaucon who seizes what may be termed the ludicrous relation of the philosopher to the world, to whom a state of simplicity is ‘a city of pigs,’ who is always prepared with a jest when the argument offers him an opportunity, and who is ever ready to second the humour of Socrates and to appreciate the ridiculous, whether in the connoisseurs of music, or in the lovers of theatricals, or in the fantastic behaviour of the citizens of democracy. His weaknesses are several times alluded to by Socrates, who, however, will not allow him to be attacked by his brother Adeimantus. He is a soldier, and, like Adeimantus, has been distinguished at the battle of Megara (anno 456?)...The character of Adeimantus is deeper and graver, and the profounder objections are commonly put into his mouth. Glaucon is more demonstrative, and generally opens the game. Adeimantus pursues the argument further. Glaucon has more of the liveliness and quick sympathy of youth; Adeimantus has the maturer judgment of a grown-up man of the world. In the second book, when Glaucon insists that justice and injustice shall be considered without regard to their consequences, Adeimantus remarks that they are regarded by mankind in general only for the sake of their consequences; and in a similar vein of reflection he urges at the beginning of the fourth book that Socrates fails in making his citizens happy, and is answered that happiness is not the first but the second thing, not the direct aim but the indirect consequence of the good government of a State. In the discussion about religion and mythology, Adeimantus is the respondent, but Glaucon breaks in with a slight jest, and carries on the conversation in a lighter tone about music and gymnastic to the end of the book. It is Adeimantus again who volunteers the criticism of common sense on the Socratic method of argument, and who refuses to let Socrates pass lightly over the question of women and children. It is Adeimantus who is the respondent in the more argumentative, as Glaucon in the lighter and more imaginative portions of the Dialogue. For example, throughout the greater part of the sixth book, the causes of the corruption of philosophy and the conception of the idea of good are discussed with Adeimantus. Glaucon resumes his place of principal respondent; but he has a difficulty in apprehending the higher education of Socrates, and makes some false hits in the course of the discussion. Once more Adeimantus returns with the allusion to his brother Glaucon whom he compares to the contentious State; in the next book he is again superseded, and Glaucon continues to the end.
When Thrasymachus has been silenced, the two main respondents, Glaucon and Adeimantus, appear on the scene. Here, as in Greek tragedy, three actors are introduced. At first glance the two sons of Ariston may seem to share a family resemblance, like the two friends Simmias and Cebes in the Phaedo. But when we examine them more closely, the similarity vanishes. They are distinct characters. Glaucon is the impetuous youth who can "just never have enough of fighting." He is the man of pleasure who knows the mysteries of love. He is the young man who delights in dogs and improves the breed of animals. He loves art and music and has all the experiences of youthful life. He is full of quickness and insight. He easily pierces below the clumsy platitudes of Thrasymachus to reach the real difficulty. He turns out to the light the seamy side of human life, yet does not lose faith in the just and true. Glaucon seizes what may be called the ridiculous relationship of the philosopher to the world. To him a state of simplicity is "a city of pigs." He is always prepared with a joke when the argument offers him an opportunity. He is ever ready to second the humor of Socrates and to appreciate the ridiculous, whether in the connoisseurs of music, or in the lovers of theater, or in the fantastic behavior of the citizens of democracy. His weaknesses are mentioned several times by Socrates, who will not allow him to be attacked by his brother Adeimantus. He is a soldier, and like Adeimantus, has been distinguished at the battle of Megara. The character of Adeimantus is deeper and more serious. The more profound objections are commonly put into his mouth. Glaucon is more demonstrative and generally opens the game. Adeimantus pursues the argument further. Glaucon has more of the liveliness and quick sympathy of youth. Adeimantus has the mature judgment of a grown-up man of the world. In the second book, when Glaucon insists that justice and injustice shall be considered without regard to their consequences, Adeimantus remarks that they are regarded by mankind in general only for the sake of their consequences. In a similar vein of reflection he urges at the beginning of the fourth book that Socrates fails in making his citizens happy. He is answered that happiness is not the first but the second thing, not the direct aim but the indirect consequence of the good government of a State. In the discussion about religion and mythology, Adeimantus is the respondent, but Glaucon breaks in with a slight jest. He carries on the conversation in a lighter tone about music and gymnastic to the end of the book. Adeimantus again volunteers the criticism of common sense on the Socratic method of argument. He refuses to let Socrates pass lightly over the question of women and children. Adeimantus is the respondent in the more argumentative portions of the Dialogue, as Glaucon is in the lighter and more imaginative portions. For example, throughout the greater part of the sixth book, the causes of the corruption of philosophy and the conception of the idea of good are discussed with Adeimantus. Glaucon resumes his place of principal respondent, but he has difficulty understanding the higher education of Socrates. He makes some false hits in the course of the discussion. Once more Adeimantus returns with the allusion to his brother Glaucon whom he compares to the contentious State. In the next book he is again superseded, and Glaucon continues to the end.
Thus in a succession of characters Plato represents the successive stages of morality, beginning with the Athenian gentleman of the olden time, who is followed by the practical man of that day regulating his life by proverbs and saws; to him succeeds the wild generalization of the Sophists, and lastly come the young disciples of the great teacher, who know the sophistical arguments but will not be convinced by them, and desire to go deeper into the nature of things. These too, like Cephalus, Polemarchus, Thrasymachus, are clearly distinguished from one another. Neither in the Republic, nor in any other Dialogue of Plato, is a single character repeated.
Through a series of characters, Plato shows us the different stages of moral development. He starts with the traditional Athenian gentleman of earlier times. Next comes the practical man of Plato's day, who lives by common sayings and proverbs. Then we see the wild theories of the Sophists. Finally, we meet the young students of the great teacher. These students know the sophisticated arguments but refuse to be convinced by them. They want to dig deeper into how things really work. Each of these characters—Cephalus, Polemarchus, and Thrasymachus—is clearly different from the others. In the Republic and in all of Plato's other dialogues, no character appears twice.
The delineation of Socrates in the Republic is not wholly consistent. In the first book we have more of the real Socrates, such as he is depicted in the Memorabilia of Xenophon, in the earliest Dialogues of Plato, and in the Apology. He is ironical, provoking, questioning, the old enemy of the Sophists, ready to put on the mask of Silenus as well as to argue seriously. But in the sixth book his enmity towards the Sophists abates; he acknowledges that they are the representatives rather than the corrupters of the world. He also becomes more dogmatic and constructive, passing beyond the range either of the political or the speculative ideas of the real Socrates. In one passage Plato himself seems to intimate that the time had now come for Socrates, who had passed his whole life in philosophy, to give his own opinion and not to be always repeating the notions of other men. There is no evidence that either the idea of good or the conception of a perfect state were comprehended in the Socratic teaching, though he certainly dwelt on the nature of the universal and of final causes (cp. Xen. Mem.; Phaedo); and a deep thinker like him, in his thirty or forty years of public teaching, could hardly have failed to touch on the nature of family relations, for which there is also some positive evidence in the Memorabilia (Mem.) The Socratic method is nominally retained; and every inference is either put into the mouth of the respondent or represented as the common discovery of him and Socrates. But any one can see that this is a mere form, of which the affectation grows wearisome as the work advances. The method of enquiry has passed into a method of teaching in which by the help of interlocutors the same thesis is looked at from various points of view. The nature of the process is truly characterized by Glaucon, when he describes himself as a companion who is not good for much in an investigation, but can see what he is shown, and may, perhaps, give the answer to a question more fluently than another.
Plato's portrayal of Socrates in the Republic is not entirely consistent. In the first book, we see more of the real Socrates. This matches how Xenophon describes him in the Memorabilia, how Plato shows him in his earliest dialogues, and how he appears in the Apology. He is ironic, provocative, and questioning. He remains the old enemy of the Sophists, ready to put on the mask of Silenus or argue seriously. But in the sixth book, his hostility toward the Sophists softens. He admits they represent the world rather than corrupt it. He also becomes more dogmatic and constructive. He moves beyond the political or speculative ideas of the real Socrates. In one passage, Plato himself seems to suggest that the time had come for Socrates to give his own opinion. After spending his whole life in philosophy, he should stop just repeating other men's ideas. There is no evidence that the real Socrates understood either the idea of good or the concept of a perfect state. He certainly focused on the nature of the universal and final causes, as shown in Xenophon's Memorabilia and Plato's Phaedo. A deep thinker like him, teaching publicly for thirty or forty years, could hardly have avoided discussing family relations. The Memorabilia provides some positive evidence for this too. The Socratic method appears to continue. Every conclusion is either put in the respondent's mouth or presented as a joint discovery between him and Socrates. But anyone can see this is just a formality. The pretense becomes tiresome as the work progresses. The method of inquiry has become a method of teaching. With the help of other speakers, the same thesis gets examined from different angles. Glaucon truly captures the nature of this process. He describes himself as a companion who is not much good at investigation but can see what he is shown. He might give a more fluent answer to a question than someone else.
Neither can we be absolutely certain that Socrates himself taught the immortality of the soul, which is unknown to his disciple Glaucon in the Republic (cp. Apol.); nor is there any reason to suppose that he used myths or revelations of another world as a vehicle of instruction, or that he would have banished poetry or have denounced the Greek mythology. His favorite oath is retained, and a slight mention is made of the daemonium, or internal sign, which is alluded to by Socrates as a phenomenon peculiar to himself. A real element of Socratic teaching, which is more prominent in the Republic than in any of the other Dialogues of Plato, is the use of example and illustration τὰ φορτικὰ αὐτῷ προσφέροντες, ‘Let us apply the test of common instances.’ ‘You,’ says Adeimantus, ironically, in the sixth book, ‘are so unaccustomed to speak in images.’ And this use of examples or images, though truly Socratic in origin, is enlarged by the genius of Plato into the form of an allegory or parable, which embodies in the concrete what has been already described, or is about to be described, in the abstract. Thus the figure of the cave in Book VII is a recapitulation of the divisions of knowledge in Book VI. The composite animal in Book IX is an allegory of the parts of the soul. The noble captain and the ship and the true pilot in Book VI are a figure of the relation of the people to the philosophers in the State which has been described. Other figures, such as the dog, or the marriage of the portionless maiden, or the drones and wasps in the eighth and ninth books, also form links of connexion in long passages, or are used to recall previous discussions.
We cannot be absolutely certain that Socrates himself taught the immortality of the soul. His disciple Glaucon in the Republic seems unaware of this concept (compare with the Apology). There is also no reason to suppose that Socrates used myths or revelations of another world as teaching tools. He probably would not have banished poetry or denounced Greek mythology. His favorite oath is retained in Plato's writings, and there is a slight mention of the daemonium, or internal sign. Socrates described this as a phenomenon unique to himself. A real element of Socratic teaching appears more prominently in the Republic than in any other Platonic dialogue. This is the use of example and illustration τὰ φορτικὰ αὐτῷ προσφέροντες, "Let us apply the test of common instances." "You," says Adeimantus ironically in the sixth book, "are so unaccustomed to speak in images." This use of examples or images is truly Socratic in origin. Plato's genius enlarged it into the form of allegory or parable. These allegories embody in concrete form what has already been described, or is about to be described, in abstract terms. The figure of the cave in Book VII recapitulates the divisions of knowledge in Book VI. The composite animal in Book IX is an allegory of the parts of the soul. The noble captain and the ship and the true pilot in Book VI represent the relationship between the people and the philosophers in the State that has been described. Other figures also form connecting links in long passages or recall previous discussions. These include the dog, the marriage of the portionless maiden, and the drones and wasps in the eighth and ninth books.
Plato is most true to the character of his master when he describes him as ‘not of this world.’ And with this representation of him the ideal state and the other paradoxes of the Republic are quite in accordance, though they cannot be shown to have been speculations of Socrates. To him, as to other great teachers both philosophical and religious, when they looked upward, the world seemed to be the embodiment of error and evil. The common sense of mankind has revolted against this view, or has only partially admitted it. And even in Socrates himself the sterner judgement of the multitude at times passes into a sort of ironical pity or love. Men in general are incapable of philosophy, and are therefore at enmity with the philosopher; but their misunderstanding of him is unavoidable: for they have never seen him as he truly is in his own image; they are only acquainted with artificial systems possessing no native force of truth—words which admit of many applications. Their leaders have nothing to measure with, and are therefore ignorant of their own stature. But they are to be pitied or laughed at, not to be quarrelled with; they mean well with their nostrums, if they could only learn that they are cutting off a Hydra’s head. This moderation towards those who are in error is one of the most characteristic features of Socrates in the Republic. In all the different representations of Socrates, whether of Xenophon or Plato, and amid the differences of the earlier or later Dialogues, he always retains the character of the unwearied and disinterested seeker after truth, without which he would have ceased to be Socrates.
Plato captures his master's true character when he describes Socrates as "not of this world." The ideal state and other paradoxes in the Republic fit perfectly with this view. We can't prove these were Socrates' own ideas, but they match his character. Like other great philosophical and religious teachers, Socrates saw the world as full of error and evil when he looked beyond it. Most people have rejected this harsh view or only partly accepted it. Even Socrates himself sometimes softened his stern judgment of the masses into ironic pity or love. Most people can't handle philosophy. This puts them at odds with philosophers. But their misunderstanding is inevitable. They've never seen a true philosopher as he really is. They only know artificial systems that lack real truth. These are just words that can mean many different things. Their leaders have no way to measure anything properly, so they don't know their own limitations. But these people deserve pity or gentle laughter, not anger. They mean well with their quick fixes. If only they could learn that they're just cutting off a Hydra's head. This gentle attitude toward those who are wrong is one of Socrates' most distinctive traits in the Republic. In all the different portrayals of Socrates, whether by Xenophon or Plato, and despite differences between earlier and later Dialogues, he always remains the tireless and unselfish seeker of truth. Without this quality, he wouldn't be Socrates.
Leaving the characters we may now analyse the contents of the Republic, and then proceed to consider (1) The general aspects of this Hellenic ideal of the State, (2) The modern lights in which the thoughts of Plato may be read.
Now that we've finished with the characters, we can analyze what the Republic contains. Then we'll consider two things: (1) The general aspects of this Greek ideal of the State, (2) The modern ways we can understand Plato's thoughts.
BOOK I. The Republic opens with a truly Greek scene—a festival in honour of the goddess Bendis which is held in the Piraeus; to this is added the promise of an equestrian torch-race in the evening. The whole work is supposed to be recited by Socrates on the day after the festival to a small party, consisting of Critias, Timaeus, Hermocrates, and another; this we learn from the first words of the Timaeus.
BOOK I. The Republic opens with a truly Greek scene—a festival honoring the goddess Bendis held in the Piraeus. The evening also promises an equestrian torch-race. The entire work is supposedly recited by Socrates the day after the festival to a small group. This group consists of Critias, Timaeus, Hermocrates, and another person. We learn this from the opening words of the Timaeus.
When the rhetorical advantage of reciting the Dialogue has been gained, the attention is not distracted by any reference to the audience; nor is the reader further reminded of the extraordinary length of the narrative. Of the numerous company, three only take any serious part in the discussion; nor are we informed whether in the evening they went to the torch-race, or talked, as in the Symposium, through the night. The manner in which the conversation has arisen is described as follows:—Socrates and his companion Glaucon are about to leave the festival when they are detained by a message from Polemarchus, who speedily appears accompanied by Adeimantus, the brother of Glaucon, and with playful violence compels them to remain, promising them not only the torch-race, but the pleasure of conversation with the young, which to Socrates is a far greater attraction. They return to the house of Cephalus, Polemarchus’ father, now in extreme old age, who is found sitting upon a cushioned seat crowned for a sacrifice. ‘You should come to me oftener, Socrates, for I am too old to go to you; and at my time of life, having lost other pleasures, I care the more for conversation.’ Socrates asks him what he thinks of age, to which the old man replies, that the sorrows and discontents of age are to be attributed to the tempers of men, and that age is a time of peace in which the tyranny of the passions is no longer felt. Yes, replies Socrates, but the world will say, Cephalus, that you are happy in old age because you are rich. ‘And there is something in what they say, Socrates, but not so much as they imagine—as Themistocles replied to the Seriphian, “Neither you, if you had been an Athenian, nor I, if I had been a Seriphian, would ever have been famous,” I might in like manner reply to you, Neither a good poor man can be happy in age, nor yet a bad rich man.’ Socrates remarks that Cephalus appears not to care about riches, a quality which he ascribes to his having inherited, not acquired them, and would like to know what he considers to be the chief advantage of them. Cephalus answers that when you are old the belief in the world below grows upon you, and then to have done justice and never to have been compelled to do injustice through poverty, and never to have deceived anyone, are felt to be unspeakable blessings. Socrates, who is evidently preparing for an argument, next asks, What is the meaning of the word justice? To tell the truth and pay your debts? No more than this? Or must we admit exceptions? Ought I, for example, to put back into the hands of my friend, who has gone mad, the sword which I borrowed of him when he was in his right mind? ‘There must be exceptions.’ ‘And yet,’ says Polemarchus, ‘the definition which has been given has the authority of Simonides.’ Here Cephalus retires to look after the sacrifices, and bequeaths, as Socrates facetiously remarks, the possession of the argument to his heir, Polemarchus...
Once the rhetorical advantage of reciting the Dialogue has been gained, the attention isn't distracted by any reference to the audience. The reader isn't reminded of the extraordinary length of the narrative either. Of the numerous company, only three take any serious part in the discussion. We aren't told whether they went to the torch-race in the evening, or talked through the night as in the Symposium. The conversation begins as follows. Socrates and his companion Glaucon are about to leave the festival when they are stopped by a message from Polemarchus. He quickly appears with Adeimantus, Glaucon's brother, and playfully forces them to stay. He promises them not only the torch-race, but the pleasure of conversation with young people, which is a far greater attraction to Socrates. They return to the house of Cephalus, Polemarchus' father, who is now extremely old. They find him sitting on a cushioned seat, crowned for a sacrifice. "You should come to me more often, Socrates, for I am too old to go to you. At my time of life, having lost other pleasures, I care more for conversation." Socrates asks him what he thinks of age. The old man replies that the sorrows and discontents of age come from people's temperaments. Age is a time of peace when the tyranny of the passions is no longer felt. "Yes," replies Socrates, "but the world will say, Cephalus, that you are happy in old age because you are rich." "There is something in what they say, Socrates, but not as much as they imagine. As Themistocles replied to the Seriphian, 'Neither you, if you had been an Athenian, nor I, if I had been a Seriphian, would ever have been famous.' I might reply to you in the same way: Neither a good poor man can be happy in age, nor a bad rich man." Socrates remarks that Cephalus appears not to care about riches. He attributes this quality to Cephalus having inherited rather than acquired them. He would like to know what Cephalus considers to be their chief advantage. Cephalus answers that when you are old, belief in the world below grows upon you. Then to have done justice and never to have been forced to do injustice through poverty, and never to have deceived anyone, are felt to be unspeakable blessings. Socrates, who is evidently preparing for an argument, next asks, "What is the meaning of the word justice? To tell the truth and pay your debts? No more than this? Or must we admit exceptions? Should I, for example, put back into the hands of my friend, who has gone mad, the sword which I borrowed from him when he was in his right mind?" "There must be exceptions." "And yet," says Polemarchus, "the definition which has been given has the authority of Simonides." Here Cephalus retires to look after the sacrifices. As Socrates jokingly remarks, he bequeaths the possession of the argument to his heir, Polemarchus.
The description of old age is finished, and Plato, as his manner is, has touched the key-note of the whole work in asking for the definition of justice, first suggesting the question which Glaucon afterwards pursues respecting external goods, and preparing for the concluding mythus of the world below in the slight allusion of Cephalus. The portrait of the just man is a natural frontispiece or introduction to the long discourse which follows, and may perhaps imply that in all our perplexity about the nature of justice, there is no difficulty in discerning ‘who is a just man.’ The first explanation has been supported by a saying of Simonides; and now Socrates has a mind to show that the resolution of justice into two unconnected precepts, which have no common principle, fails to satisfy the demands of dialectic.
Plato has finished describing old age. As he often does, he has introduced the main theme of the entire work by asking for a definition of justice. He hints at the question that Glaucon will later pursue about external goods. He also prepares us for the concluding myth of the underworld through Cephalus's brief reference to it. The portrait of the just man serves as a natural introduction to the long discussion that follows. It may suggest that despite all our confusion about the nature of justice, we have no trouble recognizing "who is a just man." The first explanation was backed up by a saying from Simonides. Now Socrates wants to show that breaking justice down into two separate rules, which have no shared principle, fails to meet the standards of logical reasoning.
...He proceeds: What did Simonides mean by this saying of his? Did he mean that I was to give back arms to a madman? ‘No, not in that case, not if the parties are friends, and evil would result. He meant that you were to do what was proper, good to friends and harm to enemies.’ Every act does something to somebody; and following this analogy, Socrates asks, What is this due and proper thing which justice does, and to whom? He is answered that justice does good to friends and harm to enemies. But in what way good or harm? ‘In making alliances with the one, and going to war with the other.’ Then in time of peace what is the good of justice? The answer is that justice is of use in contracts, and contracts are money partnerships. Yes; but how in such partnerships is the just man of more use than any other man? ‘When you want to have money safely kept and not used.’ Then justice will be useful when money is useless. And there is another difficulty: justice, like the art of war or any other art, must be of opposites, good at attack as well as at defence, at stealing as well as at guarding. But then justice is a thief, though a hero notwithstanding, like Autolycus, the Homeric hero, who was ‘excellent above all men in theft and perjury’—to such a pass have you and Homer and Simonides brought us; though I do not forget that the thieving must be for the good of friends and the harm of enemies. And still there arises another question: Are friends to be interpreted as real or seeming; enemies as real or seeming? And are our friends to be only the good, and our enemies to be the evil? The answer is, that we must do good to our seeming and real good friends, and evil to our seeming and real evil enemies—good to the good, evil to the evil. But ought we to render evil for evil at all, when to do so will only make men more evil? Can justice produce injustice any more than the art of horsemanship can make bad horsemen, or heat produce cold? The final conclusion is, that no sage or poet ever said that the just return evil for evil; this was a maxim of some rich and mighty man, Periander, Perdiccas, or Ismenias the Theban (about B.C. 398-381)...
He continues: What did Simonides mean by this saying? Did he mean that I should give back weapons to a madman? 'No, not in that case, not if the parties are friends, and evil would result. He meant that you should do what was proper, good to friends and harm to enemies.' Every act does something to somebody. Following this logic, Socrates asks, What is this due and proper thing which justice does, and to whom? He is answered that justice does good to friends and harm to enemies. But in what way good or harm? 'In making alliances with the one, and going to war with the other.' Then in time of peace what is the good of justice? The answer is that justice is useful in contracts, and contracts are money partnerships. Yes, but how in such partnerships is the just man more useful than any other man? 'When you want to have money safely kept and not used.' Then justice will be useful when money is useless. And there is another difficulty: justice, like the art of war or any other art, must be of opposites, good at attack as well as defense, at stealing as well as at guarding. But then justice is a thief, though a hero nonetheless, like Autolycus, the Homeric hero, who was 'excellent above all men in theft and perjury.' To such a pass have you and Homer and Simonides brought us, though I do not forget that the thieving must be for the good of friends and the harm of enemies. And still there arises another question: Are friends to be interpreted as real or seeming? Enemies as real or seeming? And are our friends to be only the good, and our enemies to be the evil? The answer is that we must do good to our seeming and real good friends, and evil to our seeming and real evil enemies. Good to the good, evil to the evil. But ought we to render evil for evil at all, when to do so will only make men more evil? Can justice produce injustice any more than the art of horsemanship can make bad horsemen, or heat produce cold? The final conclusion is that no sage or poet ever said that the just return evil for evil. This was a maxim of some rich and mighty man, Periander, Perdiccas, or Ismenias the Theban (about B.C. 398-381).
Thus the first stage of aphoristic or unconscious morality is shown to be inadequate to the wants of the age; the authority of the poets is set aside, and through the winding mazes of dialectic we make an approach to the Christian precept of forgiveness of injuries. Similar words are applied by the Persian mystic poet to the Divine being when the questioning spirit is stirred within him:—‘If because I do evil, Thou punishest me by evil, what is the difference between Thee and me?’ In this both Plato and Kheyam rise above the level of many Christian (?) theologians. The first definition of justice easily passes into the second; for the simple words ‘to speak the truth and pay your debts’ is substituted the more abstract ‘to do good to your friends and harm to your enemies.’ Either of these explanations gives a sufficient rule of life for plain men, but they both fall short of the precision of philosophy. We may note in passing the antiquity of casuistry, which not only arises out of the conflict of established principles in particular cases, but also out of the effort to attain them, and is prior as well as posterior to our fundamental notions of morality. The ‘interrogation’ of moral ideas; the appeal to the authority of Homer; the conclusion that the maxim, ‘Do good to your friends and harm to your enemies,’ being erroneous, could not have been the word of any great man, are all of them very characteristic of the Platonic Socrates.
The first stage of simple, instinctive morality proves inadequate for the needs of the time. The authority of the poets is rejected. Through the complex paths of logical argument, we approach the Christian principle of forgiving those who hurt us. A Persian mystic poet uses similar words when speaking to God, when doubt stirs within him: "If I do evil and You punish me with evil, what is the difference between You and me?" Here both Plato and Kheyam rise above the level of many Christian theologians. The first definition of justice easily transforms into the second. The simple words "to speak the truth and pay your debts" are replaced by the more abstract "to do good to your friends and harm to your enemies." Either explanation provides a sufficient rule of life for ordinary people, but both fall short of philosophical precision. We should note the ancient origins of casuistry. It arises not only from conflicts between established principles in specific cases, but also from the effort to reach those principles. It exists both before and after our basic ideas about morality develop. The questioning of moral ideas, the appeal to Homer's authority, and the conclusion that the maxim "Do good to your friends and harm to your enemies" must be wrong and therefore could not have come from any great person - all of these are very characteristic of Plato's Socrates.
...Here Thrasymachus, who has made several attempts to interrupt, but has hitherto been kept in order by the company, takes advantage of a pause and rushes into the arena, beginning, like a savage animal, with a roar. ‘Socrates,’ he says, ‘what folly is this?—Why do you agree to be vanquished by one another in a pretended argument?’ He then prohibits all the ordinary definitions of justice; to which Socrates replies that he cannot tell how many twelve is, if he is forbidden to say 2 x 6, or 3 x 4, or 6 x 2, or 4 x 3. At first Thrasymachus is reluctant to argue; but at length, with a promise of payment on the part of the company and of praise from Socrates, he is induced to open the game. ‘Listen,’ he says, ‘my answer is that might is right, justice the interest of the stronger: now praise me.’ Let me understand you first. Do you mean that because Polydamas the wrestler, who is stronger than we are, finds the eating of beef for his interest, the eating of beef is also for our interest, who are not so strong? Thrasymachus is indignant at the illustration, and in pompous words, apparently intended to restore dignity to the argument, he explains his meaning to be that the rulers make laws for their own interests. But suppose, says Socrates, that the ruler or stronger makes a mistake—then the interest of the stronger is not his interest. Thrasymachus is saved from this speedy downfall by his disciple Cleitophon, who introduces the word ‘thinks;’—not the actual interest of the ruler, but what he thinks or what seems to be his interest, is justice. The contradiction is escaped by the unmeaning evasion: for though his real and apparent interests may differ, what the ruler thinks to be his interest will always remain what he thinks to be his interest.
Here Thrasymachus, who has made several attempts to interrupt but has been kept in order by the company, takes advantage of a pause and rushes into the arena. He begins like a savage animal, with a roar. "Socrates," he says, "what folly is this? Why do you agree to be defeated by one another in a pretended argument?" He then prohibits all the ordinary definitions of justice. Socrates replies that he cannot tell how many twelve is if he is forbidden to say 2 x 6, or 3 x 4, or 6 x 2, or 4 x 3. At first Thrasymachus is reluctant to argue. But at length, with a promise of payment from the company and praise from Socrates, he is persuaded to begin the game. "Listen," he says, "my answer is that might is right. Justice is the interest of the stronger. Now praise me." Let me understand you first. Do you mean that because Polydamas the wrestler, who is stronger than we are, finds eating beef in his interest, eating beef is also in our interest, even though we are not so strong? Thrasymachus is indignant at the illustration. In pompous words, apparently intended to restore dignity to the argument, he explains his meaning. The rulers make laws for their own interests. But suppose, says Socrates, that the ruler or stronger makes a mistake. Then the interest of the stronger is not his interest. Thrasymachus is saved from this speedy downfall by his disciple Cleitophon, who introduces the word "thinks." Not the actual interest of the ruler, but what he thinks or what seems to be his interest, is justice. The contradiction is escaped by this meaningless evasion. Though his real and apparent interests may differ, what the ruler thinks to be his interest will always remain what he thinks to be his interest.
Of course this was not the original assertion, nor is the new interpretation accepted by Thrasymachus himself. But Socrates is not disposed to quarrel about words, if, as he significantly insinuates, his adversary has changed his mind. In what follows Thrasymachus does in fact withdraw his admission that the ruler may make a mistake, for he affirms that the ruler as a ruler is infallible. Socrates is quite ready to accept the new position, which he equally turns against Thrasymachus by the help of the analogy of the arts. Every art or science has an interest, but this interest is to be distinguished from the accidental interest of the artist, and is only concerned with the good of the things or persons which come under the art. And justice has an interest which is the interest not of the ruler or judge, but of those who come under his sway.
Of course, this wasn't Thrasymachus's original claim. He doesn't accept this new interpretation either. But Socrates doesn't want to argue about words, especially since his opponent seems to have changed his mind. In what follows, Thrasymachus actually takes back his admission that a ruler can make mistakes. He now claims that a ruler, as a ruler, is infallible. Socrates is happy to accept this new position. He turns it against Thrasymachus using the analogy of the arts. Every art or science has an interest. But this interest is different from the personal interest of the artist. It only concerns the good of the things or people that fall under that art. Justice also has an interest. This interest belongs not to the ruler or judge, but to those who come under his power.
Thrasymachus is on the brink of the inevitable conclusion, when he makes a bold diversion. ‘Tell me, Socrates,’ he says, ‘have you a nurse?’ What a question! Why do you ask? ‘Because, if you have, she neglects you and lets you go about drivelling, and has not even taught you to know the shepherd from the sheep. For you fancy that shepherds and rulers never think of their own interest, but only of their sheep or subjects, whereas the truth is that they fatten them for their use, sheep and subjects alike. And experience proves that in every relation of life the just man is the loser and the unjust the gainer, especially where injustice is on the grand scale, which is quite another thing from the petty rogueries of swindlers and burglars and robbers of temples. The language of men proves this—our ‘gracious’ and ‘blessed’ tyrant and the like—all which tends to show (1) that justice is the interest of the stronger; and (2) that injustice is more profitable and also stronger than justice.’
Thrasymachus is on the brink of the inevitable conclusion, when he makes a bold diversion. 'Tell me, Socrates,' he says, 'have you a nurse?' What a question! Why do you ask? 'Because, if you have, she neglects you and lets you go about babbling nonsense. She hasn't even taught you to tell the difference between a shepherd and his sheep. You think that shepherds and rulers never consider their own interests. You believe they only care about their sheep or subjects. But the truth is that they fatten them for their own use, sheep and subjects alike. Experience proves that in every relationship, the just man loses and the unjust man wins. This is especially true when injustice happens on a grand scale. That's completely different from the petty crimes of swindlers, burglars, and temple robbers. The way people talk proves this. We call tyrants "gracious" and "blessed" and use similar terms. All of this shows two things: first, that justice serves the interests of the stronger. Second, that injustice is more profitable and also stronger than justice.'
Thrasymachus, who is better at a speech than at a close argument, having deluged the company with words, has a mind to escape. But the others will not let him go, and Socrates adds a humble but earnest request that he will not desert them at such a crisis of their fate. ‘And what can I do more for you?’ he says; ‘would you have me put the words bodily into your souls?’ God forbid! replies Socrates; but we want you to be consistent in the use of terms, and not to employ ‘physician’ in an exact sense, and then again ‘shepherd’ or ‘ruler’ in an inexact,—if the words are strictly taken, the ruler and the shepherd look only to the good of their people or flocks and not to their own: whereas you insist that rulers are solely actuated by love of office. ‘No doubt about it,’ replies Thrasymachus. Then why are they paid? Is not the reason, that their interest is not comprehended in their art, and is therefore the concern of another art, the art of pay, which is common to the arts in general, and therefore not identical with any one of them? Nor would any man be a ruler unless he were induced by the hope of reward or the fear of punishment;—the reward is money or honour, the punishment is the necessity of being ruled by a man worse than himself. And if a State (or Church) were composed entirely of good men, they would be affected by the last motive only; and there would be as much ‘nolo episcopari’ as there is at present of the opposite...
Thrasymachus is better at giving speeches than at careful debate. He has flooded the group with words and now wants to escape. But the others won't let him go. Socrates adds a humble but sincere request that Thrasymachus not abandon them at such a critical moment in their discussion. "What more can I do for you?" Thrasymachus says. "Do you want me to force the words directly into your minds?" God forbid! Socrates replies. But we want you to use terms consistently. Don't use "physician" in an exact sense, then use "shepherd" or "ruler" inexactly. If we take the words strictly, rulers and shepherds look only to the good of their people or flocks, not to their own benefit. Yet you insist that rulers are motivated solely by love of power. "No doubt about it," Thrasymachus replies. Then why are they paid? The reason is that their personal interest isn't part of their craft. So it becomes the concern of another craft—the art of payment. This art is common to all crafts in general, so it's not identical with any one of them. No man would be a ruler unless he was motivated by hope of reward or fear of punishment. The reward is money or honor. The punishment is being ruled by someone worse than himself. If a state or church were made up entirely of good men, they would be affected only by the last motive. There would be as much reluctance to take office as there is eagerness for it now.
The satire on existing governments is heightened by the simple and apparently incidental manner in which the last remark is introduced. There is a similar irony in the argument that the governors of mankind do not like being in office, and that therefore they demand pay.
The criticism of current governments becomes sharper through the casual, almost offhand way this final point is made. The argument contains a similar irony: those who govern humanity claim they don't want to be in office, so they demand payment for their service.
...Enough of this: the other assertion of Thrasymachus is far more important—that the unjust life is more gainful than the just. Now, as you and I, Glaucon, are not convinced by him, we must reply to him; but if we try to compare their respective gains we shall want a judge to decide for us; we had better therefore proceed by making mutual admissions of the truth to one another.
Enough of this. Thrasymachus makes another claim that's far more important. He says the unjust life is more profitable than the just life. Now, you and I, Glaucon, are not convinced by him, so we must reply. But if we try to compare their respective gains, we'll need a judge to decide for us. We had better proceed by making mutual admissions of the truth to one another.
Thrasymachus had asserted that perfect injustice was more gainful than perfect justice, and after a little hesitation he is induced by Socrates to admit the still greater paradox that injustice is virtue and justice vice. Socrates praises his frankness, and assumes the attitude of one whose only wish is to understand the meaning of his opponents. At the same time he is weaving a net in which Thrasymachus is finally enclosed. The admission is elicited from him that the just man seeks to gain an advantage over the unjust only, but not over the just, while the unjust would gain an advantage over either. Socrates, in order to test this statement, employs once more the favourite analogy of the arts. The musician, doctor, skilled artist of any sort, does not seek to gain more than the skilled, but only more than the unskilled (that is to say, he works up to a rule, standard, law, and does not exceed it), whereas the unskilled makes random efforts at excess. Thus the skilled falls on the side of the good, and the unskilled on the side of the evil, and the just is the skilled, and the unjust is the unskilled.
Thrasymachus had claimed that perfect injustice was more profitable than perfect justice. After some hesitation, Socrates convinced him to admit an even stranger idea: that injustice is virtue and justice is vice. Socrates praised his honesty and acted like someone who simply wanted to understand his opponent's position. At the same time, he was setting a trap that would eventually catch Thrasymachus. Socrates got him to admit that a just person only tries to gain an advantage over unjust people, not over other just people. But an unjust person would try to gain an advantage over anyone. To test this claim, Socrates used his favorite comparison with skilled crafts. A musician, doctor, or any skilled craftsman doesn't try to outdo other skilled people, only unskilled ones. In other words, they work according to rules, standards, and laws without going beyond them. Meanwhile, unskilled people make random attempts to do too much. So skilled people align with good, and unskilled people align with evil. The just person is skilled, and the unjust person is unskilled.
There was great difficulty in bringing Thrasymachus to the point; the day was hot and he was streaming with perspiration, and for the first time in his life he was seen to blush. But his other thesis that injustice was stronger than justice has not yet been refuted, and Socrates now proceeds to the consideration of this, which, with the assistance of Thrasymachus, he hopes to clear up; the latter is at first churlish, but in the judicious hands of Socrates is soon restored to good-humour: Is there not honour among thieves? Is not the strength of injustice only a remnant of justice? Is not absolute injustice absolute weakness also? A house that is divided against itself cannot stand; two men who quarrel detract from one another’s strength, and he who is at war with himself is the enemy of himself and the gods. Not wickedness therefore, but semi-wickedness flourishes in states,—a remnant of good is needed in order to make union in action possible,—there is no kingdom of evil in this world.
Getting Thrasymachus to cooperate was extremely difficult. The day was hot and he was dripping with sweat. For the first time in his life, he was seen to blush. But his other argument that injustice was stronger than justice had not yet been proven wrong. Socrates now moves on to consider this question. With Thrasymachus's help, he hopes to clear it up. At first Thrasymachus is rude, but Socrates skillfully restores his good mood. Is there not honor among thieves? Is the strength of injustice only a leftover piece of justice? Is absolute injustice also absolute weakness? A house divided against itself cannot stand. Two men who quarrel weaken each other's strength. The person who is at war with himself becomes an enemy to himself and the gods. So it's not complete wickedness that flourishes in states, but partial wickedness. A remnant of good is needed to make united action possible. There is no kingdom of evil in this world.
Another question has not been answered: Is the just or the unjust the happier? To this we reply, that every art has an end and an excellence or virtue by which the end is accomplished. And is not the end of the soul happiness, and justice the excellence of the soul by which happiness is attained? Justice and happiness being thus shown to be inseparable, the question whether the just or the unjust is the happier has disappeared.
Another question has not been answered: Is the just or the unjust the happier? Here's our reply. Every art has an end and an excellence or virtue by which the end is accomplished. The end of the soul is happiness. Justice is the excellence of the soul by which happiness is attained. Justice and happiness are thus inseparable. So the question of whether the just or the unjust is happier has disappeared.
Thrasymachus replies: ‘Let this be your entertainment, Socrates, at the festival of Bendis.’ Yes; and a very good entertainment with which your kindness has supplied me, now that you have left off scolding. And yet not a good entertainment—but that was my own fault, for I tasted of too many things. First of all the nature of justice was the subject of our enquiry, and then whether justice is virtue and wisdom, or evil and folly; and then the comparative advantages of just and unjust: and the sum of all is that I know not what justice is; how then shall I know whether the just is happy or not?...
Thrasymachus replies: "Let this be your entertainment, Socrates, at the festival of Bendis." Yes, and a very good entertainment your kindness has given me, now that you have stopped scolding. Yet it wasn't really good entertainment. That was my own fault, though, because I tried to taste too many things at once. First we looked into the nature of justice. Then we asked whether justice is virtue and wisdom, or evil and foolishness. After that we compared the advantages of being just versus unjust. The result of all this is that I still don't know what justice is. So how can I know whether the just person is happy or not?
Thus the sophistical fabric has been demolished, chiefly by appealing to the analogy of the arts. ‘Justice is like the arts (1) in having no external interest, and (2) in not aiming at excess, and (3) justice is to happiness what the implement of the workman is to his work.’ At this the modern reader is apt to stumble, because he forgets that Plato is writing in an age when the arts and the virtues, like the moral and intellectual faculties, were still undistinguished. Among early enquirers into the nature of human action the arts helped to fill up the void of speculation; and at first the comparison of the arts and the virtues was not perceived by them to be fallacious. They only saw the points of agreement in them and not the points of difference. Virtue, like art, must take means to an end; good manners are both an art and a virtue; character is naturally described under the image of a statue; and there are many other figures of speech which are readily transferred from art to morals. The next generation cleared up these perplexities; or at least supplied after ages with a further analysis of them. The contemporaries of Plato were in a state of transition, and had not yet fully realized the common-sense distinction of Aristotle, that ‘virtue is concerned with action, art with production’ (Nic. Eth.), or that ‘virtue implies intention and constancy of purpose,’ whereas ‘art requires knowledge only’. And yet in the absurdities which follow from some uses of the analogy, there seems to be an intimation conveyed that virtue is more than art. This is implied in the reductio ad absurdum that ‘justice is a thief,’ and in the dissatisfaction which Socrates expresses at the final result.
The sophisticated argument has been torn down, mainly by comparing justice to the arts. 'Justice is like the arts in three ways: (1) it has no external interest, (2) it doesn't aim at excess, and (3) justice relates to happiness the same way a craftsman's tool relates to his work.' Modern readers often get confused here. They forget that Plato was writing when people didn't yet distinguish between arts and virtues, or between moral and intellectual abilities. Early thinkers studying human behavior used the arts to fill gaps in their theories. At first, they didn't realize that comparing arts and virtues could be misleading. They only saw the similarities, not the differences. Virtue, like art, must use means to reach an end. Good manners are both an art and a virtue. Character is naturally described as a statue. Many other figures of speech easily transfer from art to morals. The next generation cleared up these confusions, or at least gave later ages better ways to analyze them. Plato's contemporaries were in transition. They hadn't yet grasped Aristotle's common-sense distinction that 'virtue is concerned with action, art with production' (Nic. Eth.), or that 'virtue implies intention and constancy of purpose,' while 'art requires knowledge only'. Yet the absurd conclusions that follow from some uses of this analogy seem to hint that virtue is more than art. This is suggested in the reductio ad absurdum that 'justice is a thief,' and in the dissatisfaction that Socrates expresses with the final result.
The expression ‘an art of pay’ which is described as ‘common to all the arts’ is not in accordance with the ordinary use of language. Nor is it employed elsewhere either by Plato or by any other Greek writer. It is suggested by the argument, and seems to extend the conception of art to doing as well as making. Another flaw or inaccuracy of language may be noted in the words ‘men who are injured are made more unjust.’ For those who are injured are not necessarily made worse, but only harmed or ill-treated.
The phrase "an art of pay" is described as "common to all the arts," but this doesn't match how we normally use language. Plato doesn't use this expression anywhere else, and neither do other Greek writers. The argument seems to suggest this phrase, and it appears to expand the idea of art to include doing things as well as making them. There's another problem with the language in the words "men who are injured are made more unjust." People who are injured aren't necessarily made worse as people. They're simply harmed or mistreated.
The second of the three arguments, ‘that the just does not aim at excess,’ has a real meaning, though wrapped up in an enigmatical form. That the good is of the nature of the finite is a peculiarly Hellenic sentiment, which may be compared with the language of those modern writers who speak of virtue as fitness, and of freedom as obedience to law. The mathematical or logical notion of limit easily passes into an ethical one, and even finds a mythological expression in the conception of envy (Greek). Ideas of measure, equality, order, unity, proportion, still linger in the writings of moralists; and the true spirit of the fine arts is better conveyed by such terms than by superlatives.
The second of the three arguments, "that the just does not aim at excess," has real meaning. However, it's wrapped up in a puzzling form. The idea that good is finite by nature is distinctly Greek. We can compare this with modern writers who speak of virtue as fitness and freedom as obedience to law. The mathematical or logical idea of limit easily becomes an ethical one. It even finds mythological expression in the concept of envy (Greek). Ideas of measure, equality, order, unity, and proportion still appear in the writings of moralists. The true spirit of the fine arts is better conveyed by such terms than by superlatives.
‘When workmen strive to do better than well, They do confound their skill in covetousness.’ (King John. Act. iv. Sc. 2.)
"When workers try to do better than well, they ruin their skill through greed." (King John. Act. iv. Sc. 2.)
The harmony of the soul and body, and of the parts of the soul with one another, a harmony ‘fairer than that of musical notes,’ is the true Hellenic mode of conceiving the perfection of human nature.
The harmony between soul and body, and between the different parts of the soul, creates a balance "more beautiful than musical notes." This was the true Greek way of understanding human perfection.
In what may be called the epilogue of the discussion with Thrasymachus, Plato argues that evil is not a principle of strength, but of discord and dissolution, just touching the question which has been often treated in modern times by theologians and philosophers, of the negative nature of evil. In the last argument we trace the germ of the Aristotelian doctrine of an end and a virtue directed towards the end, which again is suggested by the arts. The final reconcilement of justice and happiness and the identity of the individual and the State are also intimated. Socrates reassumes the character of a ‘know-nothing;’ at the same time he appears to be not wholly satisfied with the manner in which the argument has been conducted. Nothing is concluded; but the tendency of the dialectical process, here as always, is to enlarge our conception of ideas, and to widen their application to human life.
In what we might call the epilogue of the discussion with Thrasymachus, Plato argues that evil is not a source of strength. Instead, it creates discord and breakdown. He briefly touches on a question that theologians and philosophers have often explored in modern times: the negative nature of evil. In the final argument, we can see the early seeds of Aristotle's doctrine. This doctrine focuses on having an end goal and a virtue that aims toward that goal. The arts suggest this idea. The text also hints at the final harmony between justice and happiness, and the connection between the individual and the State. Socrates returns to his role as someone who "knows nothing." At the same time, he seems not entirely satisfied with how the argument has proceeded. Nothing is definitively concluded. But the dialectical process, as always, tends to expand our understanding of ideas and broaden how we apply them to human life.
BOOK II. Thrasymachus is pacified, but the intrepid Glaucon insists on continuing the argument. He is not satisfied with the indirect manner in which, at the end of the last book, Socrates had disposed of the question ‘Whether the just or the unjust is the happier.’ He begins by dividing goods into three classes:—first, goods desirable in themselves; secondly, goods desirable in themselves and for their results; thirdly, goods desirable for their results only. He then asks Socrates in which of the three classes he would place justice. In the second class, replies Socrates, among goods desirable for themselves and also for their results. ‘Then the world in general are of another mind, for they say that justice belongs to the troublesome class of goods which are desirable for their results only. Socrates answers that this is the doctrine of Thrasymachus which he rejects. Glaucon thinks that Thrasymachus was too ready to listen to the voice of the charmer, and proposes to consider the nature of justice and injustice in themselves and apart from the results and rewards of them which the world is always dinning in his ears. He will first of all speak of the nature and origin of justice; secondly, of the manner in which men view justice as a necessity and not a good; and thirdly, he will prove the reasonableness of this view.
BOOK II. Thrasymachus is pacified, but the bold Glaucon insists on continuing the argument. He is not satisfied with the indirect way Socrates handled the question at the end of the last book: "Whether the just or the unjust is the happier." He begins by dividing goods into three classes. First, goods desirable in themselves. Second, goods desirable in themselves and for their results. Third, goods desirable for their results only. He then asks Socrates which of the three classes would include justice. Socrates replies that justice belongs in the second class, among goods desirable for themselves and also for their results. "But the world in general thinks differently," Glaucon says. "They say that justice belongs to the troublesome class of goods which are desirable for their results only." Socrates answers that this is Thrasymachus's doctrine, which he rejects. Glaucon thinks that Thrasymachus was too ready to listen to the voice of the charmer. He proposes to consider the nature of justice and injustice in themselves, apart from the results and rewards that the world is always talking about. He will first speak of the nature and origin of justice. Second, he will discuss how men view justice as a necessity and not a good. Third, he will prove the reasonableness of this view.
‘To do injustice is said to be a good; to suffer injustice an evil. As the evil is discovered by experience to be greater than the good, the sufferers, who cannot also be doers, make a compact that they will have neither, and this compact or mean is called justice, but is really the impossibility of doing injustice. No one would observe such a compact if he were not obliged. Let us suppose that the just and unjust have two rings, like that of Gyges in the well-known story, which make them invisible, and then no difference will appear in them, for every one will do evil if he can. And he who abstains will be regarded by the world as a fool for his pains. Men may praise him in public out of fear for themselves, but they will laugh at him in their hearts (Cp. Gorgias.)
People say that doing injustice is good, while suffering injustice is evil. But experience shows that the evil of suffering injustice is greater than the good of doing it. Those who suffer injustice but can't dish it out make an agreement. They decide to have neither. This agreement or middle ground is called justice, but it's really just the inability to do injustice. No one would follow such an agreement unless they had to. Let's imagine that both just and unjust people have two rings like Gyges' ring from the famous story. These rings make them invisible. Then no difference would appear between them, because everyone will do evil if they can. Anyone who holds back will be seen by the world as a fool. People may praise him in public out of fear for themselves, but they will laugh at him in their hearts (Cp. Gorgias.)
‘And now let us frame an ideal of the just and unjust. Imagine the unjust man to be master of his craft, seldom making mistakes and easily correcting them; having gifts of money, speech, strength—the greatest villain bearing the highest character: and at his side let us place the just in his nobleness and simplicity—being, not seeming—without name or reward—clothed in his justice only—the best of men who is thought to be the worst, and let him die as he has lived. I might add (but I would rather put the rest into the mouth of the panegyrists of injustice—they will tell you) that the just man will be scourged, racked, bound, will have his eyes put out, and will at last be crucified (literally impaled)—and all this because he ought to have preferred seeming to being. How different is the case of the unjust who clings to appearance as the true reality! His high character makes him a ruler; he can marry where he likes, trade where he likes, help his friends and hurt his enemies; having got rich by dishonesty he can worship the gods better, and will therefore be more loved by them than the just.’
Now let us create an ideal picture of the just and unjust person. Imagine the unjust man as a master of his craft. He rarely makes mistakes and easily corrects them when he does. He has gifts of money, speech, and strength. This greatest villain has the highest reputation. At his side, let us place the just man in his nobility and simplicity. He focuses on being, not seeming. He has no fame or reward. He is clothed only in his justice. He is the best of men, yet he is thought to be the worst. Let him die as he has lived. I might add more, but I would rather let the supporters of injustice speak for themselves. They will tell you that the just man will be whipped, tortured, and chained. He will have his eyes put out and will finally be crucified. All this happens because he should have preferred seeming to being. How different is the case of the unjust man who clings to appearance as the true reality! His high reputation makes him a ruler. He can marry whoever he likes and trade wherever he likes. He can help his friends and hurt his enemies. Having gotten rich through dishonesty, he can worship the gods better. Therefore, he will be more loved by them than the just man.
I was thinking what to answer, when Adeimantus joined in the already unequal fray. He considered that the most important point of all had been omitted:—‘Men are taught to be just for the sake of rewards; parents and guardians make reputation the incentive to virtue. And other advantages are promised by them of a more solid kind, such as wealthy marriages and high offices. There are the pictures in Homer and Hesiod of fat sheep and heavy fleeces, rich corn-fields and trees toppling with fruit, which the gods provide in this life for the just. And the Orphic poets add a similar picture of another. The heroes of Musaeus and Eumolpus lie on couches at a festival, with garlands on their heads, enjoying as the meed of virtue a paradise of immortal drunkenness. Some go further, and speak of a fair posterity in the third and fourth generation. But the wicked they bury in a slough and make them carry water in a sieve: and in this life they attribute to them the infamy which Glaucon was assuming to be the lot of the just who are supposed to be unjust.
I was thinking about how to respond when Adeimantus jumped into the already one-sided argument. He believed we had missed the most important point of all. "Men are taught to be just only for the rewards," he said. "Parents and guardians use reputation as motivation for virtue. They promise other advantages that are more concrete, like wealthy marriages and high offices. Homer and Hesiod paint pictures of fat sheep and heavy fleeces, rich cornfields and trees heavy with fruit. These are the rewards the gods give to the just in this life. The Orphic poets add similar images of the afterlife. The heroes of Musaeus and Eumolpus lie on couches at a festival with garlands on their heads. They enjoy a paradise of eternal drunkenness as their reward for virtue. Some go even further and promise a blessed family line for the third and fourth generations. But they bury the wicked in a swamp and make them carry water in a sieve. In this life, they give them the same disgrace that Glaucon assumed would be the fate of just people who appear to be unjust."
‘Take another kind of argument which is found both in poetry and prose:—“Virtue,” as Hesiod says, “is honourable but difficult, vice is easy and profitable.” You may often see the wicked in great prosperity and the righteous afflicted by the will of heaven. And mendicant prophets knock at rich men’s doors, promising to atone for the sins of themselves or their fathers in an easy fashion with sacrifices and festive games, or with charms and invocations to get rid of an enemy good or bad by divine help and at a small charge;—they appeal to books professing to be written by Musaeus and Orpheus, and carry away the minds of whole cities, and promise to “get souls out of purgatory;” and if we refuse to listen to them, no one knows what will happen to us.
Here's another type of argument you'll find in both poetry and prose. "Virtue," as Hesiod says, "is honorable but difficult, vice is easy and profitable." You can often see wicked people enjoying great prosperity while righteous people suffer by heaven's will. Wandering prophets knock at rich men's doors. They promise to make up for sins committed by the wealthy or their fathers. They claim they can do this easily with sacrifices and festive games. They also offer charms and spells to get rid of enemies, whether good or bad, with divine help and for a small fee. These prophets point to books they claim were written by Musaeus and Orpheus. They win over the minds of entire cities and promise to "get souls out of purgatory." If we refuse to listen to them, no one knows what will happen to us.
‘When a lively-minded ingenuous youth hears all this, what will be his conclusion? “Will he,” in the language of Pindar, “make justice his high tower, or fortify himself with crooked deceit?” Justice, he reflects, without the appearance of justice, is misery and ruin; injustice has the promise of a glorious life. Appearance is master of truth and lord of happiness. To appearance then I will turn,—I will put on the show of virtue and trail behind me the fox of Archilochus. I hear some one saying that “wickedness is not easily concealed,” to which I reply that “nothing great is easy.” Union and force and rhetoric will do much; and if men say that they cannot prevail over the gods, still how do we know that there are gods? Only from the poets, who acknowledge that they may be appeased by sacrifices. Then why not sin and pay for indulgences out of your sin? For if the righteous are only unpunished, still they have no further reward, while the wicked may be unpunished and have the pleasure of sinning too. But what of the world below? Nay, says the argument, there are atoning powers who will set that matter right, as the poets, who are the sons of the gods, tell us; and this is confirmed by the authority of the State.
When a bright, honest young person hears all this, what will he conclude? Will he, as Pindar put it, "make justice his high tower, or fortify himself with crooked deceit?" He thinks about it this way: Justice without the appearance of justice brings misery and ruin. Injustice promises a glorious life. Appearance controls truth and rules over happiness. So I'll turn to appearance. I'll put on a show of virtue and drag behind me the fox of Archilochus. I hear someone saying that "wickedness is not easily concealed." I reply that "nothing great is easy." Working together, using force and persuasive speech will accomplish much. Men say they cannot prevail over the gods, but how do we even know there are gods? Only from the poets, who admit that gods can be appeased by sacrifices. Then why not sin and pay for forgiveness out of your profits from sin? If the righteous are only left unpunished, they still get no further reward. Meanwhile, the wicked may also go unpunished and have the pleasure of sinning too. But what about the world below? The argument says there are powers that will set that matter right, as the poets tell us. They are the sons of the gods. The authority of the State confirms this.
‘How can we resist such arguments in favour of injustice? Add good manners, and, as the wise tell us, we shall make the best of both worlds. Who that is not a miserable caitiff will refrain from smiling at the praises of justice? Even if a man knows the better part he will not be angry with others; for he knows also that more than human virtue is needed to save a man, and that he only praises justice who is incapable of injustice.
How can we resist such arguments in favor of injustice? Add good manners to the mix, and as wise people tell us, we'll get the best of both worlds. Anyone who isn't a complete coward will smile at all the praise heaped on justice. Even if someone knows what's right, he won't get angry with others. He understands that it takes more than human virtue to save a person. He also knows that only those who can't be unjust will praise justice.
‘The origin of the evil is that all men from the beginning, heroes, poets, instructors of youth, have always asserted “the temporal dispensation,” the honours and profits of justice. Had we been taught in early youth the power of justice and injustice inherent in the soul, and unseen by any human or divine eye, we should not have needed others to be our guardians, but every one would have been the guardian of himself. This is what I want you to show, Socrates;—other men use arguments which rather tend to strengthen the position of Thrasymachus that “might is right;” but from you I expect better things. And please, as Glaucon said, to exclude reputation; let the just be thought unjust and the unjust just, and do you still prove to us the superiority of justice’...
The root of the problem is that everyone throughout history has focused on the wrong thing. Heroes, poets, and teachers have always emphasized the worldly rewards of justice—the honors and profits it brings. If we had been taught from childhood about the true power of justice and injustice that exists within the soul, invisible to both human and divine eyes, we wouldn't need others to watch over us. Each person would guard themselves. This is what I want you to demonstrate, Socrates. Other people use arguments that actually support Thrasymachus's position that "might is right." But I expect better from you. And please, as Glaucon suggested, ignore reputation completely. Let the just person be seen as unjust and the unjust person be seen as just. Even then, prove to us that justice is superior.
The thesis, which for the sake of argument has been maintained by Glaucon, is the converse of that of Thrasymachus—not right is the interest of the stronger, but right is the necessity of the weaker. Starting from the same premises he carries the analysis of society a step further back;—might is still right, but the might is the weakness of the many combined against the strength of the few.
Glaucon's argument, which he's defending for the sake of discussion, is the opposite of Thrasymachus's view. Thrasymachus said that right is whatever serves the stronger party's interests. Glaucon argues that right is actually what the weaker party needs. Starting from the same basic assumptions, he takes his analysis of society one step further back. Might still makes right, but now the might comes from many weak people joining forces against a few strong ones.
There have been theories in modern as well as in ancient times which have a family likeness to the speculations of Glaucon; e.g. that power is the foundation of right; or that a monarch has a divine right to govern well or ill; or that virtue is self-love or the love of power; or that war is the natural state of man; or that private vices are public benefits. All such theories have a kind of plausibility from their partial agreement with experience. For human nature oscillates between good and evil, and the motives of actions and the origin of institutions may be explained to a certain extent on either hypothesis according to the character or point of view of a particular thinker. The obligation of maintaining authority under all circumstances and sometimes by rather questionable means is felt strongly and has become a sort of instinct among civilized men. The divine right of kings, or more generally of governments, is one of the forms under which this natural feeling is expressed. Nor again is there any evil which has not some accompaniment of good or pleasure; nor any good which is free from some alloy of evil; nor any noble or generous thought which may not be attended by a shadow or the ghost of a shadow of self-interest or of self-love. We know that all human actions are imperfect; but we do not therefore attribute them to the worse rather than to the better motive or principle. Such a philosophy is both foolish and false, like that opinion of the clever rogue who assumes all other men to be like himself. And theories of this sort do not represent the real nature of the State, which is based on a vague sense of right gradually corrected and enlarged by custom and law (although capable also of perversion), any more than they describe the origin of society, which is to be sought in the family and in the social and religious feelings of man. Nor do they represent the average character of individuals, which cannot be explained simply on a theory of evil, but has always a counteracting element of good. And as men become better such theories appear more and more untruthful to them, because they are more conscious of their own disinterestedness. A little experience may make a man a cynic; a great deal will bring him back to a truer and kindlier view of the mixed nature of himself and his fellow men.
Throughout history, both ancient and modern thinkers have proposed theories similar to Glaucon's ideas. Some argue that power is the foundation of right. Others claim that monarchs have a divine right to govern well or badly. Still others suggest that virtue is really self-love or the love of power, that war is humanity's natural state, or that private vices create public benefits. All these theories seem believable because they partly match our experience. Human nature swings between good and evil. We can explain people's motives and how institutions began using either positive or negative assumptions, depending on the thinker's character and viewpoint. Civilized people feel a strong obligation to maintain authority under all circumstances, sometimes using questionable methods. This feeling has become almost instinctive. The divine right of kings, or more broadly of governments, is one way this natural feeling gets expressed. No evil exists without some good or pleasure mixed in. No good is completely free from some trace of evil. No noble or generous thought comes without at least a hint of self-interest or self-love. We know all human actions are imperfect. But we shouldn't automatically assume the worst motives rather than the better ones. Such thinking is both foolish and false, like a clever criminal who assumes everyone else is just like him. These theories don't represent the real nature of the State. The State is based on a vague sense of right that custom and law gradually correct and expand, though it can also be corrupted. These theories also don't describe how society actually began. Society's origins lie in the family and in people's social and religious feelings. They don't represent the average person's character either. You can't explain individual character simply through a theory of evil because there's always a counteracting element of good. As people become better, these negative theories seem increasingly false to them because they become more aware of their own ability to act without selfish motives. A little experience might make someone cynical. A lot of experience will bring them back to a truer and kinder view of the mixed nature of themselves and their fellow human beings.
The two brothers ask Socrates to prove to them that the just is happy when they have taken from him all that in which happiness is ordinarily supposed to consist. Not that there is (1) any absurdity in the attempt to frame a notion of justice apart from circumstances. For the ideal must always be a paradox when compared with the ordinary conditions of human life. Neither the Stoical ideal nor the Christian ideal is true as a fact, but they may serve as a basis of education, and may exercise an ennobling influence. An ideal is none the worse because ‘some one has made the discovery’ that no such ideal was ever realized. And in a few exceptional individuals who are raised above the ordinary level of humanity, the ideal of happiness may be realized in death and misery. This may be the state which the reason deliberately approves, and which the utilitarian as well as every other moralist may be bound in certain cases to prefer.
The two brothers ask Socrates to prove that a just person can be happy even when stripped of everything that usually makes people happy. There's nothing wrong with trying to understand justice apart from real-world circumstances. An ideal will always seem impossible when compared to ordinary human life. Neither the Stoical ideal nor the Christian ideal reflects reality, but they can guide education and inspire people to be better. An ideal isn't worthless just because someone discovers that no one has ever achieved it perfectly. In a few exceptional people who rise above the ordinary level of humanity, the ideal of happiness might be found even in death and suffering. This may be the condition that reason deliberately approves, and which the utilitarian and every other moralist may be required to choose in certain cases.
Nor again, (2) must we forget that Plato, though he agrees generally with the view implied in the argument of the two brothers, is not expressing his own final conclusion, but rather seeking to dramatize one of the aspects of ethical truth. He is developing his idea gradually in a series of positions or situations. He is exhibiting Socrates for the first time undergoing the Socratic interrogation. Lastly, (3) the word ‘happiness’ involves some degree of confusion because associated in the language of modern philosophy with conscious pleasure or satisfaction, which was not equally present to his mind.
We also shouldn't forget that Plato agrees with the general view presented in the argument between the two brothers. However, he isn't expressing his own final conclusion. Instead, he's trying to dramatize one aspect of ethical truth. He develops his idea gradually through a series of positions or situations. He shows Socrates experiencing the Socratic interrogation for the first time. Finally, the word 'happiness' creates some confusion. In modern philosophy, it's associated with conscious pleasure or satisfaction. This meaning wasn't equally present in Plato's mind.
Glaucon has been drawing a picture of the misery of the just and the happiness of the unjust, to which the misery of the tyrant in Book IX is the answer and parallel. And still the unjust must appear just; that is ‘the homage which vice pays to virtue.’ But now Adeimantus, taking up the hint which had been already given by Glaucon, proceeds to show that in the opinion of mankind justice is regarded only for the sake of rewards and reputation, and points out the advantage which is given to such arguments as those of Thrasymachus and Glaucon by the conventional morality of mankind. He seems to feel the difficulty of ‘justifying the ways of God to man.’ Both the brothers touch upon the question, whether the morality of actions is determined by their consequences; and both of them go beyond the position of Socrates, that justice belongs to the class of goods not desirable for themselves only, but desirable for themselves and for their results, to which he recalls them. In their attempt to view justice as an internal principle, and in their condemnation of the poets, they anticipate him. The common life of Greece is not enough for them; they must penetrate deeper into the nature of things.
Glaucon has painted a picture of how miserable just people are and how happy unjust people are. The misery of the tyrant in Book IX answers and mirrors this argument. Even unjust people must still appear just. This shows how vice pays tribute to virtue. Now Adeimantus picks up on Glaucon's hint. He shows that most people think justice only matters because of the rewards and reputation it brings. He points out how conventional morality gives strength to arguments like those made by Thrasymachus and Glaucon. He seems to struggle with explaining God's ways to humanity. Both brothers question whether the morality of actions depends on their results. Both go beyond Socrates' position that justice belongs to goods that are desirable both for themselves and for their outcomes. Socrates tries to bring them back to this view. When they try to see justice as an internal principle and when they criticize the poets, they anticipate his ideas. The ordinary life of Greece isn't enough for them. They must dig deeper into the true nature of things.
It has been objected that justice is honesty in the sense of Glaucon and Adeimantus, but is taken by Socrates to mean all virtue. May we not more truly say that the old-fashioned notion of justice is enlarged by Socrates, and becomes equivalent to universal order or well-being, first in the State, and secondly in the individual? He has found a new answer to his old question (Protag.), ‘whether the virtues are one or many,’ viz. that one is the ordering principle of the three others. In seeking to establish the purely internal nature of justice, he is met by the fact that man is a social being, and he tries to harmonise the two opposite theses as well as he can. There is no more inconsistency in this than was inevitable in his age and country; there is no use in turning upon him the cross lights of modern philosophy, which, from some other point of view, would appear equally inconsistent. Plato does not give the final solution of philosophical questions for us; nor can he be judged of by our standard.
Some people have criticized Socrates, saying that justice means honesty (as Glaucon and Adeimantus understood it), but Socrates treats it as all virtue combined. We might say more accurately that Socrates expands the old-fashioned idea of justice. For him, it becomes the same as universal order or well-being, first in the State, and second in the individual. He has found a new answer to his old question from Protag.: "Are the virtues one or many?" His answer is that one virtue serves as the organizing principle for the other three. Socrates tries to prove that justice is purely internal. But he runs into the fact that humans are social beings. He attempts to balance these two opposing ideas as best he can. This creates no more contradiction than was unavoidable in his time and place. There's no point in judging him by the standards of modern philosophy, which would look equally contradictory from some other perspective. Plato doesn't provide final answers to philosophical questions for us. We can't judge him by our standards.
The remainder of the Republic is developed out of the question of the sons of Ariston. Three points are deserving of remark in what immediately follows:—First, that the answer of Socrates is altogether indirect. He does not say that happiness consists in the contemplation of the idea of justice, and still less will he be tempted to affirm the Stoical paradox that the just man can be happy on the rack. But first he dwells on the difficulty of the problem and insists on restoring man to his natural condition, before he will answer the question at all. He too will frame an ideal, but his ideal comprehends not only abstract justice, but the whole relations of man. Under the fanciful illustration of the large letters he implies that he will only look for justice in society, and that from the State he will proceed to the individual. His answer in substance amounts to this,—that under favourable conditions, i.e. in the perfect State, justice and happiness will coincide, and that when justice has been once found, happiness may be left to take care of itself. That he falls into some degree of inconsistency, when in the tenth book he claims to have got rid of the rewards and honours of justice, may be admitted; for he has left those which exist in the perfect State. And the philosopher ‘who retires under the shelter of a wall’ can hardly have been esteemed happy by him, at least not in this world. Still he maintains the true attitude of moral action. Let a man do his duty first, without asking whether he will be happy or not, and happiness will be the inseparable accident which attends him. ‘Seek ye first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you.’
The rest of the Republic develops from the question about Ariston's sons. Three points deserve attention in what follows immediately. First, Socrates gives a completely indirect answer. He doesn't say that happiness comes from contemplating the idea of justice. He certainly won't claim the Stoic paradox that a just man can be happy while being tortured. Instead, he first focuses on how difficult the problem is. He insists on restoring man to his natural condition before he'll answer the question at all. He will create an ideal too, but his ideal includes not just abstract justice, but all of man's relationships. Using the creative illustration of large letters, he suggests he will only look for justice in society. From the State, he will move to the individual. His answer basically comes down to this: under favorable conditions (meaning in the perfect State), justice and happiness will match up. Once justice is found, happiness can take care of itself. He does fall into some inconsistency in the tenth book when he claims to have eliminated the rewards and honors of justice. This can be admitted, since he has kept those that exist in the perfect State. The philosopher "who retires under the shelter of a wall" could hardly have been considered happy by him, at least not in this world. Still, he maintains the right attitude toward moral action. Let a person do their duty first, without asking whether they will be happy or not. Happiness will be the inevitable result that follows them. "Seek ye first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you."
Secondly, it may be remarked that Plato preserves the genuine character of Greek thought in beginning with the State and in going on to the individual. First ethics, then politics—this is the order of ideas to us; the reverse is the order of history. Only after many struggles of thought does the individual assert his right as a moral being. In early ages he is not ONE, but one of many, the citizen of a State which is prior to him; and he has no notion of good or evil apart from the law of his country or the creed of his church. And to this type he is constantly tending to revert, whenever the influence of custom, or of party spirit, or the recollection of the past becomes too strong for him.
Secondly, we should note that Plato preserves the genuine character of Greek thought by starting with the State and then moving to the individual. For us, the order of ideas is first ethics, then politics. But history follows the reverse order. The individual only asserts his right as a moral being after many struggles of thought. In early ages he is not ONE, but one of many. He is the citizen of a State that comes before him. He has no idea of good or evil apart from the law of his country or the creed of his church. He constantly tends to return to this type whenever custom, party spirit, or memories of the past become too strong for him.
Thirdly, we may observe the confusion or identification of the individual and the State, of ethics and politics, which pervades early Greek speculation, and even in modern times retains a certain degree of influence. The subtle difference between the collective and individual action of mankind seems to have escaped early thinkers, and we too are sometimes in danger of forgetting the conditions of united human action, whenever we either elevate politics into ethics, or lower ethics to the standard of politics. The good man and the good citizen only coincide in the perfect State; and this perfection cannot be attained by legislation acting upon them from without, but, if at all, by education fashioning them from within.
Third, we can see how early Greek thinkers confused the individual with the State, mixing ethics with politics. This confusion still influences us today to some degree. Early philosophers missed the subtle difference between how people act as individuals versus how they act as a group. We sometimes make the same mistake today. We either try to turn politics into a moral system, or we lower our moral standards to match political reality. A good person and a good citizen are only the same thing in a perfect State. This perfection can't be achieved through laws imposed from the outside. If it can be achieved at all, it must come through education that shapes people from within.
...Socrates praises the sons of Ariston, ‘inspired offspring of the renowned hero,’ as the elegiac poet terms them; but he does not understand how they can argue so eloquently on behalf of injustice while their character shows that they are uninfluenced by their own arguments. He knows not how to answer them, although he is afraid of deserting justice in the hour of need. He therefore makes a condition, that having weak eyes he shall be allowed to read the large letters first and then go on to the smaller, that is, he must look for justice in the State first, and will then proceed to the individual. Accordingly he begins to construct the State.
Socrates praises the sons of Ariston, calling them "inspired offspring of the renowned hero," as the elegiac poet describes them. But he doesn't understand how they can argue so eloquently for injustice when their character shows they aren't influenced by their own arguments. He doesn't know how to answer them, though he's afraid of abandoning justice when it's needed most. So he makes a condition. Since he has weak eyes, he asks to read the large letters first before moving on to the smaller ones. In other words, he must look for justice in the State first, then examine it in the individual. With this plan, he begins to construct the State.
Society arises out of the wants of man. His first want is food; his second a house; his third a coat. The sense of these needs and the possibility of satisfying them by exchange, draw individuals together on the same spot; and this is the beginning of a State, which we take the liberty to invent, although necessity is the real inventor. There must be first a husbandman, secondly a builder, thirdly a weaver, to which may be added a cobbler. Four or five citizens at least are required to make a city. Now men have different natures, and one man will do one thing better than many; and business waits for no man. Hence there must be a division of labour into different employments; into wholesale and retail trade; into workers, and makers of workmen’s tools; into shepherds and husbandmen. A city which includes all this will have far exceeded the limit of four or five, and yet not be very large. But then again imports will be required, and imports necessitate exports, and this implies variety of produce in order to attract the taste of purchasers; also merchants and ships. In the city too we must have a market and money and retail trades; otherwise buyers and sellers will never meet, and the valuable time of the producers will be wasted in vain efforts at exchange. If we add hired servants the State will be complete. And we may guess that somewhere in the intercourse of the citizens with one another justice and injustice will appear.
Society grows from human needs. People's first need is food. Their second is shelter. Their third is clothing. When people recognize these needs and see they can meet them through trade, they come together in one place. This is how a State begins. We might say we're inventing this idea, but necessity is the real creator. First, there must be a farmer. Second, a builder. Third, someone to weave cloth. We can add a shoemaker to this list. At least four or five citizens are needed to make a city. People have different talents, and one person will do one job better than many others. Business can't wait around. So work must be divided into different jobs. There's wholesale and retail trade. There are workers and people who make tools for workers. There are shepherds and farmers. A city that includes all of this will have grown far beyond four or five people, though it still won't be very large. But then the city will need imports. Imports require exports. This means the city needs variety in what it produces to appeal to different buyers. It also needs merchants and ships. The city must have a marketplace, money, and retail shops. Without these, buyers and sellers will never find each other. Producers will waste valuable time trying to make trades that never happen. If we add hired workers, the State will be complete. We can guess that somewhere in the dealings between citizens, justice and injustice will appear.
Here follows a rustic picture of their way of life. They spend their days in houses which they have built for themselves; they make their own clothes and produce their own corn and wine. Their principal food is meal and flour, and they drink in moderation. They live on the best of terms with each other, and take care not to have too many children. ‘But,’ said Glaucon, interposing, ‘are they not to have a relish?’ Certainly; they will have salt and olives and cheese, vegetables and fruits, and chestnuts to roast at the fire. ‘’Tis a city of pigs, Socrates.’ Why, I replied, what do you want more? ‘Only the comforts of life,—sofas and tables, also sauces and sweets.’ I see; you want not only a State, but a luxurious State; and possibly in the more complex frame we may sooner find justice and injustice. Then the fine arts must go to work—every conceivable instrument and ornament of luxury will be wanted. There will be dancers, painters, sculptors, musicians, cooks, barbers, tire-women, nurses, artists; swineherds and neatherds too for the animals, and physicians to cure the disorders of which luxury is the source. To feed all these superfluous mouths we shall need a part of our neighbour’s land, and they will want a part of ours. And this is the origin of war, which may be traced to the same causes as other political evils. Our city will now require the slight addition of a camp, and the citizen will be converted into a soldier. But then again our old doctrine of the division of labour must not be forgotten. The art of war cannot be learned in a day, and there must be a natural aptitude for military duties. There will be some warlike natures who have this aptitude—dogs keen of scent, swift of foot to pursue, and strong of limb to fight. And as spirit is the foundation of courage, such natures, whether of men or animals, will be full of spirit. But these spirited natures are apt to bite and devour one another; the union of gentleness to friends and fierceness against enemies appears to be an impossibility, and the guardian of a State requires both qualities. Who then can be a guardian? The image of the dog suggests an answer. For dogs are gentle to friends and fierce to strangers. Your dog is a philosopher who judges by the rule of knowing or not knowing; and philosophy, whether in man or beast, is the parent of gentleness. The human watchdogs must be philosophers or lovers of learning which will make them gentle. And how are they to be learned without education?
Here's a simple picture of how they live. They spend their days in houses they built themselves. They make their own clothes and grow their own grain and grapes. Their main food is meal and flour, and they drink in moderation. They get along well with each other and are careful not to have too many children. "But," said Glaucon, interrupting, "won't they have any seasoning?" Of course they will. They'll have salt and olives and cheese, vegetables and fruits, and chestnuts to roast by the fire. "It's a city of pigs, Socrates." Why? What more do you want? "Just the comforts of life—sofas and tables, plus sauces and sweets." I see. You don't just want a State, but a luxurious State. Perhaps in this more complex system we'll find justice and injustice sooner. Then the fine arts must get to work. Every possible instrument and ornament of luxury will be needed. There will be dancers, painters, sculptors, musicians, cooks, barbers, hairdressers, nurses, artists. Also swineherds and cattle herders for the animals, and doctors to cure the problems that luxury creates. To feed all these extra mouths, we'll need part of our neighbor's land, and they'll want part of ours. This is how war begins. It can be traced to the same causes as other political problems. Our city will now need the small addition of a military camp, and citizens will become soldiers. But we mustn't forget our old principle about division of labor. The art of war can't be learned in a day, and there must be a natural talent for military duties. Some warlike people will have this talent. They're like dogs that are keen of scent, swift of foot to chase, and strong of limb to fight. Since spirit is the foundation of courage, such people, whether human or animal, will be full of spirit. But these spirited types tend to bite and attack each other. The combination of gentleness toward friends and fierceness against enemies seems impossible. Yet a guardian of a State needs both qualities. Who then can be a guardian? The image of the dog suggests an answer. Dogs are gentle to friends and fierce to strangers. Your dog is a philosopher who judges by knowing or not knowing. Philosophy, whether in humans or animals, creates gentleness. The human watchdogs must be philosophers or lovers of learning, which will make them gentle. And how can they learn without education?
But what shall their education be? Is any better than the old-fashioned sort which is comprehended under the name of music and gymnastic? Music includes literature, and literature is of two kinds, true and false. ‘What do you mean?’ he said. I mean that children hear stories before they learn gymnastics, and that the stories are either untrue, or have at most one or two grains of truth in a bushel of falsehood. Now early life is very impressible, and children ought not to learn what they will have to unlearn when they grow up; we must therefore have a censorship of nursery tales, banishing some and keeping others. Some of them are very improper, as we may see in the great instances of Homer and Hesiod, who not only tell lies but bad lies; stories about Uranus and Saturn, which are immoral as well as false, and which should never be spoken of to young persons, or indeed at all; or, if at all, then in a mystery, after the sacrifice, not of an Eleusinian pig, but of some unprocurable animal. Shall our youth be encouraged to beat their fathers by the example of Zeus, or our citizens be incited to quarrel by hearing or seeing representations of strife among the gods? Shall they listen to the narrative of Hephaestus binding his mother, and of Zeus sending him flying for helping her when she was beaten? Such tales may possibly have a mystical interpretation, but the young are incapable of understanding allegory. If any one asks what tales are to be allowed, we will answer that we are legislators and not book-makers; we only lay down the principles according to which books are to be written; to write them is the duty of others.
But what should their education be? Is there anything better than the traditional approach that includes music and gymnastics? Music includes literature, and literature comes in two types: true and false. "What do you mean?" he said. I mean that children hear stories before they learn gymnastics. These stories are either untrue or contain at most one or two grains of truth in a bushel of lies. Early childhood is very impressionable. Children shouldn't learn things they'll have to unlearn when they grow up. We must therefore censor nursery tales, rejecting some and keeping others. Some of them are very inappropriate, as we can see in the great examples of Homer and Hesiod. They not only tell lies but tell bad lies. They tell stories about Uranus and Saturn that are both immoral and false. These stories should never be told to young people, or really to anyone. If they must be told at all, it should be in secret, after a sacrifice. Not of an Eleusinian pig, but of some animal that can't be obtained. Should our youth be encouraged to beat their fathers by the example of Zeus? Should our citizens be incited to quarrel by hearing or seeing representations of conflict among the gods? Should they listen to the story of Hephaestus binding his mother, and of Zeus sending him flying for helping her when she was beaten? Such tales might possibly have a mystical interpretation, but young people can't understand allegory. If anyone asks what tales should be allowed, we'll answer that we are lawmakers, not book-makers. We only establish the principles according to which books should be written. Writing them is the duty of others.
And our first principle is, that God must be represented as he is; not as the author of all things, but of good only. We will not suffer the poets to say that he is the steward of good and evil, or that he has two casks full of destinies;—or that Athene and Zeus incited Pandarus to break the treaty; or that God caused the sufferings of Niobe, or of Pelops, or the Trojan war; or that he makes men sin when he wishes to destroy them. Either these were not the actions of the gods, or God was just, and men were the better for being punished. But that the deed was evil, and God the author, is a wicked, suicidal fiction which we will allow no one, old or young, to utter. This is our first and great principle—God is the author of good only.
Our first principle is that God must be shown as he truly is. He is not the author of all things, but only of good things. We won't let poets say that he controls both good and evil, or that he has two jars full of destinies. We won't allow them to claim that Athene and Zeus made Pandarus break the treaty, or that God caused the sufferings of Niobe, or of Pelops, or the Trojan war. We won't accept that he makes men sin when he wants to destroy them. Either these weren't really the actions of the gods, or God was just and people were better off for being punished. But saying that the deed was evil and God was its author is a wicked, destructive lie. We won't allow anyone, old or young, to speak such things. This is our first and most important principle: God is the author of good only.
And the second principle is like unto it:—With God is no variableness or change of form. Reason teaches us this; for if we suppose a change in God, he must be changed either by another or by himself. By another?—but the best works of nature and art and the noblest qualities of mind are least liable to be changed by any external force. By himself?—but he cannot change for the better; he will hardly change for the worse. He remains for ever fairest and best in his own image. Therefore we refuse to listen to the poets who tell us of Here begging in the likeness of a priestess or of other deities who prowl about at night in strange disguises; all that blasphemous nonsense with which mothers fool the manhood out of their children must be suppressed. But some one will say that God, who is himself unchangeable, may take a form in relation to us. Why should he? For gods as well as men hate the lie in the soul, or principle of falsehood; and as for any other form of lying which is used for a purpose and is regarded as innocent in certain exceptional cases—what need have the gods of this? For they are not ignorant of antiquity like the poets, nor are they afraid of their enemies, nor is any madman a friend of theirs. God then is true, he is absolutely true; he changes not, he deceives not, by day or night, by word or sign. This is our second great principle—God is true. Away with the lying dream of Agamemnon in Homer, and the accusation of Thetis against Apollo in Aeschylus...
The second principle is similar: God never changes or takes different forms. Reason teaches us this. If we suppose God could change, he would have to be changed either by someone else or by himself. By another? But the best works of nature and art, and the noblest qualities of mind, are least likely to be changed by any outside force. By himself? He cannot change for the better. He would hardly change for the worse. He remains forever the most beautiful and perfect in his own image. So we refuse to listen to poets who tell us stories of Here begging while disguised as a priestess, or of other gods prowling around at night in strange disguises. All that blasphemous nonsense that mothers use to fool the courage out of their children must be stopped. But someone will say that God, who is himself unchangeable, may take a form when dealing with us. Why should he? Gods hate lies in the soul just as much as people do. They hate any principle of falsehood. As for other forms of lying that are used for a purpose and considered harmless in certain special cases, what need do the gods have for this? They are not ignorant of ancient history like the poets are. They are not afraid of their enemies. No madman is their friend. God is true. He is absolutely true. He does not change. He does not deceive, by day or night, by word or sign. This is our second great principle: God is true. Away with the lying dream of Agamemnon in Homer, and the accusation of Thetis against Apollo in Aeschylus.
In order to give clearness to his conception of the State, Plato proceeds to trace the first principles of mutual need and of division of labour in an imaginary community of four or five citizens. Gradually this community increases; the division of labour extends to countries; imports necessitate exports; a medium of exchange is required, and retailers sit in the market-place to save the time of the producers. These are the steps by which Plato constructs the first or primitive State, introducing the elements of political economy by the way. As he is going to frame a second or civilized State, the simple naturally comes before the complex. He indulges, like Rousseau, in a picture of primitive life—an idea which has indeed often had a powerful influence on the imagination of mankind, but he does not seriously mean to say that one is better than the other (Politicus); nor can any inference be drawn from the description of the first state taken apart from the second, such as Aristotle appears to draw in the Politics. We should not interpret a Platonic dialogue any more than a poem or a parable in too literal or matter-of-fact a style. On the other hand, when we compare the lively fancy of Plato with the dried-up abstractions of modern treatises on philosophy, we are compelled to say with Protagoras, that the ‘mythus is more interesting’ (Protag.)
To make his idea of the State clearer, Plato traces the basic principles of mutual need and division of labor in an imaginary community of four or five citizens. This community gradually grows larger. The division of labor spreads to other countries. Imports require exports. A medium of exchange becomes necessary, and retailers sit in the marketplace to save the producers' time. These are the steps Plato uses to build his first or primitive State. Along the way, he introduces elements of political economy. Since he plans to create a second or civilized State, the simple naturally comes before the complex. Like Rousseau, he paints a picture of primitive life. This idea has often powerfully influenced human imagination, but he doesn't seriously claim that one state is better than the other (Politicus). We can't draw any conclusions from his description of the first state when taken separately from the second, as Aristotle seems to do in the Politics. We shouldn't interpret a Platonic dialogue any more literally than we would a poem or parable. On the other hand, when we compare Plato's lively imagination with the dried-up abstractions of modern philosophy treatises, we must agree with Protagoras that the 'mythus is more interesting' (Protag.)
Several interesting remarks which in modern times would have a place in a treatise on Political Economy are scattered up and down the writings of Plato: especially Laws, Population; Free Trade; Adulteration; Wills and Bequests; Begging; Eryxias, (though not Plato’s), Value and Demand; Republic, Division of Labour. The last subject, and also the origin of Retail Trade, is treated with admirable lucidity in the second book of the Republic. But Plato never combined his economic ideas into a system, and never seems to have recognized that Trade is one of the great motive powers of the State and of the world. He would make retail traders only of the inferior sort of citizens (Rep., Laws), though he remarks, quaintly enough (Laws), that ‘if only the best men and the best women everywhere were compelled to keep taverns for a time or to carry on retail trade, etc., then we should knew how pleasant and agreeable all these things are.’
Plato's writings contain several interesting observations that would fit in a modern Political Economy textbook. These ideas are scattered throughout his works. In Laws, he discusses population, free trade, adulteration, wills and bequests, and begging. In Eryxias (though this work isn't actually by Plato), he explores value and demand. In Republic, he examines the division of labor. The Republic's second book treats the division of labor and the origin of retail trade with remarkable clarity. But Plato never organized his economic ideas into a complete system. He never seems to have understood that trade is one of the great driving forces of both the state and the world. Plato believed that only inferior citizens should become retail traders (as stated in both Republic and Laws). Yet he makes a rather amusing observation in Laws: "If only the best men and the best women everywhere were forced to keep taverns for a time or to carry on retail trade, then we would know how pleasant and agreeable all these things are."
The disappointment of Glaucon at the ‘city of pigs,’ the ludicrous description of the ministers of luxury in the more refined State, and the afterthought of the necessity of doctors, the illustration of the nature of the guardian taken from the dog, the desirableness of offering some almost unprocurable victim when impure mysteries are to be celebrated, the behaviour of Zeus to his father and of Hephaestus to his mother, are touches of humour which have also a serious meaning. In speaking of education Plato rather startles us by affirming that a child must be trained in falsehood first and in truth afterwards. Yet this is not very different from saying that children must be taught through the medium of imagination as well as reason; that their minds can only develope gradually, and that there is much which they must learn without understanding. This is also the substance of Plato’s view, though he must be acknowledged to have drawn the line somewhat differently from modern ethical writers, respecting truth and falsehood. To us, economies or accommodations would not be allowable unless they were required by the human faculties or necessary for the communication of knowledge to the simple and ignorant. We should insist that the word was inseparable from the intention, and that we must not be ‘falsely true,’ i.e. speak or act falsely in support of what was right or true. But Plato would limit the use of fictions only by requiring that they should have a good moral effect, and that such a dangerous weapon as falsehood should be employed by the rulers alone and for great objects.
Glaucon was disappointed with the 'city of pigs.' Plato gave a funny description of luxury ministers in the more refined State. He added the afterthought about needing doctors. He illustrated the guardian's nature using a dog as an example. He mentioned offering some nearly impossible victim when celebrating impure mysteries. He described Zeus's behavior toward his father and Hephaestus's behavior toward his mother. These humorous touches also carry serious meaning. When discussing education, Plato startles us by saying that children must learn falsehood first, then truth afterward. This isn't very different from saying that children must learn through imagination as well as reason. Their minds can only develop gradually. There's much they must learn without understanding. This captures Plato's basic view, though he drew the line differently than modern ethical writers do regarding truth and falsehood. We wouldn't allow compromises or accommodations unless human abilities required them or they were necessary to teach simple and ignorant people. We insist that words must match intentions. We must not be 'falsely true' - speaking or acting falsely to support what is right or true. But Plato would limit fiction only by requiring it to have a good moral effect. He believed such a dangerous weapon as falsehood should be used only by rulers and only for great purposes.
A Greek in the age of Plato attached no importance to the question whether his religion was an historical fact. He was just beginning to be conscious that the past had a history; but he could see nothing beyond Homer and Hesiod. Whether their narratives were true or false did not seriously affect the political or social life of Hellas. Men only began to suspect that they were fictions when they recognised them to be immoral. And so in all religions: the consideration of their morality comes first, afterwards the truth of the documents in which they are recorded, or of the events natural or supernatural which are told of them. But in modern times, and in Protestant countries perhaps more than in Catholic, we have been too much inclined to identify the historical with the moral; and some have refused to believe in religion at all, unless a superhuman accuracy was discernible in every part of the record. The facts of an ancient or religious history are amongst the most important of all facts; but they are frequently uncertain, and we only learn the true lesson which is to be gathered from them when we place ourselves above them. These reflections tend to show that the difference between Plato and ourselves, though not unimportant, is not so great as might at first sight appear. For we should agree with him in placing the moral before the historical truth of religion; and, generally, in disregarding those errors or misstatements of fact which necessarily occur in the early stages of all religions. We know also that changes in the traditions of a country cannot be made in a day; and are therefore tolerant of many things which science and criticism would condemn.
A Greek in the age of Plato didn't care whether his religion was based on historical fact. He was just starting to realize that the past had a history, but he couldn't see anything beyond Homer and Hesiod. Whether their stories were true or false didn't seriously affect the political or social life of Greece. People only began to suspect these stories were fiction when they recognized them as immoral. This pattern appears in all religions: people consider their morality first, then later question the truth of the documents that record them or the natural and supernatural events they describe. In modern times, especially in Protestant countries more than Catholic ones, we've been too quick to link historical accuracy with moral truth. Some people have refused to believe in religion at all unless they could find superhuman accuracy in every part of the record. The facts of ancient or religious history are among the most important of all facts, but they're often uncertain. We only learn the true lesson from them when we rise above the details. These thoughts show that the difference between Plato and ourselves, while significant, isn't as great as it might first appear. We would agree with him in placing the moral truth of religion before its historical truth. We would also generally ignore those errors or false statements that necessarily occur in the early stages of all religions. We also know that changes in a country's traditions can't happen overnight. We're therefore tolerant of many things that science and criticism would condemn.
We note in passing that the allegorical interpretation of mythology, said to have been first introduced as early as the sixth century before Christ by Theagenes of Rhegium, was well established in the age of Plato, and here, as in the Phaedrus, though for a different reason, was rejected by him. That anachronisms whether of religion or law, when men have reached another stage of civilization, should be got rid of by fictions is in accordance with universal experience. Great is the art of interpretation; and by a natural process, which when once discovered was always going on, what could not be altered was explained away. And so without any palpable inconsistency there existed side by side two forms of religion, the tradition inherited or invented by the poets and the customary worship of the temple; on the other hand, there was the religion of the philosopher, who was dwelling in the heaven of ideas, but did not therefore refuse to offer a cock to Aesculapius, or to be seen saying his prayers at the rising of the sun. At length the antagonism between the popular and philosophical religion, never so great among the Greeks as in our own age, disappeared, and was only felt like the difference between the religion of the educated and uneducated among ourselves. The Zeus of Homer and Hesiod easily passed into the ‘royal mind’ of Plato (Philebus); the giant Heracles became the knight-errant and benefactor of mankind. These and still more wonderful transformations were readily effected by the ingenuity of Stoics and neo-Platonists in the two or three centuries before and after Christ. The Greek and Roman religions were gradually permeated by the spirit of philosophy; having lost their ancient meaning, they were resolved into poetry and morality; and probably were never purer than at the time of their decay, when their influence over the world was waning.
We should note that the allegorical interpretation of mythology was supposedly first introduced in the sixth century before Christ by Theagenes of Rhegium. By Plato's time, this approach was well established. Here, as in the Phaedrus, Plato rejected it, though for different reasons. When people reach a new stage of civilization, they naturally use creative explanations to get rid of outdated religious or legal ideas. This happens everywhere throughout history. The art of interpretation is powerful. Once this natural process was discovered, it continued constantly. What couldn't be changed was simply explained away. So two forms of religion existed side by side without obvious contradiction. There was the tradition inherited or invented by the poets and the customary worship of the temple. On the other hand, there was the religion of the philosopher. The philosopher lived in the heaven of ideas but still offered a cock to Aesculapius or said prayers at sunrise. Eventually the conflict between popular and philosophical religion disappeared. This antagonism was never as great among the Greeks as it is in our own age. It came to feel like the difference between the religion of the educated and uneducated among ourselves. The Zeus of Homer and Hesiod easily became the 'royal mind' of Plato's Philebus. The giant Heracles became the knight-errant and benefactor of mankind. The cleverness of Stoics and neo-Platonists achieved these and even more wonderful transformations in the two or three centuries before and after Christ. The Greek and Roman religions were gradually filled with the spirit of philosophy. Having lost their ancient meaning, they were transformed into poetry and morality. They were probably never purer than at the time of their decay, when their influence over the world was fading.
A singular conception which occurs towards the end of the book is the lie in the soul; this is connected with the Platonic and Socratic doctrine that involuntary ignorance is worse than voluntary. The lie in the soul is a true lie, the corruption of the highest truth, the deception of the highest part of the soul, from which he who is deceived has no power of delivering himself. For example, to represent God as false or immoral, or, according to Plato, as deluding men with appearances or as the author of evil; or again, to affirm with Protagoras that ‘knowledge is sensation,’ or that ‘being is becoming,’ or with Thrasymachus ‘that might is right,’ would have been regarded by Plato as a lie of this hateful sort. The greatest unconsciousness of the greatest untruth, e.g. if, in the language of the Gospels (John), ‘he who was blind’ were to say ‘I see,’ is another aspect of the state of mind which Plato is describing. The lie in the soul may be further compared with the sin against the Holy Ghost (Luke), allowing for the difference between Greek and Christian modes of speaking. To this is opposed the lie in words, which is only such a deception as may occur in a play or poem, or allegory or figure of speech, or in any sort of accommodation,—which though useless to the gods may be useful to men in certain cases. Socrates is here answering the question which he had himself raised about the propriety of deceiving a madman; and he is also contrasting the nature of God and man. For God is Truth, but mankind can only be true by appearing sometimes to be partial, or false. Reserving for another place the greater questions of religion or education, we may note further, (1) the approval of the old traditional education of Greece; (2) the preparation which Plato is making for the attack on Homer and the poets; (3) the preparation which he is also making for the use of economies in the State; (4) the contemptuous and at the same time euphemistic manner in which here as below he alludes to the ‘Chronique Scandaleuse’ of the gods.
A unique idea that appears near the end of the book is the lie in the soul. This connects to the Platonic and Socratic teaching that involuntary ignorance is worse than voluntary ignorance. The lie in the soul is a true lie. It corrupts the highest truth and deceives the highest part of the soul. The person who is deceived cannot free himself from this deception. For example, Plato would have seen these as hateful lies: representing God as false or immoral, claiming that God deludes people with appearances or causes evil, agreeing with Protagoras that "knowledge is sensation," saying that "being is becoming," or supporting Thrasymachus's view that "might is right." The greatest unconsciousness of the greatest untruth offers another view of this mental state Plato describes. Using the language of the Gospels (John), this would be like someone "who was blind" saying "I see." The lie in the soul can be compared to the sin against the Holy Ghost (Luke), accounting for the differences between Greek and Christian ways of speaking. This contrasts with the lie in words, which is simply deception that might appear in a play, poem, allegory, or figure of speech. It includes any kind of accommodation that, while useless to the gods, may be useful to people in certain cases. Here Socrates answers the question he had raised about whether it's proper to deceive a madman. He also contrasts the nature of God and humanity. God is Truth, but humans can only be truthful by sometimes appearing partial or false. Setting aside the larger questions of religion and education for another discussion, we can note several things: (1) Plato approves of Greece's old traditional education, (2) he prepares for his attack on Homer and the poets, (3) he prepares for using economies in the State, and (4) he refers to the scandalous stories about the gods in a way that is both contemptuous and euphemistic.
BOOK III. There is another motive in purifying religion, which is to banish fear; for no man can be courageous who is afraid of death, or who believes the tales which are repeated by the poets concerning the world below. They must be gently requested not to abuse hell; they may be reminded that their stories are both untrue and discouraging. Nor must they be angry if we expunge obnoxious passages, such as the depressing words of Achilles—‘I would rather be a serving-man than rule over all the dead;’ and the verses which tell of the squalid mansions, the senseless shadows, the flitting soul mourning over lost strength and youth, the soul with a gibber going beneath the earth like smoke, or the souls of the suitors which flutter about like bats. The terrors and horrors of Cocytus and Styx, ghosts and sapless shades, and the rest of their Tartarean nomenclature, must vanish. Such tales may have their use; but they are not the proper food for soldiers. As little can we admit the sorrows and sympathies of the Homeric heroes:—Achilles, the son of Thetis, in tears, throwing ashes on his head, or pacing up and down the sea-shore in distraction; or Priam, the cousin of the gods, crying aloud, rolling in the mire. A good man is not prostrated at the loss of children or fortune. Neither is death terrible to him; and therefore lamentations over the dead should not be practised by men of note; they should be the concern of inferior persons only, whether women or men. Still worse is the attribution of such weakness to the gods; as when the goddesses say, ‘Alas! my travail!’ and worst of all, when the king of heaven himself laments his inability to save Hector, or sorrows over the impending doom of his dear Sarpedon. Such a character of God, if not ridiculed by our young men, is likely to be imitated by them. Nor should our citizens be given to excess of laughter—‘Such violent delights’ are followed by a violent re-action. The description in the Iliad of the gods shaking their sides at the clumsiness of Hephaestus will not be admitted by us. ‘Certainly not.’
BOOK III. There is another reason for purifying religion: to banish fear. No man can be courageous if he's afraid of death or believes the tales that poets tell about the underworld. We must gently ask them not to slander hell. We can remind them that their stories are both false and discouraging. They shouldn't be angry if we remove offensive passages, like Achilles' depressing words: "I would rather be a serving-man than rule over all the dead." We must also cut the verses that describe squalid mansions, senseless shadows, and the flitting soul mourning over lost strength and youth. Gone too should be the soul that gibbers as it goes beneath the earth like smoke, or the souls of the suitors that flutter about like bats. The terrors and horrors of Cocytus and Styx, ghosts and sapless shades, and the rest of their Tartarean names must vanish. Such tales may have their use, but they are not proper food for soldiers. We can hardly admit the sorrows and sympathies of the Homeric heroes either. Take Achilles, the son of Thetis, weeping and throwing ashes on his head, or pacing up and down the seashore in distraction. Or Priam, the cousin of the gods, crying aloud and rolling in the mire. A good man is not crushed by the loss of children or fortune. Death is not terrible to him either. Therefore, lamentations over the dead should not be practiced by men of note. They should be the concern of lesser people only, whether women or men. Still worse is attributing such weakness to the gods. The goddesses cry, "Alas! My travail!" Worst of all, the king of heaven himself laments his inability to save Hector, or sorrows over the coming doom of his dear Sarpedon. If our young men don't ridicule such a character of God, they're likely to imitate it. Our citizens shouldn't be given to excessive laughter either. "Such violent delights" are followed by violent reactions. We won't admit the description in the Iliad of the gods shaking their sides at the clumsiness of Hephaestus. "Certainly not."
Truth should have a high place among the virtues, for falsehood, as we were saying, is useless to the gods, and only useful to men as a medicine. But this employment of falsehood must remain a privilege of state; the common man must not in return tell a lie to the ruler; any more than the patient would tell a lie to his physician, or the sailor to his captain.
Truth should rank high among the virtues. Falsehood, as we said, is useless to the gods and only useful to men as medicine. But this use of falsehood must remain a privilege of the state. The common man must not lie to the ruler in return. This is no different than a patient lying to his physician or a sailor lying to his captain.
In the next place our youth must be temperate, and temperance consists in self-control and obedience to authority. That is a lesson which Homer teaches in some places: ‘The Achaeans marched on breathing prowess, in silent awe of their leaders;’—but a very different one in other places: ‘O heavy with wine, who hast the eyes of a dog, but the heart of a stag.’ Language of the latter kind will not impress self-control on the minds of youth. The same may be said about his praises of eating and drinking and his dread of starvation; also about the verses in which he tells of the rapturous loves of Zeus and Here, or of how Hephaestus once detained Ares and Aphrodite in a net on a similar occasion. There is a nobler strain heard in the words:—‘Endure, my soul, thou hast endured worse.’ Nor must we allow our citizens to receive bribes, or to say, ‘Gifts persuade the gods, gifts reverend kings;’ or to applaud the ignoble advice of Phoenix to Achilles that he should get money out of the Greeks before he assisted them; or the meanness of Achilles himself in taking gifts from Agamemnon; or his requiring a ransom for the body of Hector; or his cursing of Apollo; or his insolence to the river-god Scamander; or his dedication to the dead Patroclus of his own hair which had been already dedicated to the other river-god Spercheius; or his cruelty in dragging the body of Hector round the walls, and slaying the captives at the pyre: such a combination of meanness and cruelty in Cheiron’s pupil is inconceivable. The amatory exploits of Peirithous and Theseus are equally unworthy. Either these so-called sons of gods were not the sons of gods, or they were not such as the poets imagine them, any more than the gods themselves are the authors of evil. The youth who believes that such things are done by those who have the blood of heaven flowing in their veins will be too ready to imitate their example.
Next, our young people must learn self-control. Self-control means controlling yourself and obeying authority. Homer teaches this lesson in some places: "The Achaeans marched on breathing prowess, in silent awe of their leaders." But he teaches a very different lesson in other places: "O heavy with wine, who hast the eyes of a dog, but the heart of a stag." Language like this won't teach young people self-control. The same goes for his praise of eating and drinking and his fear of starvation. The same applies to verses where he tells of the passionate love between Zeus and Here, or how Hephaestus once caught Ares and Aphrodite in a net during a similar encounter. There's a nobler message in these words: "Endure, my soul, thou hast endured worse." We can't allow our citizens to accept bribes, or to say, "Gifts persuade the gods, gifts reverend kings." We can't let them applaud Phoenix's shameful advice to Achilles that he should get money from the Greeks before helping them. We can't approve of Achilles' own greed in taking gifts from Agamemnon, or his demand for ransom for Hector's body, or his cursing of Apollo, or his rudeness to the river-god Scamander. We can't accept his dedication of his own hair to the dead Patroclus when it had already been dedicated to the other river-god Spercheius. We can't tolerate his cruelty in dragging Hector's body around the walls and killing captives at the funeral pyre. Such a combination of greed and cruelty in Cheiron's student is unthinkable. The romantic adventures of Peirithous and Theseus are equally unworthy. Either these so-called sons of gods were not really sons of gods, or they were not what the poets make them out to be. The gods themselves are not the authors of evil either. Young people who believe that those with divine blood in their veins do such things will be too quick to copy their example.
Enough of gods and heroes;—what shall we say about men? What the poets and story-tellers say—that the wicked prosper and the righteous are afflicted, or that justice is another’s gain? Such misrepresentations cannot be allowed by us. But in this we are anticipating the definition of justice, and had therefore better defer the enquiry.
Enough of gods and heroes. What shall we say about men? What the poets and story-tellers say? That the wicked prosper and the righteous are afflicted? That justice is another's gain? We cannot allow such misrepresentations. But in this we are anticipating the definition of justice, and had therefore better defer the enquiry.
The subjects of poetry have been sufficiently treated; next follows style. Now all poetry is a narrative of events past, present, or to come; and narrative is of three kinds, the simple, the imitative, and a composition of the two. An instance will make my meaning clear. The first scene in Homer is of the last or mixed kind, being partly description and partly dialogue. But if you throw the dialogue into the ‘oratio obliqua,’ the passage will run thus: The priest came and prayed Apollo that the Achaeans might take Troy and have a safe return if Agamemnon would only give him back his daughter; and the other Greeks assented, but Agamemnon was wroth, and so on—The whole then becomes descriptive, and the poet is the only speaker left; or, if you omit the narrative, the whole becomes dialogue. These are the three styles—which of them is to be admitted into our State? ‘Do you ask whether tragedy and comedy are to be admitted?’ Yes, but also something more—Is it not doubtful whether our guardians are to be imitators at all? Or rather, has not the question been already answered, for we have decided that one man cannot in his life play many parts, any more than he can act both tragedy and comedy, or be rhapsodist and actor at once? Human nature is coined into very small pieces, and as our guardians have their own business already, which is the care of freedom, they will have enough to do without imitating. If they imitate they should imitate, not any meanness or baseness, but the good only; for the mask which the actor wears is apt to become his face. We cannot allow men to play the parts of women, quarrelling, weeping, scolding, or boasting against the gods,—least of all when making love or in labour. They must not represent slaves, or bullies, or cowards, drunkards, or madmen, or blacksmiths, or neighing horses, or bellowing bulls, or sounding rivers, or a raging sea. A good or wise man will be willing to perform good and wise actions, but he will be ashamed to play an inferior part which he has never practised; and he will prefer to employ the descriptive style with as little imitation as possible. The man who has no self-respect, on the contrary, will imitate anybody and anything; sounds of nature and cries of animals alike; his whole performance will be imitation of gesture and voice. Now in the descriptive style there are few changes, but in the dramatic there are a great many. Poets and musicians use either, or a compound of both, and this compound is very attractive to youth and their teachers as well as to the vulgar. But our State in which one man plays one part only is not adapted for complexity. And when one of these polyphonous pantomimic gentlemen offers to exhibit himself and his poetry we will show him every observance of respect, but at the same time tell him that there is no room for his kind in our State; we prefer the rough, honest poet, and will not depart from our original models (Laws).
We've covered the subjects of poetry well enough. Now let's talk about style. All poetry tells a story about events that happened in the past, are happening now, or will happen in the future. There are three kinds of storytelling: simple narrative, imitative dialogue, and a mix of both. Let me give you an example to make this clear. The opening scene in Homer uses the mixed style, combining description with dialogue. But if you change the dialogue into indirect speech, the passage would read like this: The priest came and prayed to Apollo that the Achaeans might capture Troy and return home safely if Agamemnon would just give him back his daughter. The other Greeks agreed, but Agamemnon was angry, and so on. The whole thing then becomes pure description, with the poet as the only speaker. Or if you remove the narrative parts, everything becomes dialogue. These are the three styles. Which one should we allow in our State? Are you asking whether we should admit tragedy and comedy? Yes, but there's more to consider. Shouldn't we question whether our guardians should be imitators at all? Actually, haven't we already answered this question? We decided that one person cannot play many different roles in life, just as someone cannot perform both tragedy and comedy, or be both a storyteller and an actor at the same time. Human nature is divided into very small pieces. Since our guardians already have their own job, which is protecting freedom, they'll have enough to do without imitating others. If they do imitate, they should copy only good things, not anything mean or base. The mask an actor wears tends to become his real face. We cannot allow men to play women's parts, quarrelling, weeping, scolding, or boasting against the gods. Especially not when making love or giving birth. They must not represent slaves, bullies, cowards, drunkards, or madmen. No blacksmiths, neighing horses, bellowing bulls, rushing rivers, or raging seas either. A good or wise man will gladly perform good and wise actions, but he'll be ashamed to play an inferior role he's never practiced. He'll prefer to use the descriptive style with as little imitation as possible. The man who has no self-respect, however, will imitate anybody and anything. He'll copy sounds of nature and animal cries alike. His whole performance will be nothing but imitation of gestures and voices. The descriptive style has few changes, but the dramatic style has many. Poets and musicians use either style, or a combination of both. This combination is very appealing to young people and their teachers, as well as to common folk. But our State, where each person plays only one role, is not suited for such complexity. When one of these multi-talented performers offers to show off himself and his poetry, we'll treat him with respect. But we'll also tell him there's no place for his kind in our State. We prefer the rough, honest poet, and we won't abandon our original models.
Next as to the music. A song or ode has three parts,—the subject, the harmony, and the rhythm; of which the two last are dependent upon the first. As we banished strains of lamentation, so we may now banish the mixed Lydian harmonies, which are the harmonies of lamentation; and as our citizens are to be temperate, we may also banish convivial harmonies, such as the Ionian and pure Lydian. Two remain—the Dorian and Phrygian, the first for war, the second for peace; the one expressive of courage, the other of obedience or instruction or religious feeling. And as we reject varieties of harmony, we shall also reject the many-stringed, variously-shaped instruments which give utterance to them, and in particular the flute, which is more complex than any of them. The lyre and the harp may be permitted in the town, and the Pan’s-pipe in the fields. Thus we have made a purgation of music, and will now make a purgation of metres. These should be like the harmonies, simple and suitable to the occasion. There are four notes of the tetrachord, and there are three ratios of metre, 3/2, 2/2, 2/1, which have all their characteristics, and the feet have different characteristics as well as the rhythms. But about this you and I must ask Damon, the great musician, who speaks, if I remember rightly, of a martial measure as well as of dactylic, trochaic, and iambic rhythms, which he arranges so as to equalize the syllables with one another, assigning to each the proper quantity. We only venture to affirm the general principle that the style is to conform to the subject and the metre to the style; and that the simplicity and harmony of the soul should be reflected in them all. This principle of simplicity has to be learnt by every one in the days of his youth, and may be gathered anywhere, from the creative and constructive arts, as well as from the forms of plants and animals.
Now let's talk about music. A song or ode has three parts: the subject, the harmony, and the rhythm. The last two depend on the first. We already banned sad, lamenting music. Now we can also ban the mixed Lydian harmonies, which are used for mourning. Since our citizens should be moderate, we'll also ban party music like the Ionian and pure Lydian styles. Two types remain: the Dorian and Phrygian. The first is for war, the second for peace. One expresses courage, the other shows obedience, instruction, or religious feeling. Just as we reject different types of harmony, we'll also reject complex instruments with many strings and various shapes. We especially reject the flute, which is more complicated than any other instrument. The lyre and harp can be allowed in the city, and the Pan's-pipe in the countryside. We've now cleaned up music, and we'll do the same with rhythm and meter. These should be like the harmonies: simple and right for the occasion. There are four notes in the tetrachord, and three ratios of meter: 3/2, 2/2, and 2/1. Each has its own qualities, and the different feet and rhythms have their own characteristics too. But we should ask Damon about this. He's the great musician who talks about martial measures and dactylic, trochaic, and iambic rhythms. If I remember correctly, he arranges them to balance the syllables with each other, giving each the right weight. We can only state the general rule: the style should match the subject, and the meter should match the style. The simplicity and harmony of the soul should show in all of them. Everyone must learn this principle of simplicity when they're young. You can find it everywhere: in creative and building arts, and in the forms of plants and animals.
Other artists as well as poets should be warned against meanness or unseemliness. Sculpture and painting equally with music must conform to the law of simplicity. He who violates it cannot be allowed to work in our city, and to corrupt the taste of our citizens. For our guardians must grow up, not amid images of deformity which will gradually poison and corrupt their souls, but in a land of health and beauty where they will drink in from every object sweet and harmonious influences. And of all these influences the greatest is the education given by music, which finds a way into the innermost soul and imparts to it the sense of beauty and of deformity. At first the effect is unconscious; but when reason arrives, then he who has been thus trained welcomes her as the friend whom he always knew. As in learning to read, first we acquire the elements or letters separately, and afterwards their combinations, and cannot recognize reflections of them until we know the letters themselves;—in like manner we must first attain the elements or essential forms of the virtues, and then trace their combinations in life and experience. There is a music of the soul which answers to the harmony of the world; and the fairest object of a musical soul is the fair mind in the fair body. Some defect in the latter may be excused, but not in the former. True love is the daughter of temperance, and temperance is utterly opposed to the madness of bodily pleasure. Enough has been said of music, which makes a fair ending with love.
Artists and poets should avoid creating anything crude or inappropriate. Sculpture and painting, like music, must follow the principle of simplicity. Anyone who breaks this rule cannot work in our city or corrupt our citizens' taste. Our guardians must grow up surrounded by beauty, not ugly images that will slowly poison their souls. They need to live in a place of health and beauty. There they will absorb sweet and harmonious influences from everything around them. The most powerful influence comes from musical education. Music reaches deep into the soul and teaches us to recognize beauty and ugliness. At first this happens without us realizing it. But when we develop reasoning skills, we welcome this sense of beauty as an old friend we've always known. Learning virtue works like learning to read. First we learn individual letters separately, then their combinations. We can't recognize reflections of letters until we know the letters themselves. In the same way, we must first learn the basic forms of virtue, then trace how they combine in real life and experience. The soul has its own music that matches the harmony of the world. The most beautiful thing for a musical soul is a beautiful mind in a beautiful body. We might excuse some physical flaws, but never flaws of character. True love comes from self-control, and self-control completely opposes the madness of bodily pleasure. We've said enough about music, which ends beautifully with love.
Next we pass on to gymnastics; about which I would remark, that the soul is related to the body as a cause to an effect, and therefore if we educate the mind we may leave the education of the body in her charge, and need only give a general outline of the course to be pursued. In the first place the guardians must abstain from strong drink, for they should be the last persons to lose their wits. Whether the habits of the palaestra are suitable to them is more doubtful, for the ordinary gymnastic is a sleepy sort of thing, and if left off suddenly is apt to endanger health. But our warrior athletes must be wide-awake dogs, and must also be inured to all changes of food and climate. Hence they will require a simpler kind of gymnastic, akin to their simple music; and for their diet a rule may be found in Homer, who feeds his heroes on roast meat only, and gives them no fish although they are living at the sea-side, nor boiled meats which involve an apparatus of pots and pans; and, if I am not mistaken, he nowhere mentions sweet sauces. Sicilian cookery and Attic confections and Corinthian courtezans, which are to gymnastic what Lydian and Ionian melodies are to music, must be forbidden. Where gluttony and intemperance prevail the town quickly fills with doctors and pleaders; and law and medicine give themselves airs as soon as the freemen of a State take an interest in them. But what can show a more disgraceful state of education than to have to go abroad for justice because you have none of your own at home? And yet there IS a worse stage of the same disease—when men have learned to take a pleasure and pride in the twists and turns of the law; not considering how much better it would be for them so to order their lives as to have no need of a nodding justice. And there is a like disgrace in employing a physician, not for the cure of wounds or epidemic disorders, but because a man has by laziness and luxury contracted diseases which were unknown in the days of Asclepius. How simple is the Homeric practice of medicine. Eurypylus after he has been wounded drinks a posset of Pramnian wine, which is of a heating nature; and yet the sons of Asclepius blame neither the damsel who gives him the drink, nor Patroclus who is attending on him. The truth is that this modern system of nursing diseases was introduced by Herodicus the trainer; who, being of a sickly constitution, by a compound of training and medicine tortured first himself and then a good many other people, and lived a great deal longer than he had any right. But Asclepius would not practise this art, because he knew that the citizens of a well-ordered State have no leisure to be ill, and therefore he adopted the ‘kill or cure’ method, which artisans and labourers employ. ‘They must be at their business,’ they say, ‘and have no time for coddling: if they recover, well; if they don’t, there is an end of them.’ Whereas the rich man is supposed to be a gentleman who can afford to be ill. Do you know a maxim of Phocylides—that ‘when a man begins to be rich’ (or, perhaps, a little sooner) ‘he should practise virtue’? But how can excessive care of health be inconsistent with an ordinary occupation, and yet consistent with that practice of virtue which Phocylides inculcates? When a student imagines that philosophy gives him a headache, he never does anything; he is always unwell. This was the reason why Asclepius and his sons practised no such art. They were acting in the interest of the public, and did not wish to preserve useless lives, or raise up a puny offspring to wretched sires. Honest diseases they honestly cured; and if a man was wounded, they applied the proper remedies, and then let him eat and drink what he liked. But they declined to treat intemperate and worthless subjects, even though they might have made large fortunes out of them. As to the story of Pindar, that Asclepius was slain by a thunderbolt for restoring a rich man to life, that is a lie—following our old rule we must say either that he did not take bribes, or that he was not the son of a god.
Next we move on to gymnastics. I want to point out that the soul relates to the body like a cause relates to an effect. If we educate the mind properly, we can leave the body's education in the mind's care. We only need to give a general outline of the course to follow. First, the guardians must avoid strong drink. They should be the last people to lose their wits. Whether the habits of the palaestra suit them is more doubtful. Ordinary gymnastics is a sleepy sort of thing. If you stop suddenly, it can endanger your health. But our warrior athletes must be wide-awake dogs. They must also be hardened to all changes of food and climate. They will need a simpler kind of gymnastics, similar to their simple music. For their diet, we can find a rule in Homer. He feeds his heroes only roast meat. He gives them no fish, even though they live by the sea. He gives them no boiled meats, which require pots and pans. If I'm not mistaken, he never mentions sweet sauces anywhere. We must forbid Sicilian cookery, Attic confections, and Corinthian courtezans. These relate to gymnastics the same way Lydian and Ionian melodies relate to music. Where gluttony and excess prevail, the town quickly fills with doctors and lawyers. Law and medicine put on airs as soon as the free citizens of a state take interest in them. But what shows a more disgraceful state of education than having to go abroad for justice because you have none at home? Yet there is a worse stage of the same disease. This happens when men learn to take pleasure and pride in the twists and turns of the law. They don't consider how much better it would be to order their lives so they need no nodding justice. There is a similar disgrace in employing a physician. I don't mean for curing wounds or epidemic disorders. I mean because a man has contracted diseases through laziness and luxury. These diseases were unknown in the days of Asclepius. How simple is the Homeric practice of medicine! Eurypylus drinks a mixture of Pramnian wine after being wounded. This wine has a heating nature. Yet the sons of Asclepius blame neither the girl who gives him the drink nor Patroclus who attends him. The truth is that this modern system of nursing diseases was introduced by Herodicus the trainer. He had a sickly constitution. Through a combination of training and medicine, he tortured first himself and then many other people. He lived much longer than he had any right to. But Asclepius would not practice this art. He knew that citizens of a well-ordered state have no leisure to be ill. Therefore he adopted the 'kill or cure' method that artisans and laborers use. 'They must be at their business,' they say, 'and have no time for coddling. If they recover, well. If they don't, there is an end of them.' The rich man, however, is supposed to be a gentleman who can afford to be ill. Do you know a maxim of Phocylides? He said that 'when a man begins to be rich' (or perhaps a little sooner) 'he should practice virtue.' But how can excessive care of health be inconsistent with an ordinary occupation, yet consistent with that practice of virtue which Phocylides teaches? When a student imagines that philosophy gives him a headache, he never does anything. He is always unwell. This was the reason why Asclepius and his sons practiced no such art. They were acting in the public interest. They did not wish to preserve useless lives or raise up weak offspring to wretched fathers. They honestly cured honest diseases. If a man was wounded, they applied the proper remedies and then let him eat and drink what he liked. But they refused to treat intemperate and worthless subjects, even though they might have made large fortunes from them. As to the story of Pindar, that Asclepius was killed by a thunderbolt for bringing a rich man back to life, that is a lie. Following our old rule, we must say either that he did not take bribes, or that he was not the son of a god.
Glaucon then asks Socrates whether the best physicians and the best judges will not be those who have had severally the greatest experience of diseases and of crimes. Socrates draws a distinction between the two professions. The physician should have had experience of disease in his own body, for he cures with his mind and not with his body. But the judge controls mind by mind; and therefore his mind should not be corrupted by crime. Where then is he to gain experience? How is he to be wise and also innocent? When young a good man is apt to be deceived by evil-doers, because he has no pattern of evil in himself; and therefore the judge should be of a certain age; his youth should have been innocent, and he should have acquired insight into evil not by the practice of it, but by the observation of it in others. This is the ideal of a judge; the criminal turned detective is wonderfully suspicious, but when in company with good men who have experience, he is at fault, for he foolishly imagines that every one is as bad as himself. Vice may be known of virtue, but cannot know virtue. This is the sort of medicine and this the sort of law which will prevail in our State; they will be healing arts to better natures; but the evil body will be left to die by the one, and the evil soul will be put to death by the other. And the need of either will be greatly diminished by good music which will give harmony to the soul, and good gymnastic which will give health to the body. Not that this division of music and gymnastic really corresponds to soul and body; for they are both equally concerned with the soul, which is tamed by the one and aroused and sustained by the other. The two together supply our guardians with their twofold nature. The passionate disposition when it has too much gymnastic is hardened and brutalized, the gentle or philosophic temper which has too much music becomes enervated. While a man is allowing music to pour like water through the funnel of his ears, the edge of his soul gradually wears away, and the passionate or spirited element is melted out of him. Too little spirit is easily exhausted; too much quickly passes into nervous irritability. So, again, the athlete by feeding and training has his courage doubled, but he soon grows stupid; he is like a wild beast, ready to do everything by blows and nothing by counsel or policy. There are two principles in man, reason and passion, and to these, not to the soul and body, the two arts of music and gymnastic correspond. He who mingles them in harmonious concord is the true musician,—he shall be the presiding genius of our State.
Glaucon then asks Socrates whether the best physicians and the best judges will be those who have had the greatest experience of diseases and crimes. Socrates draws a distinction between the two professions. The physician should have experienced disease in his own body, for he cures with his mind and not with his body. But the judge controls mind by mind. Therefore his mind should not be corrupted by crime. Where then is he to gain experience? How is he to be wise and also innocent? When young, a good man is apt to be deceived by evil-doers because he has no pattern of evil in himself. Therefore the judge should be of a certain age. His youth should have been innocent, and he should have acquired insight into evil not by practicing it, but by observing it in others. This is the ideal of a judge. The criminal turned detective is wonderfully suspicious, but when in company with good men who have experience, he is at fault. He foolishly imagines that everyone is as bad as himself. Vice may be known of virtue, but cannot know virtue. This is the sort of medicine and this the sort of law which will prevail in our State. They will be healing arts to better natures. But the evil body will be left to die by the one, and the evil soul will be put to death by the other. The need of either will be greatly diminished by good music which will give harmony to the soul, and good gymnastic which will give health to the body. Not that this division of music and gymnastic really corresponds to soul and body. They are both equally concerned with the soul, which is tamed by the one and aroused and sustained by the other. The two together supply our guardians with their twofold nature. The passionate disposition when it has too much gymnastic is hardened and brutalized. The gentle or philosophic temper which has too much music becomes enervated. While a man is allowing music to pour like water through the funnel of his ears, the edge of his soul gradually wears away. The passionate or spirited element is melted out of him. Too little spirit is easily exhausted. Too much quickly passes into nervous irritability. So, again, the athlete by feeding and training has his courage doubled, but he soon grows stupid. He is like a wild beast, ready to do everything by blows and nothing by counsel or policy. There are two principles in man, reason and passion. To these, not to the soul and body, the two arts of music and gymnastic correspond. He who mingles them in harmonious concord is the true musician. He shall be the presiding genius of our State.
The next question is, Who are to be our rulers? First, the elder must rule the younger; and the best of the elders will be the best guardians. Now they will be the best who love their subjects most, and think that they have a common interest with them in the welfare of the state. These we must select; but they must be watched at every epoch of life to see whether they have retained the same opinions and held out against force and enchantment. For time and persuasion and the love of pleasure may enchant a man into a change of purpose, and the force of grief and pain may compel him. And therefore our guardians must be men who have been tried by many tests, like gold in the refiner’s fire, and have been passed first through danger, then through pleasure, and at every age have come out of such trials victorious and without stain, in full command of themselves and their principles; having all their faculties in harmonious exercise for their country’s good. These shall receive the highest honours both in life and death. (It would perhaps be better to confine the term ‘guardians’ to this select class: the younger men may be called ‘auxiliaries.’)
The next question is: Who should rule us? First, older people must rule younger ones. The best of the older people will make the best guardians. The best guardians are those who love their subjects most and believe they share common interests with them in the state's welfare. We must choose these people, but we must watch them throughout their lives to see if they keep the same beliefs and resist force and temptation. Time, persuasion, and the love of pleasure can tempt a person to change their purpose. The force of grief and pain can force them to change too. Our guardians must be people who have been tested many times, like gold in a refiner's fire. They must pass first through danger, then through pleasure. At every age, they must come out of these trials victorious and without stain. They must have full command of themselves and their principles. All their abilities must work together for their country's good. These people will receive the highest honors both in life and death. (It might be better to limit the term 'guardians' to this select group. The younger men can be called 'auxiliaries.')
And now for one magnificent lie, in the belief of which, Oh that we could train our rulers!—at any rate let us make the attempt with the rest of the world. What I am going to tell is only another version of the legend of Cadmus; but our unbelieving generation will be slow to accept such a story. The tale must be imparted, first to the rulers, then to the soldiers, lastly to the people. We will inform them that their youth was a dream, and that during the time when they seemed to be undergoing their education they were really being fashioned in the earth, who sent them up when they were ready; and that they must protect and cherish her whose children they are, and regard each other as brothers and sisters. ‘I do not wonder at your being ashamed to propound such a fiction.’ There is more behind. These brothers and sisters have different natures, and some of them God framed to rule, whom he fashioned of gold; others he made of silver, to be auxiliaries; others again to be husbandmen and craftsmen, and these were formed by him of brass and iron. But as they are all sprung from a common stock, a golden parent may have a silver son, or a silver parent a golden son, and then there must be a change of rank; the son of the rich must descend, and the child of the artisan rise, in the social scale; for an oracle says ‘that the State will come to an end if governed by a man of brass or iron.’ Will our citizens ever believe all this? ‘Not in the present generation, but in the next, perhaps, Yes.’
Now I want to tell you about one magnificent lie that we should teach our rulers to believe. At the very least, let's try it with everyone else. What I'm about to share is just another version of the legend of Cadmus. But our skeptical generation will be slow to accept such a story. We must tell this tale first to the rulers, then to the soldiers, and finally to the people. We'll tell them that their youth was only a dream. During the time when they thought they were getting their education, they were actually being formed inside the earth. The earth sent them up when they were ready. They must protect and cherish the earth as their mother and regard each other as brothers and sisters. "I'm not surprised you're ashamed to suggest such a fiction." There's more to it. These brothers and sisters have different natures. God made some of them to rule, and he fashioned these from gold. Others he made from silver to be helpers. Still others were meant to be farmers and craftsmen, and these he formed from brass and iron. But since they all come from the same source, a golden parent might have a silver child, or a silver parent might have a golden child. When this happens, there must be a change of rank. The child of the wealthy must move down, and the child of the worker must rise up the social ladder. An oracle says that the state will end if it's governed by a man of brass or iron. Will our citizens ever believe all this? "Not the current generation, but perhaps the next one will."
Now let the earthborn men go forth under the command of their rulers, and look about and pitch their camp in a high place, which will be safe against enemies from without, and likewise against insurrections from within. There let them sacrifice and set up their tents; for soldiers they are to be and not shopkeepers, the watchdogs and guardians of the sheep; and luxury and avarice will turn them into wolves and tyrants. Their habits and their dwellings should correspond to their education. They should have no property; their pay should only meet their expenses; and they should have common meals. Gold and silver we will tell them that they have from God, and this divine gift in their souls they must not alloy with that earthly dross which passes under the name of gold. They only of the citizens may not touch it, or be under the same roof with it, or drink from it; it is the accursed thing. Should they ever acquire houses or lands or money of their own, they will become householders and tradesmen instead of guardians, enemies and tyrants instead of helpers, and the hour of ruin, both to themselves and the rest of the State, will be at hand.
Now let the earthborn men go forth under their rulers' command. They should look around and set up camp on high ground. This location must be safe from outside enemies and internal rebellions. There they should make sacrifices and pitch their tents. They are to be soldiers, not merchants. They are watchdogs and guardians of the sheep. Luxury and greed will turn them into wolves and tyrants. Their habits and homes should match their education. They should own no property. Their pay should only cover their expenses. They should eat together at common meals. We will tell them they have gold and silver from God. This divine gift lives in their souls, and they must not corrupt it with earthly gold. They alone among citizens may not touch gold, live under the same roof with it, or drink from golden cups. Gold is a cursed thing. If they ever acquire houses, lands, or money of their own, they will become property owners and merchants instead of guardians. They will become enemies and tyrants instead of helpers. Then the hour of ruin will be at hand, both for themselves and the rest of the State.
The religious and ethical aspect of Plato’s education will hereafter be considered under a separate head. Some lesser points may be more conveniently noticed in this place.
We'll discuss the religious and ethical aspects of Plato's education in a separate section later. It's easier to cover some smaller points here.
1. The constant appeal to the authority of Homer, whom, with grave irony, Plato, after the manner of his age, summons as a witness about ethics and psychology, as well as about diet and medicine; attempting to distinguish the better lesson from the worse, sometimes altering the text from design; more than once quoting or alluding to Homer inaccurately, after the manner of the early logographers turning the Iliad into prose, and delighting to draw far-fetched inferences from his words, or to make ludicrous applications of them. He does not, like Heracleitus, get into a rage with Homer and Archilochus (Heracl.), but uses their words and expressions as vehicles of a higher truth; not on a system like Theagenes of Rhegium or Metrodorus, or in later times the Stoics, but as fancy may dictate. And the conclusions drawn from them are sound, although the premises are fictitious. These fanciful appeals to Homer add a charm to Plato’s style, and at the same time they have the effect of a satire on the follies of Homeric interpretation. To us (and probably to himself), although they take the form of arguments, they are really figures of speech. They may be compared with modern citations from Scripture, which have often a great rhetorical power even when the original meaning of the words is entirely lost sight of. The real, like the Platonic Socrates, as we gather from the Memorabilia of Xenophon, was fond of making similar adaptations. Great in all ages and countries, in religion as well as in law and literature, has been the art of interpretation.
Plato constantly appeals to Homer's authority. With serious irony, he calls on Homer as a witness about ethics and psychology, as well as diet and medicine. This follows the custom of his time. Plato tries to separate the better lessons from the worse ones. Sometimes he deliberately changes the text. He often quotes or refers to Homer inaccurately, like the early logographers who turned the Iliad into prose. He enjoys drawing far-fetched conclusions from Homer's words or making ridiculous applications of them. Unlike Heracleitus, Plato doesn't get angry with Homer and Archilochus. Instead, he uses their words and expressions as vehicles for higher truth. He doesn't follow a system like Theagenes of Rhegium or Metrodorus, or later the Stoics. He simply follows his fancy. The conclusions he draws from them are sound, even though the premises are made up. These imaginative appeals to Homer add charm to Plato's style. At the same time, they work as satire on the foolishness of Homeric interpretation. To us (and probably to Plato himself), these take the form of arguments, but they're really figures of speech. They can be compared with modern citations from Scripture. These often have great rhetorical power even when the original meaning of the words is completely lost. The real Socrates, like Plato's Socrates, was fond of making similar adaptations, as we learn from Xenophon's Memorabilia. The art of interpretation has been great in all ages and countries. This is true in religion as well as in law and literature.
2. ‘The style is to conform to the subject and the metre to the style.’ Notwithstanding the fascination which the word ‘classical’ exercises over us, we can hardly maintain that this rule is observed in all the Greek poetry which has come down to us. We cannot deny that the thought often exceeds the power of lucid expression in Aeschylus and Pindar; or that rhetoric gets the better of the thought in the Sophist-poet Euripides. Only perhaps in Sophocles is there a perfect harmony of the two; in him alone do we find a grace of language like the beauty of a Greek statue, in which there is nothing to add or to take away; at least this is true of single plays or of large portions of them. The connection in the Tragic Choruses and in the Greek lyric poets is not unfrequently a tangled thread which in an age before logic the poet was unable to draw out. Many thoughts and feelings mingled in his mind, and he had no power of disengaging or arranging them. For there is a subtle influence of logic which requires to be transferred from prose to poetry, just as the music and perfection of language are infused by poetry into prose. In all ages the poet has been a bad judge of his own meaning (Apol.); for he does not see that the word which is full of associations to his own mind is difficult and unmeaning to that of another; or that the sequence which is clear to himself is puzzling to others. There are many passages in some of our greatest modern poets which are far too obscure; in which there is no proportion between style and subject, in which any half-expressed figure, any harsh construction, any distorted collocation of words, any remote sequence of ideas is admitted; and there is no voice ‘coming sweetly from nature,’ or music adding the expression of feeling to thought. As if there could be poetry without beauty, or beauty without ease and clearness. The obscurities of early Greek poets arose necessarily out of the state of language and logic which existed in their age. They are not examples to be followed by us; for the use of language ought in every generation to become clearer and clearer. Like Shakespere, they were great in spite, not in consequence, of their imperfections of expression. But there is no reason for returning to the necessary obscurity which prevailed in the infancy of literature. The English poets of the last century were certainly not obscure; and we have no excuse for losing what they had gained, or for going back to the earlier or transitional age which preceded them. The thought of our own times has not out-stripped language; a want of Plato’s ‘art of measuring’ is the rule cause of the disproportion between them.
2. 'The style should match the subject, and the meter should match the style.' Despite our fascination with the word 'classical,' we can hardly say that all surviving Greek poetry follows this rule. We cannot deny that the thought often exceeds clear expression in Aeschylus and Pindar. In the Sophist-poet Euripides, rhetoric often overwhelms the thought. Perhaps only in Sophocles do we find perfect harmony between the two. In him alone we discover a grace of language like the beauty of a Greek statue, where nothing needs to be added or taken away. At least this is true of individual plays or large portions of them. The connection in the Tragic Choruses and in the Greek lyric poets is often a tangled thread. In an age before logic, the poet was unable to draw it out. Many thoughts and feelings mingled in his mind, and he had no power to separate or arrange them. There is a subtle influence of logic that needs to be transferred from prose to poetry, just as the music and perfection of language are infused by poetry into prose. In all ages the poet has been a bad judge of his own meaning (Apol.). He does not see that the word which is full of associations to his own mind is difficult and meaningless to another. He does not realize that the sequence which is clear to himself is puzzling to others. There are many passages in some of our greatest modern poets which are far too obscure. In these passages there is no proportion between style and subject. Any half-expressed figure, any harsh construction, any distorted arrangement of words, any remote sequence of ideas is admitted. There is no voice 'coming sweetly from nature,' or music adding the expression of feeling to thought. As if there could be poetry without beauty, or beauty without ease and clearness. The obscurities of early Greek poets arose necessarily from the state of language and logic that existed in their age. They are not examples to be followed by us. The use of language ought in every generation to become clearer and clearer. Like Shakespeare, they were great in spite of, not because of, their imperfections of expression. But there is no reason for returning to the necessary obscurity that prevailed in the infancy of literature. The English poets of the last century were certainly not obscure. We have no excuse for losing what they had gained, or for going back to the earlier or transitional age which preceded them. The thought of our own times has not outstripped language. A want of Plato's 'art of measuring' is the real cause of the disproportion between them.
3. In the third book of the Republic a nearer approach is made to a theory of art than anywhere else in Plato. His views may be summed up as follows:—True art is not fanciful and imitative, but simple and ideal,—the expression of the highest moral energy, whether in action or repose. To live among works of plastic art which are of this noble and simple character, or to listen to such strains, is the best of influences,—the true Greek atmosphere, in which youth should be brought up. That is the way to create in them a natural good taste, which will have a feeling of truth and beauty in all things. For though the poets are to be expelled, still art is recognized as another aspect of reason—like love in the Symposium, extending over the same sphere, but confined to the preliminary education, and acting through the power of habit; and this conception of art is not limited to strains of music or the forms of plastic art, but pervades all nature and has a wide kindred in the world. The Republic of Plato, like the Athens of Pericles, has an artistic as well as a political side.
In the third book of the Republic, Plato comes closer to developing a theory of art than anywhere else in his work. His views can be summarized as follows: True art is not fanciful and imitative, but simple and ideal. It expresses the highest moral energy, whether in action or at rest. Living among works of visual art that have this noble and simple character, or listening to such music, provides the best influence. This creates the true Greek atmosphere in which young people should be raised. This approach develops their natural good taste and gives them a feeling for truth and beauty in all things. Though the poets are to be expelled, art is still recognized as another aspect of reason. Like love in the Symposium, it extends over the same sphere but is limited to preliminary education and works through the power of habit. This conception of art is not restricted to music or visual art forms. It pervades all nature and has wide connections throughout the world. Plato's Republic, like Pericles' Athens, has an artistic side as well as a political one.
There is hardly any mention in Plato of the creative arts; only in two or three passages does he even allude to them (Rep.; Soph.). He is not lost in rapture at the great works of Phidias, the Parthenon, the Propylea, the statues of Zeus or Athene. He would probably have regarded any abstract truth of number or figure as higher than the greatest of them. Yet it is hard to suppose that some influence, such as he hopes to inspire in youth, did not pass into his own mind from the works of art which he saw around him. We are living upon the fragments of them, and find in a few broken stones the standard of truth and beauty. But in Plato this feeling has no expression; he nowhere says that beauty is the object of art; he seems to deny that wisdom can take an external form (Phaedrus); he does not distinguish the fine from the mechanical arts. Whether or no, like some writers, he felt more than he expressed, it is at any rate remarkable that the greatest perfection of the fine arts should coincide with an almost entire silence about them. In one very striking passage he tells us that a work of art, like the State, is a whole; and this conception of a whole and the love of the newly-born mathematical sciences may be regarded, if not as the inspiring, at any rate as the regulating principles of Greek art (Xen. Mem.; and Sophist).
Plato barely mentions the creative arts in his writings. He only refers to them in two or three passages (Rep.; Soph.). He doesn't express wonder at the great works of Phidias, the Parthenon, the Propylea, or the statues of Zeus or Athene. He probably would have considered any abstract truth about numbers or geometry more important than the greatest artwork. Still, it's hard to believe that the art around him didn't influence his mind in some way. After all, he hoped art would influence young people. We still live among fragments of these ancient works. We find our standards of truth and beauty in a few broken stones. But Plato never expresses this feeling. He never says that beauty is the goal of art. He seems to deny that wisdom can take physical form (Phaedrus). He doesn't separate fine arts from mechanical crafts. We don't know if he felt more than he wrote about, like some writers do. But it's striking that the greatest period of fine arts coincided with almost complete silence about them. In one remarkable passage, he tells us that a work of art, like the State, forms a complete whole. This idea of wholeness and his love of the new mathematical sciences may have been the guiding principles of Greek art, if not the inspiring ones (Xen. Mem.; and Sophist).
4. Plato makes the true and subtle remark that the physician had better not be in robust health; and should have known what illness is in his own person. But the judge ought to have had no similar experience of evil; he is to be a good man who, having passed his youth in innocence, became acquainted late in life with the vices of others. And therefore, according to Plato, a judge should not be young, just as a young man according to Aristotle is not fit to be a hearer of moral philosophy. The bad, on the other hand, have a knowledge of vice, but no knowledge of virtue. It may be doubted, however, whether this train of reflection is well founded. In a remarkable passage of the Laws it is acknowledged that the evil may form a correct estimate of the good. The union of gentleness and courage in Book ii. at first seemed to be a paradox, yet was afterwards ascertained to be a truth. And Plato might also have found that the intuition of evil may be consistent with the abhorrence of it. There is a directness of aim in virtue which gives an insight into vice. And the knowledge of character is in some degree a natural sense independent of any special experience of good or evil.
4. Plato makes a true and insightful observation about physicians. He says a doctor shouldn't be in perfect health and should have experienced illness personally. But a judge should have no similar experience with evil. A judge should be a good person who lived innocently in youth and only learned about others' vices later in life. For this reason, Plato believes a judge shouldn't be young. Aristotle agrees that young people aren't ready to study moral philosophy. Bad people know about vice but have no knowledge of virtue. We might question whether this reasoning is sound. In a notable passage from the Laws, Plato admits that evil people can correctly judge what is good. The combination of gentleness and courage in Book ii seemed like a contradiction at first, but later proved to be true. Plato might also have discovered that understanding evil can coexist with hating it. Virtue has a directness of purpose that provides insight into vice. The ability to judge character is partly a natural sense that doesn't depend on personal experience with good or evil.
5. One of the most remarkable conceptions of Plato, because un-Greek and also very different from anything which existed at all in his age of the world, is the transposition of ranks. In the Spartan state there had been enfranchisement of Helots and degradation of citizens under special circumstances. And in the ancient Greek aristocracies, merit was certainly recognized as one of the elements on which government was based. The founders of states were supposed to be their benefactors, who were raised by their great actions above the ordinary level of humanity; at a later period, the services of warriors and legislators were held to entitle them and their descendants to the privileges of citizenship and to the first rank in the state. And although the existence of an ideal aristocracy is slenderly proven from the remains of early Greek history, and we have a difficulty in ascribing such a character, however the idea may be defined, to any actual Hellenic state—or indeed to any state which has ever existed in the world—still the rule of the best was certainly the aspiration of philosophers, who probably accommodated a good deal their views of primitive history to their own notions of good government. Plato further insists on applying to the guardians of his state a series of tests by which all those who fell short of a fixed standard were either removed from the governing body, or not admitted to it; and this ‘academic’ discipline did to a certain extent prevail in Greek states, especially in Sparta. He also indicates that the system of caste, which existed in a great part of the ancient, and is by no means extinct in the modern European world, should be set aside from time to time in favour of merit. He is aware how deeply the greater part of mankind resent any interference with the order of society, and therefore he proposes his novel idea in the form of what he himself calls a ‘monstrous fiction.’ (Compare the ceremony of preparation for the two ‘great waves’ in Book v.) Two principles are indicated by him: first, that there is a distinction of ranks dependent on circumstances prior to the individual: second, that this distinction is and ought to be broken through by personal qualities. He adapts mythology like the Homeric poems to the wants of the state, making ‘the Phoenician tale’ the vehicle of his ideas. Every Greek state had a myth respecting its own origin; the Platonic republic may also have a tale of earthborn men. The gravity and verisimilitude with which the tale is told, and the analogy of Greek tradition, are a sufficient verification of the ‘monstrous falsehood.’ Ancient poetry had spoken of a gold and silver and brass and iron age succeeding one another, but Plato supposes these differences in the natures of men to exist together in a single state. Mythology supplies a figure under which the lesson may be taught (as Protagoras says, ‘the myth is more interesting’), and also enables Plato to touch lightly on new principles without going into details. In this passage he shadows forth a general truth, but he does not tell us by what steps the transposition of ranks is to be effected. Indeed throughout the Republic he allows the lower ranks to fade into the distance. We do not know whether they are to carry arms, and whether in the fifth book they are or are not included in the communistic regulations respecting property and marriage. Nor is there any use in arguing strictly either from a few chance words, or from the silence of Plato, or in drawing inferences which were beyond his vision. Aristotle, in his criticism on the position of the lower classes, does not perceive that the poetical creation is ‘like the air, invulnerable,’ and cannot be penetrated by the shafts of his logic (Pol.).
5. One of Plato's most remarkable ideas was the transposition of ranks. This concept was very un-Greek and completely different from anything that existed in his time. In the Spartan state, there had been cases where Helots were freed and citizens were degraded under special circumstances. In ancient Greek aristocracies, merit was certainly recognized as one of the foundations of government. The founders of states were supposed to be benefactors who were raised above ordinary humanity by their great actions. Later, the services of warriors and legislators were thought to entitle them and their descendants to citizenship privileges and first rank in the state. The existence of an ideal aristocracy is barely proven from early Greek history. We have difficulty attributing such a character to any actual Greek state, or indeed to any state that has ever existed in the world. Still, the rule of the best was certainly what philosophers aspired to. They probably adjusted their views of primitive history to fit their own ideas of good government. Plato insists on applying a series of tests to the guardians of his state. All those who fell short of a fixed standard were either removed from the governing body or not admitted to it. This 'academic' discipline did exist to some extent in Greek states, especially in Sparta. He also suggests that the caste system should be set aside from time to time in favor of merit. This system existed in much of the ancient world and is not extinct in the modern European world. He knows how deeply most of mankind resent any interference with the social order. Therefore he proposes his novel idea in the form of what he himself calls a 'monstrous fiction.' (Compare the ceremony of preparation for the two 'great waves' in Book v.) He indicates two principles: first, that there is a distinction of ranks dependent on circumstances prior to the individual. Second, that this distinction is and ought to be broken through by personal qualities. He adapts mythology like the Homeric poems to the needs of the state. He makes 'the Phoenician tale' the vehicle of his ideas. Every Greek state had a myth about its own origin. The Platonic republic may also have a tale of earthborn men. The gravity and believability with which the tale is told, and the analogy of Greek tradition, are sufficient verification of the 'monstrous falsehood.' Ancient poetry had spoken of gold and silver and brass and iron ages succeeding one another. But Plato supposes these differences in the natures of men exist together in a single state. Mythology supplies a figure under which the lesson may be taught (as Protagoras says, 'the myth is more interesting'). It also enables Plato to touch lightly on new principles without going into details. In this passage he outlines a general truth, but he does not tell us by what steps the transposition of ranks is to be accomplished. Indeed throughout the Republic he allows the lower ranks to fade into the distance. We do not know whether they are to carry arms. We do not know whether in the fifth book they are included in the communistic regulations about property and marriage. There is no use in arguing strictly from a few chance words or from Plato's silence. There is no use in drawing inferences that were beyond his vision. Aristotle, in his criticism of the position of the lower classes, does not see that the poetical creation is 'like the air, invulnerable.' It cannot be penetrated by the shafts of his logic (Pol.).
6. Two paradoxes which strike the modern reader as in the highest degree fanciful and ideal, and which suggest to him many reflections, are to be found in the third book of the Republic: first, the great power of music, so much beyond any influence which is experienced by us in modern times, when the art or science has been far more developed, and has found the secret of harmony, as well as of melody; secondly, the indefinite and almost absolute control which the soul is supposed to exercise over the body.
6. Two paradoxes in the third book of the Republic will strike modern readers as highly fanciful and idealistic. They will also suggest many reflections. First, there is the great power of music, which goes far beyond any influence we experience in modern times. This is surprising since the art or science has been much more developed now and has discovered the secret of harmony as well as melody. Second, there is the indefinite and almost absolute control that the soul is supposed to exercise over the body.
In the first we suspect some degree of exaggeration, such as we may also observe among certain masters of the art, not unknown to us, at the present day. With this natural enthusiasm, which is felt by a few only, there seems to mingle in Plato a sort of Pythagorean reverence for numbers and numerical proportion to which Aristotle is a stranger. Intervals of sound and number are to him sacred things which have a law of their own, not dependent on the variations of sense. They rise above sense, and become a connecting link with the world of ideas. But it is evident that Plato is describing what to him appears to be also a fact. The power of a simple and characteristic melody on the impressible mind of the Greek is more than we can easily appreciate. The effect of national airs may bear some comparison with it. And, besides all this, there is a confusion between the harmony of musical notes and the harmony of soul and body, which is so potently inspired by them.
In the first case, we suspect some exaggeration. We can see this same tendency among certain masters of the art who are well known to us today. Plato seems to combine this natural enthusiasm, which only a few people feel, with a kind of Pythagorean reverence for numbers and numerical proportion. Aristotle doesn't share this reverence. To Plato, intervals of sound and number are sacred things that follow their own laws. They don't depend on what our senses tell us. They rise above our senses and become a connecting link to the world of ideas. But it's clear that Plato is describing what he believes to be a real phenomenon. The power of a simple, distinctive melody on the impressionable mind of a Greek is greater than we can easily understand today. The effect of national songs might give us some comparison. Beyond all this, there's a confusion between the harmony of musical notes and the harmony of soul and body that music so powerfully inspires.
The second paradox leads up to some curious and interesting questions—How far can the mind control the body? Is the relation between them one of mutual antagonism or of mutual harmony? Are they two or one, and is either of them the cause of the other? May we not at times drop the opposition between them, and the mode of describing them, which is so familiar to us, and yet hardly conveys any precise meaning, and try to view this composite creature, man, in a more simple manner? Must we not at any rate admit that there is in human nature a higher and a lower principle, divided by no distinct line, which at times break asunder and take up arms against one another? Or again, they are reconciled and move together, either unconsciously in the ordinary work of life, or consciously in the pursuit of some noble aim, to be attained not without an effort, and for which every thought and nerve are strained. And then the body becomes the good friend or ally, or servant or instrument of the mind. And the mind has often a wonderful and almost superhuman power of banishing disease and weakness and calling out a hidden strength. Reason and the desires, the intellect and the senses are brought into harmony and obedience so as to form a single human being. They are ever parting, ever meeting; and the identity or diversity of their tendencies or operations is for the most part unnoticed by us. When the mind touches the body through the appetites, we acknowledge the responsibility of the one to the other. There is a tendency in us which says ‘Drink.’ There is another which says, ‘Do not drink; it is not good for you.’ And we all of us know which is the rightful superior. We are also responsible for our health, although into this sphere there enter some elements of necessity which may be beyond our control. Still even in the management of health, care and thought, continued over many years, may make us almost free agents, if we do not exact too much of ourselves, and if we acknowledge that all human freedom is limited by the laws of nature and of mind.
The second paradox raises some fascinating questions. How much can the mind control the body? Do they work against each other or together in harmony? Are they two separate things or one? Does one cause the other? Maybe we should stop thinking of them as opposites. The usual way we describe them doesn't really mean much anyway. Perhaps we should try to see this complex creature called man in a simpler way. We have to admit that human nature has both higher and lower principles. There's no clear line between them. Sometimes they break apart and fight each other. Other times they work together peacefully. This might happen without us noticing in everyday life. Or it might happen consciously when we're pursuing some noble goal that takes real effort and strains every thought and nerve. Then the body becomes the mind's good friend, ally, servant, or tool. The mind often has amazing, almost superhuman power to fight off disease and weakness and call up hidden strength. Reason and desires work together. Intellect and senses come into harmony and obedience to form a single human being. They're always separating and coming back together. Most of the time we don't notice whether their tendencies and actions are the same or different. When the mind affects the body through our appetites, we recognize that one is responsible to the other. There's a tendency in us that says "Drink." There's another that says "Don't drink. It's not good for you." We all know which one should be in charge. We're also responsible for our health. Some necessary elements might be beyond our control, but even in managing health, careful thought continued over many years can make us almost completely free agents. This works as long as we don't demand too much of ourselves and we accept that all human freedom is limited by the laws of nature and mind.
We are disappointed to find that Plato, in the general condemnation which he passes on the practice of medicine prevailing in his own day, depreciates the effects of diet. He would like to have diseases of a definite character and capable of receiving a definite treatment. He is afraid of invalidism interfering with the business of life. He does not recognize that time is the great healer both of mental and bodily disorders; and that remedies which are gradual and proceed little by little are safer than those which produce a sudden catastrophe. Neither does he see that there is no way in which the mind can more surely influence the body than by the control of eating and drinking; or any other action or occasion of human life on which the higher freedom of the will can be more simple or truly asserted.
We are disappointed to find that Plato condemns the medical practices of his time. In doing so, he undervalues the effects of diet. He wants diseases to have clear symptoms and receive specific treatments. He worries that chronic illness will interfere with daily life. He doesn't recognize that time is the great healer of both mental and physical problems. Gradual remedies that work slowly are safer than treatments that cause sudden, dramatic changes. He also doesn't see that the mind can influence the body most powerfully through controlling what we eat and drink. No other aspect of human life offers a simpler or more genuine way to exercise our free will.
7. Lesser matters of style may be remarked.
7. We can also note some minor style issues.
(1) The affected ignorance of music, which is Plato’s way of expressing that he is passing lightly over the subject.
(1) Plato pretends not to know much about music. This is his way of showing that he's only touching on the subject briefly.
(2) The tentative manner in which here, as in the second book, he proceeds with the construction of the State.
(2) Here, as in the second book, he takes a cautious approach to building the State.
(3) The description of the State sometimes as a reality, and then again as a work of imagination only; these are the arts by which he sustains the reader’s interest.
(3) The author describes the State sometimes as something real, and other times as pure imagination. These techniques keep readers engaged and interested.
(4) Connecting links, or the preparation for the entire expulsion of the poets in Book X.
(4) Connecting links, or the preparation for completely banishing the poets in Book X.
(5) The companion pictures of the lover of litigation and the valetudinarian, the satirical jest about the maxim of Phocylides, the manner in which the image of the gold and silver citizens is taken up into the subject, and the argument from the practice of Asclepius, should not escape notice.
(5) Don't overlook the paired portraits of the lawsuit-loving person and the hypochondriac. Notice the satirical joke about Phocylides' maxim. See how the image of the gold and silver citizens fits into the main topic. Pay attention to the argument based on Asclepius' methods.
BOOK IV. Adeimantus said: ‘Suppose a person to argue, Socrates, that you make your citizens miserable, and this by their own free-will; they are the lords of the city, and yet instead of having, like other men, lands and houses and money of their own, they live as mercenaries and are always mounting guard.’ You may add, I replied, that they receive no pay but only their food, and have no money to spend on a journey or a mistress. ‘Well, and what answer do you give?’ My answer is, that our guardians may or may not be the happiest of men,—I should not be surprised to find in the long-run that they were,—but this is not the aim of our constitution, which was designed for the good of the whole and not of any one part. If I went to a sculptor and blamed him for having painted the eye, which is the noblest feature of the face, not purple but black, he would reply: ‘The eye must be an eye, and you should look at the statue as a whole.’ ‘Now I can well imagine a fool’s paradise, in which everybody is eating and drinking, clothed in purple and fine linen, and potters lie on sofas and have their wheel at hand, that they may work a little when they please; and cobblers and all the other classes of a State lose their distinctive character. And a State may get on without cobblers; but when the guardians degenerate into boon companions, then the ruin is complete. Remember that we are not talking of peasants keeping holiday, but of a State in which every man is expected to do his own work. The happiness resides not in this or that class, but in the State as a whole. I have another remark to make:—A middle condition is best for artisans; they should have money enough to buy tools, and not enough to be independent of business. And will not the same condition be best for our citizens? If they are poor, they will be mean; if rich, luxurious and lazy; and in neither case contented. ‘But then how will our poor city be able to go to war against an enemy who has money?’ There may be a difficulty in fighting against one enemy; against two there will be none. In the first place, the contest will be carried on by trained warriors against well-to-do citizens: and is not a regular athlete an easy match for two stout opponents at least? Suppose also, that before engaging we send ambassadors to one of the two cities, saying, ‘Silver and gold we have not; do you help us and take our share of the spoil;’—who would fight against the lean, wiry dogs, when they might join with them in preying upon the fatted sheep? ‘But if many states join their resources, shall we not be in danger?’ I am amused to hear you use the word ‘state’ of any but our own State. They are ‘states,’ but not ‘a state’—many in one. For in every state there are two hostile nations, rich and poor, which you may set one against the other. But our State, while she remains true to her principles, will be in very deed the mightiest of Hellenic states.
BOOK IV. Adeimantus said: "Suppose someone argues, Socrates, that you make your citizens miserable by their own choice. They rule the city, yet unlike other men, they don't own lands, houses, or money. They live like hired soldiers, always standing guard." You could add, I replied, that they get no pay except food and have no money for travel or entertainment. "Well, what's your answer to that?" My answer is that our guardians may or may not be the happiest of men. I wouldn't be surprised if they turned out to be happy in the long run. But this isn't the goal of our constitution, which was designed for the good of the whole, not any single part. If I went to a sculptor and criticized him for painting the eye black instead of purple, even though the eye is the noblest feature of the face, he would reply: "The eye must be an eye, and you should look at the statue as a whole." Now I can easily imagine a fool's paradise where everyone eats and drinks, dressed in purple and fine linen. Potters lie on sofas with their wheels nearby, working only when they feel like it. Cobblers and all the other classes lose what makes them distinct. A state might survive without cobblers, but when the guardians become party companions, then ruin is complete. Remember, we're not talking about peasants taking a holiday. We're talking about a state where every person is expected to do their own work. Happiness doesn't reside in this or that class, but in the state as a whole. I have another point to make. A middle condition is best for craftsmen. They should have enough money to buy tools, but not enough to be independent of their work. Won't the same condition be best for our citizens? If they're poor, they'll be petty. If rich, they'll be luxurious and lazy. In neither case will they be content. "But then how will our poor city be able to fight an enemy who has money?" There may be difficulty fighting one enemy. Against two there will be none. First, the contest will be between trained warriors and well-off citizens. Isn't a regular athlete an easy match for at least two strong opponents? Suppose also that before fighting, we send ambassadors to one of the two cities, saying, "We have no silver and gold. Help us and take your share of the spoil." Who would fight against the lean, tough dogs when they could join them in preying on the fat sheep? "But if many states combine their resources, won't we be in danger?" I'm amused to hear you use the word "state" for any but our own state. They are "states," but not "a state." They are many in one. In every state there are two hostile nations, rich and poor, which you can set against each other. But our state, while she remains true to her principles, will truly be the mightiest of all Greek states.
To the size of the state there is no limit but the necessity of unity; it must be neither too large nor too small to be one. This is a matter of secondary importance, like the principle of transposition which was intimated in the parable of the earthborn men. The meaning there implied was that every man should do that for which he was fitted, and be at one with himself, and then the whole city would be united. But all these things are secondary, if education, which is the great matter, be duly regarded. When the wheel has once been set in motion, the speed is always increasing; and each generation improves upon the preceding, both in physical and moral qualities. The care of the governors should be directed to preserve music and gymnastic from innovation; alter the songs of a country, Damon says, and you will soon end by altering its laws. The change appears innocent at first, and begins in play; but the evil soon becomes serious, working secretly upon the characters of individuals, then upon social and commercial relations, and lastly upon the institutions of a state; and there is ruin and confusion everywhere. But if education remains in the established form, there will be no danger. A restorative process will be always going on; the spirit of law and order will raise up what has fallen down. Nor will any regulations be needed for the lesser matters of life—rules of deportment or fashions of dress. Like invites like for good or for evil. Education will correct deficiencies and supply the power of self-government. Far be it from us to enter into the particulars of legislation; let the guardians take care of education, and education will take care of all other things.
A state can be any size as long as it stays unified. It can't be too large or too small to function as one unit. This is less important than other principles, like the idea suggested in the parable of the earthborn men. That story meant each person should do what they're naturally suited for and be at peace with themselves. Then the whole city would be united. But all these things are secondary if education, the most important matter, gets proper attention. Once you set the wheel in motion, it keeps gaining speed. Each generation improves on the one before it, both physically and morally. The rulers should focus on keeping music and gymnastic from changing. As Damon says, change a country's songs and you'll soon change its laws. The change seems harmless at first and starts as play. But the damage quickly becomes serious, working secretly on individual character, then on social and business relationships, and finally on the state's institutions. Ruin and confusion spread everywhere. If education stays in its established form, there will be no danger. A healing process will always continue. The spirit of law and order will restore what has fallen. No regulations will be needed for life's smaller matters, like rules of behavior or clothing styles. Like attracts like, whether for good or evil. Education will fix problems and provide the power of self-government. We shouldn't get into the details of making laws. Let the guardians take care of education, and education will take care of everything else.
But without education they may patch and mend as they please; they will make no progress, any more than a patient who thinks to cure himself by some favourite remedy and will not give up his luxurious mode of living. If you tell such persons that they must first alter their habits, then they grow angry; they are charming people. ‘Charming,—nay, the very reverse.’ Evidently these gentlemen are not in your good graces, nor the state which is like them. And such states there are which first ordain under penalty of death that no one shall alter the constitution, and then suffer themselves to be flattered into and out of anything; and he who indulges them and fawns upon them, is their leader and saviour. ‘Yes, the men are as bad as the states.’ But do you not admire their cleverness? ‘Nay, some of them are stupid enough to believe what the people tell them.’ And when all the world is telling a man that he is six feet high, and he has no measure, how can he believe anything else? But don’t get into a passion: to see our statesmen trying their nostrums, and fancying that they can cut off at a blow the Hydra-like rogueries of mankind, is as good as a play. Minute enactments are superfluous in good states, and are useless in bad ones.
But without education they may patch and mend as they please. They will make no progress, any more than a patient who thinks to cure himself by some favorite remedy and will not give up his luxurious way of living. If you tell such people that they must first change their habits, then they grow angry. They are charming people. 'Charming? No, quite the opposite.' Clearly these gentlemen are not in your good graces, nor the state which is like them. And such states exist which first decree under penalty of death that no one shall alter the constitution, and then allow themselves to be flattered into and out of anything. He who indulges them and fawns upon them becomes their leader and savior. 'Yes, the men are as bad as the states.' But do you not admire their cleverness? 'No, some of them are stupid enough to believe what the people tell them.' And when all the world is telling a man that he is six feet high, and he has no measure, how can he believe anything else? But don't get into a passion. To see our statesmen trying their remedies, and imagining that they can cut off at a blow the Hydra-like rogueries of mankind, is as good as a play. Detailed laws are unnecessary in good states, and are useless in bad ones.
And now what remains of the work of legislation? Nothing for us; but to Apollo the god of Delphi we leave the ordering of the greatest of all things—that is to say, religion. Only our ancestral deity sitting upon the centre and navel of the earth will be trusted by us if we have any sense, in an affair of such magnitude. No foreign god shall be supreme in our realms...
And now what remains of the work of legislation? Nothing for us. We leave the ordering of the greatest of all things to Apollo the god of Delphi. That is to say, religion. Only our ancestral deity sitting upon the centre and navel of the earth will be trusted by us if we have any sense, in an affair of such magnitude. No foreign god shall be supreme in our realms...
Here, as Socrates would say, let us ‘reflect on’ (Greek) what has preceded: thus far we have spoken not of the happiness of the citizens, but only of the well-being of the State. They may be the happiest of men, but our principal aim in founding the State was not to make them happy. They were to be guardians, not holiday-makers. In this pleasant manner is presented to us the famous question both of ancient and modern philosophy, touching the relation of duty to happiness, of right to utility.
Here, as Socrates would say, let us 'reflect on' what has come before. So far we have spoken not of the happiness of the citizens, but only of the well-being of the State. They may be the happiest of men, but our main goal in founding the State was not to make them happy. They were to be guardians, not holiday-makers. This pleasant approach presents us with the famous question of both ancient and modern philosophy: the relationship between duty and happiness, between right and utility.
First duty, then happiness, is the natural order of our moral ideas. The utilitarian principle is valuable as a corrective of error, and shows to us a side of ethics which is apt to be neglected. It may be admitted further that right and utility are co-extensive, and that he who makes the happiness of mankind his object has one of the highest and noblest motives of human action. But utility is not the historical basis of morality; nor the aspect in which moral and religious ideas commonly occur to the mind. The greatest happiness of all is, as we believe, the far-off result of the divine government of the universe. The greatest happiness of the individual is certainly to be found in a life of virtue and goodness. But we seem to be more assured of a law of right than we can be of a divine purpose, that ‘all mankind should be saved;’ and we infer the one from the other. And the greatest happiness of the individual may be the reverse of the greatest happiness in the ordinary sense of the term, and may be realised in a life of pain, or in a voluntary death. Further, the word ‘happiness’ has several ambiguities; it may mean either pleasure or an ideal life, happiness subjective or objective, in this world or in another, of ourselves only or of our neighbours and of all men everywhere. By the modern founder of Utilitarianism the self-regarding and disinterested motives of action are included under the same term, although they are commonly opposed by us as benevolence and self-love. The word happiness has not the definiteness or the sacredness of ‘truth’ and ‘right’; it does not equally appeal to our higher nature, and has not sunk into the conscience of mankind. It is associated too much with the comforts and conveniences of life; too little with ‘the goods of the soul which we desire for their own sake.’ In a great trial, or danger, or temptation, or in any great and heroic action, it is scarcely thought of. For these reasons ‘the greatest happiness’ principle is not the true foundation of ethics. But though not the first principle, it is the second, which is like unto it, and is often of easier application. For the larger part of human actions are neither right nor wrong, except in so far as they tend to the happiness of mankind (Introd. to Gorgias and Philebus).
The natural order of our moral ideas puts duty first, then happiness. The utilitarian principle helps correct our errors and shows us a side of ethics we often neglect. We can admit that right and utility cover the same ground. Anyone who makes mankind's happiness their goal has one of the highest and noblest motives for human action. But utility is not the historical foundation of morality. It's also not how moral and religious ideas usually come to mind. We believe the greatest happiness of all is the distant result of divine government of the universe. The individual's greatest happiness is certainly found in a life of virtue and goodness. But we seem more certain of a law of right than we can be of a divine purpose that "all mankind should be saved." We infer one from the other. The individual's greatest happiness may be the opposite of greatest happiness in the ordinary sense. It may be realized in a life of pain or in voluntary death. The word "happiness" has several unclear meanings. It may mean either pleasure or an ideal life. It could be subjective or objective happiness, in this world or another, for ourselves only or for our neighbors and all people everywhere. The modern founder of Utilitarianism includes both self-regarding and unselfish motives under the same term. Yet we commonly oppose these as benevolence and self-love. The word happiness lacks the precision or sacredness of "truth" and "right." It doesn't equally appeal to our higher nature and hasn't sunk into mankind's conscience. It's too much associated with life's comforts and conveniences. It's too little connected with "the goods of the soul which we desire for their own sake." In great trials, dangers, temptations, or any great and heroic action, happiness is scarcely thought of. For these reasons, "the greatest happiness" principle is not the true foundation of ethics. Though not the first principle, it is the second, which is like it and often easier to apply. Most human actions are neither right nor wrong, except as they tend toward mankind's happiness (Introd. to Gorgias and Philebus).
The same question reappears in politics, where the useful or expedient seems to claim a larger sphere and to have a greater authority. For concerning political measures, we chiefly ask: How will they affect the happiness of mankind? Yet here too we may observe that what we term expediency is merely the law of right limited by the conditions of human society. Right and truth are the highest aims of government as well as of individuals; and we ought not to lose sight of them because we cannot directly enforce them. They appeal to the better mind of nations; and sometimes they are too much for merely temporal interests to resist. They are the watchwords which all men use in matters of public policy, as well as in their private dealings; the peace of Europe may be said to depend upon them. In the most commercial and utilitarian states of society the power of ideas remains. And all the higher class of statesmen have in them something of that idealism which Pericles is said to have gathered from the teaching of Anaxagoras. They recognise that the true leader of men must be above the motives of ambition, and that national character is of greater value than material comfort and prosperity. And this is the order of thought in Plato; first, he expects his citizens to do their duty, and then under favourable circumstances, that is to say, in a well-ordered State, their happiness is assured. That he was far from excluding the modern principle of utility in politics is sufficiently evident from other passages; in which ‘the most beneficial is affirmed to be the most honourable’, and also ‘the most sacred’.
The same question appears in politics, where practical concerns seem to have more influence and authority. When we consider political policies, we mainly ask: How will they affect human happiness? But here too we can see that what we call expediency is simply the law of right, limited by the conditions of human society. Right and truth are the highest goals of government as well as individuals. We shouldn't lose sight of them just because we can't directly enforce them. They appeal to the better nature of nations. Sometimes they are too powerful for purely temporary interests to resist. They are the rallying cries that all people use in public policy matters, as well as in their private affairs. The peace of Europe could be said to depend on them. Even in the most commercial and practical societies, the power of ideas remains. All the higher class of statesmen have something of that idealism which Pericles is said to have learned from the teaching of Anaxagoras. They recognize that the true leader of people must be above the motives of ambition. They understand that national character is more valuable than material comfort and prosperity. This is Plato's way of thinking. First, he expects his citizens to do their duty. Then, under favorable circumstances—that is, in a well-ordered State—their happiness is assured. He was far from excluding the modern principle of utility in politics. This is clear from other passages where "the most beneficial is affirmed to be the most honorable" and also "the most sacred."
We may note
We can see
(1) The manner in which the objection of Adeimantus here, is designed to draw out and deepen the argument of Socrates.
(1) Adeimantus raises his objection here in a way that's meant to bring out and deepen Socrates' argument.
(2) The conception of a whole as lying at the foundation both of politics and of art, in the latter supplying the only principle of criticism, which, under the various names of harmony, symmetry, measure, proportion, unity, the Greek seems to have applied to works of art.
(2) The Greeks believed that understanding the whole was essential to both politics and art. In art, this concept provided the only real principle for criticism. They applied this idea under various names like harmony, symmetry, measure, proportion, and unity when judging works of art.
(3) The requirement that the State should be limited in size, after the traditional model of a Greek state; as in the Politics of Aristotle, the fact that the cities of Hellas were small is converted into a principle.
(3) The requirement that the State should be limited in size, following the traditional model of a Greek state. In Aristotle's Politics, the fact that the cities of Hellas were small is converted into a principle.
(4) The humorous pictures of the lean dogs and the fatted sheep, of the light active boxer upsetting two stout gentlemen at least, of the ‘charming’ patients who are always making themselves worse; or again, the playful assumption that there is no State but our own; or the grave irony with which the statesman is excused who believes that he is six feet high because he is told so, and having nothing to measure with is to be pardoned for his ignorance—he is too amusing for us to be seriously angry with him.
The humorous pictures are delightful: lean dogs and fat sheep, a light and active boxer knocking down at least two heavy gentlemen, 'charming' patients who keep making themselves sicker. Then there's the playful idea that no other state exists but our own. And the serious irony when we excuse the statesman who believes he's six feet tall just because someone told him so. Since he has nothing to measure with, we should forgive his ignorance. He's too amusing for us to be truly angry with him.
(5) The light and superficial manner in which religion is passed over when provision has been made for two great principles,—first, that religion shall be based on the highest conception of the gods, secondly, that the true national or Hellenic type shall be maintained...
(5) Religion gets treated in a light and superficial way, even though two great principles have been established. First, religion should be based on the highest conception of the gods. Second, the true national or Hellenic type should be maintained.
Socrates proceeds: But where amid all this is justice? Son of Ariston, tell me where. Light a candle and search the city, and get your brother and the rest of our friends to help in seeking for her. ‘That won’t do,’ replied Glaucon, ‘you yourself promised to make the search and talked about the impiety of deserting justice.’ Well, I said, I will lead the way, but do you follow. My notion is, that our State being perfect will contain all the four virtues—wisdom, courage, temperance, justice. If we eliminate the three first, the unknown remainder will be justice.
Socrates continues: But where is justice in all of this? Son of Ariston, tell me where. Light a candle and search the city. Get your brother and the rest of our friends to help look for her. "That won't work," Glaucon replied. "You promised to search yourself and said it would be wrong to abandon justice." Well, I said, I will lead the way, but you must follow. Here's what I think. Our perfect State will contain all four virtues: wisdom, courage, temperance, and justice. If we find the first three, whatever remains must be justice.
First then, of wisdom: the State which we have called into being will be wise because politic. And policy is one among many kinds of skill,—not the skill of the carpenter, or of the worker in metal, or of the husbandman, but the skill of him who advises about the interests of the whole State. Of such a kind is the skill of the guardians, who are a small class in number, far smaller than the blacksmiths; but in them is concentrated the wisdom of the State. And if this small ruling class have wisdom, then the whole State will be wise.
First, let's talk about wisdom. The State we have created will be wise because it is well-governed. Good government is one type of skill among many. It's not the skill of a carpenter, metalworker, or farmer. It's the skill of someone who gives advice about the interests of the entire State. This is the kind of skill the guardians possess. They are a small group, much smaller than the blacksmiths. But the wisdom of the State is concentrated in them. If this small ruling class has wisdom, then the whole State will be wise.
Our second virtue is courage, which we have no difficulty in finding in another class—that of soldiers. Courage may be defined as a sort of salvation—the never-failing salvation of the opinions which law and education have prescribed concerning dangers. You know the way in which dyers first prepare the white ground and then lay on the dye of purple or of any other colour. Colours dyed in this way become fixed, and no soap or lye will ever wash them out. Now the ground is education, and the laws are the colours; and if the ground is properly laid, neither the soap of pleasure nor the lye of pain or fear will ever wash them out. This power which preserves right opinion about danger I would ask you to call ‘courage,’ adding the epithet ‘political’ or ‘civilized’ in order to distinguish it from mere animal courage and from a higher courage which may hereafter be discussed.
Our second virtue is courage. We can easily find this quality in soldiers. Courage can be defined as a kind of salvation. It's the reliable preservation of the beliefs that law and education have taught us about dangers. You know how dyers work. First they prepare a white base, then they apply purple dye or any other color. Colors applied this way become permanent. No soap or bleach will ever wash them out. Education is like that white base, and laws are like the colors. If the foundation is properly prepared, neither the soap of pleasure nor the bleach of pain or fear will ever wash away what we've learned. This power that preserves correct beliefs about danger is what I want you to call "courage." I'd add the word "political" or "civilized" to distinguish it from simple animal courage and from a higher form of courage we may discuss later.
Two virtues remain; temperance and justice. More than the preceding virtues temperance suggests the idea of harmony. Some light is thrown upon the nature of this virtue by the popular description of a man as ‘master of himself’—which has an absurd sound, because the master is also the servant. The expression really means that the better principle in a man masters the worse. There are in cities whole classes—women, slaves and the like—who correspond to the worse, and a few only to the better; and in our State the former class are held under control by the latter. Now to which of these classes does temperance belong? ‘To both of them.’ And our State if any will be the abode of temperance; and we were right in describing this virtue as a harmony which is diffused through the whole, making the dwellers in the city to be of one mind, and attuning the upper and middle and lower classes like the strings of an instrument, whether you suppose them to differ in wisdom, strength or wealth.
Two virtues remain: temperance and justice. More than the other virtues, temperance suggests the idea of harmony. We can understand this virtue better by looking at the popular description of a man as "master of himself." This sounds absurd because the master is also the servant. The expression really means that the better principle in a person masters the worse principle. In cities there are whole classes—women, slaves and others—who correspond to the worse principle. Only a few correspond to the better principle. In our State, the former class is held under control by the latter. Now to which of these classes does temperance belong? "To both of them." Our State, if any will, will be the home of temperance. We were right in describing this virtue as a harmony that spreads through the whole. It makes the people in the city think as one. It brings together the upper, middle and lower classes like the strings of an instrument. This works whether you think they differ in wisdom, strength or wealth.
And now we are near the spot; let us draw in and surround the cover and watch with all our eyes, lest justice should slip away and escape. Tell me, if you see the thicket move first. ‘Nay, I would have you lead.’ Well then, offer up a prayer and follow. The way is dark and difficult; but we must push on. I begin to see a track. ‘Good news.’ Why, Glaucon, our dulness of scent is quite ludicrous! While we are straining our eyes into the distance, justice is tumbling out at our feet. We are as bad as people looking for a thing which they have in their hands. Have you forgotten our old principle of the division of labour, or of every man doing his own business, concerning which we spoke at the foundation of the State—what but this was justice? Is there any other virtue remaining which can compete with wisdom and temperance and courage in the scale of political virtue? For ‘every one having his own’ is the great object of government; and the great object of trade is that every man should do his own business. Not that there is much harm in a carpenter trying to be a cobbler, or a cobbler transforming himself into a carpenter; but great evil may arise from the cobbler leaving his last and turning into a guardian or legislator, or when a single individual is trainer, warrior, legislator, all in one. And this evil is injustice, or every man doing another’s business. I do not say that as yet we are in a condition to arrive at a final conclusion. For the definition which we believe to hold good in states has still to be tested by the individual. Having read the large letters we will now come back to the small. From the two together a brilliant light may be struck out...
Now we're close to finding what we're looking for. Let's close in and surround the area. We need to watch carefully so justice doesn't slip away and escape. Tell me if you see any movement in the thicket first. 'No, I'd rather have you lead.' Well then, say a prayer and follow me. The path is dark and difficult, but we must keep going. I'm starting to see a trail. 'That's good news.' You know what, Glaucon? Our poor sense of smell is quite ridiculous! While we're straining to see into the distance, justice is tumbling right out at our feet. We're like people searching for something they're already holding in their hands. Have you forgotten our old principle about the division of labor? Remember when we talked about every person doing their own job when we founded the State? That principle is justice itself. Is there any other virtue that can compete with wisdom, temperance, and courage when it comes to political virtue? The great goal of government is 'everyone having their own role.' The great goal of trade is that every person should do their own work. Now, there's not much harm if a carpenter tries to be a shoemaker, or a shoemaker tries carpentry. But great evil comes when the shoemaker abandons his craft to become a guardian or lawmaker. Or when one person tries to be trainer, warrior, and legislator all at once. This evil is injustice. It's everyone doing someone else's job. I'm not saying we can reach a final conclusion yet. We still need to test our definition, which we think works for states, against individuals. We've read the large letters, so now we'll go back to the small ones. Together, the two might strike a brilliant light.
Socrates proceeds to discover the nature of justice by a method of residues. Each of the first three virtues corresponds to one of the three parts of the soul and one of the three classes in the State, although the third, temperance, has more of the nature of a harmony than the first two. If there be a fourth virtue, that can only be sought for in the relation of the three parts in the soul or classes in the State to one another. It is obvious and simple, and for that very reason has not been found out. The modern logician will be inclined to object that ideas cannot be separated like chemical substances, but that they run into one another and may be only different aspects or names of the same thing, and such in this instance appears to be the case. For the definition here given of justice is verbally the same as one of the definitions of temperance given by Socrates in the Charmides, which however is only provisional, and is afterwards rejected. And so far from justice remaining over when the other virtues are eliminated, the justice and temperance of the Republic can with difficulty be distinguished. Temperance appears to be the virtue of a part only, and one of three, whereas justice is a universal virtue of the whole soul. Yet on the other hand temperance is also described as a sort of harmony, and in this respect is akin to justice. Justice seems to differ from temperance in degree rather than in kind; whereas temperance is the harmony of discordant elements, justice is the perfect order by which all natures and classes do their own business, the right man in the right place, the division and co-operation of all the citizens. Justice, again, is a more abstract notion than the other virtues, and therefore, from Plato’s point of view, the foundation of them, to which they are referred and which in idea precedes them. The proposal to omit temperance is a mere trick of style intended to avoid monotony.
Socrates uses a process of elimination to discover what justice really is. Each of the first three virtues matches one of the three parts of the soul and one of the three classes in the State. The third virtue, temperance, acts more like a harmony than the first two. If there's a fourth virtue, it can only be found in how the three parts of the soul or classes in the State relate to each other. This virtue is obvious and simple, which is exactly why no one has found it yet. Modern logicians would object that ideas can't be separated like chemical substances. They argue that ideas blend into each other and may just be different aspects or names of the same thing. This seems to be true in this case. The definition of justice given here is word-for-word the same as one definition of temperance that Socrates gives in the Charmides. That definition is only temporary and gets rejected later. Justice doesn't really remain when the other virtues are removed. In fact, the justice and temperance described in the Republic are hard to tell apart. Temperance appears to be the virtue of just one part, one of three parts. Justice is a universal virtue of the whole soul. But temperance is also described as a kind of harmony, which makes it similar to justice. Justice seems to differ from temperance in degree rather than in kind. Temperance is the harmony of conflicting elements. Justice is the perfect order where all natures and classes do their own work. It's the right person in the right place, with proper division and cooperation among all citizens. Justice is more abstract than the other virtues. From Plato's perspective, this makes it their foundation. The other virtues refer back to justice, and justice comes before them in theory. The suggestion to leave out temperance is just a stylistic trick to avoid being repetitive.
There is a famous question discussed in one of the earlier Dialogues of Plato (Protagoras; Arist. Nic. Ethics), ‘Whether the virtues are one or many?’ This receives an answer which is to the effect that there are four cardinal virtues (now for the first time brought together in ethical philosophy), and one supreme over the rest, which is not like Aristotle’s conception of universal justice, virtue relative to others, but the whole of virtue relative to the parts. To this universal conception of justice or order in the first education and in the moral nature of man, the still more universal conception of the good in the second education and in the sphere of speculative knowledge seems to succeed. Both might be equally described by the terms ‘law,’ ‘order,’ ‘harmony;’ but while the idea of good embraces ‘all time and all existence,’ the conception of justice is not extended beyond man.
One of Plato's earlier dialogues (Protagoras; Arist. Nic. Ethics) discusses a famous question: "Are the virtues one or many?" The answer identifies four cardinal virtues, brought together for the first time in ethical philosophy. One virtue stands supreme over the rest. This isn't like Aristotle's idea of universal justice, which is virtue in relation to others. Instead, it's the whole of virtue in relation to its parts. This universal idea of justice or order appears in the first education and in man's moral nature. In the second education and in speculative knowledge, an even more universal idea of good takes over. Both could be described as "law," "order," or "harmony." But while the idea of good covers "all time and all existence," the idea of justice only applies to humanity.
...Socrates is now going to identify the individual and the State. But first he must prove that there are three parts of the individual soul. His argument is as follows:—Quantity makes no difference in quality. The word ‘just,’ whether applied to the individual or to the State, has the same meaning. And the term ‘justice’ implied that the same three principles in the State and in the individual were doing their own business. But are they really three or one? The question is difficult, and one which can hardly be solved by the methods which we are now using; but the truer and longer way would take up too much of our time. ‘The shorter will satisfy me.’ Well then, you would admit that the qualities of states mean the qualities of the individuals who compose them? The Scythians and Thracians are passionate, our own race intellectual, and the Egyptians and Phoenicians covetous, because the individual members of each have such and such a character; the difficulty is to determine whether the several principles are one or three; whether, that is to say, we reason with one part of our nature, desire with another, are angry with another, or whether the whole soul comes into play in each sort of action. This enquiry, however, requires a very exact definition of terms. The same thing in the same relation cannot be affected in two opposite ways. But there is no impossibility in a man standing still, yet moving his arms, or in a top which is fixed on one spot going round upon its axis. There is no necessity to mention all the possible exceptions; let us provisionally assume that opposites cannot do or be or suffer opposites in the same relation. And to the class of opposites belong assent and dissent, desire and avoidance. And one form of desire is thirst and hunger: and here arises a new point—thirst is thirst of drink, hunger is hunger of food; not of warm drink or of a particular kind of food, with the single exception of course that the very fact of our desiring anything implies that it is good. When relative terms have no attributes, their correlatives have no attributes; when they have attributes, their correlatives also have them. For example, the term ‘greater’ is simply relative to ‘less,’ and knowledge refers to a subject of knowledge. But on the other hand, a particular knowledge is of a particular subject. Again, every science has a distinct character, which is defined by an object; medicine, for example, is the science of health, although not to be confounded with health. Having cleared our ideas thus far, let us return to the original instance of thirst, which has a definite object—drink. Now the thirsty soul may feel two distinct impulses; the animal one saying ‘Drink;’ the rational one, which says ‘Do not drink.’ The two impulses are contradictory; and therefore we may assume that they spring from distinct principles in the soul. But is passion a third principle, or akin to desire? There is a story of a certain Leontius which throws some light on this question. He was coming up from the Piraeus outside the north wall, and he passed a spot where there were dead bodies lying by the executioner. He felt a longing desire to see them and also an abhorrence of them; at first he turned away and shut his eyes, then, suddenly tearing them open, he said,—‘Take your fill, ye wretches, of the fair sight.’ Now is there not here a third principle which is often found to come to the assistance of reason against desire, but never of desire against reason? This is passion or spirit, of the separate existence of which we may further convince ourselves by putting the following case:—When a man suffers justly, if he be of a generous nature he is not indignant at the hardships which he undergoes: but when he suffers unjustly, his indignation is his great support; hunger and thirst cannot tame him; the spirit within him must do or die, until the voice of the shepherd, that is, of reason, bidding his dog bark no more, is heard within. This shows that passion is the ally of reason. Is passion then the same with reason? No, for the former exists in children and brutes; and Homer affords a proof of the distinction between them when he says, ‘He smote his breast, and thus rebuked his soul.’
Socrates is now going to identify the individual and the State. But first he must prove that there are three parts of the individual soul. His argument is as follows: Quantity makes no difference in quality. The word 'just,' whether applied to the individual or to the State, has the same meaning. The term 'justice' implied that the same three principles in the State and in the individual were doing their own business. But are they really three or one? The question is difficult, and one which can hardly be solved by the methods we are now using. The truer and longer way would take up too much of our time. 'The shorter will satisfy me.' Well then, you would admit that the qualities of states mean the qualities of the individuals who compose them? The Scythians and Thracians are passionate, our own race intellectual, and the Egyptians and Phoenicians covetous, because the individual members of each have such and such a character. The difficulty is to determine whether the several principles are one or three. That is to say, do we reason with one part of our nature, desire with another, are angry with another? Or does the whole soul come into play in each sort of action? This enquiry requires a very exact definition of terms. The same thing in the same relation cannot be affected in two opposite ways. But there is no impossibility in a man standing still, yet moving his arms, or in a top which is fixed on one spot going round upon its axis. There is no necessity to mention all the possible exceptions. Let us provisionally assume that opposites cannot do or be or suffer opposites in the same relation. To the class of opposites belong assent and dissent, desire and avoidance. One form of desire is thirst and hunger. Here arises a new point: thirst is thirst of drink, hunger is hunger of food. Not of warm drink or of a particular kind of food, with the single exception of course that the very fact of our desiring anything implies that it is good. When relative terms have no attributes, their correlatives have no attributes. When they have attributes, their correlatives also have them. For example, the term 'greater' is simply relative to 'less,' and knowledge refers to a subject of knowledge. But on the other hand, a particular knowledge is of a particular subject. Again, every science has a distinct character, which is defined by an object. Medicine, for example, is the science of health, although not to be confounded with health. Having cleared our ideas thus far, let us return to the original instance of thirst, which has a definite object: drink. Now the thirsty soul may feel two distinct impulses. The animal one saying 'Drink.' The rational one, which says 'Do not drink.' The two impulses are contradictory. Therefore we may assume that they spring from distinct principles in the soul. But is passion a third principle, or akin to desire? There is a story of a certain Leontius which throws some light on this question. He was coming up from the Piraeus outside the north wall, and he passed a spot where there were dead bodies lying by the executioner. He felt a longing desire to see them and also an abhorrence of them. At first he turned away and shut his eyes, then, suddenly tearing them open, he said, 'Take your fill, ye wretches, of the fair sight.' Now is there not here a third principle which is often found to come to the assistance of reason against desire, but never of desire against reason? This is passion or spirit, of the separate existence of which we may further convince ourselves by putting the following case: When a man suffers justly, if he be of a generous nature he is not indignant at the hardships which he undergoes. But when he suffers unjustly, his indignation is his great support. Hunger and thirst cannot tame him. The spirit within him must do or die, until the voice of the shepherd, that is, of reason, bidding his dog bark no more, is heard within. This shows that passion is the ally of reason. Is passion then the same with reason? No, for the former exists in children and brutes. Homer affords a proof of the distinction between them when he says, 'He smote his breast, and thus rebuked his soul.'
And now, at last, we have reached firm ground, and are able to infer that the virtues of the State and of the individual are the same. For wisdom and courage and justice in the State are severally the wisdom and courage and justice in the individuals who form the State. Each of the three classes will do the work of its own class in the State, and each part in the individual soul; reason, the superior, and passion, the inferior, will be harmonized by the influence of music and gymnastic. The counsellor and the warrior, the head and the arm, will act together in the town of Mansoul, and keep the desires in proper subjection. The courage of the warrior is that quality which preserves a right opinion about dangers in spite of pleasures and pains. The wisdom of the counsellor is that small part of the soul which has authority and reason. The virtue of temperance is the friendship of the ruling and the subject principles, both in the State and in the individual. Of justice we have already spoken; and the notion already given of it may be confirmed by common instances. Will the just state or the just individual steal, lie, commit adultery, or be guilty of impiety to gods and men? ‘No.’ And is not the reason of this that the several principles, whether in the state or in the individual, do their own business? And justice is the quality which makes just men and just states. Moreover, our old division of labour, which required that there should be one man for one use, was a dream or anticipation of what was to follow; and that dream has now been realized in justice, which begins by binding together the three chords of the soul, and then acts harmoniously in every relation of life. And injustice, which is the insubordination and disobedience of the inferior elements in the soul, is the opposite of justice, and is inharmonious and unnatural, being to the soul what disease is to the body; for in the soul as well as in the body, good or bad actions produce good or bad habits. And virtue is the health and beauty and well-being of the soul, and vice is the disease and weakness and deformity of the soul.
We've finally reached solid ground. We can now conclude that the virtues of the State and the individual are the same. Wisdom, courage, and justice in the State are the same as wisdom, courage, and justice in the individuals who make up the State. Each of the three classes will do the work of its own class in the State, and each part in the individual soul will do the same. Reason, which is superior, and passion, which is inferior, will be balanced through the influence of music and gymnastic training. The counsellor and the warrior, the head and the arm, will work together in the town of Mansoul and keep desires properly controlled. The courage of the warrior is that quality which preserves right judgment about dangers despite pleasures and pains. The wisdom of the counsellor is that small part of the soul which has authority and reason. The virtue of temperance is the friendship between the ruling and subject principles, both in the State and in the individual. We have already discussed justice, and the idea we gave of it can be confirmed by common examples. Will the just state or the just individual steal, lie, commit adultery, or be guilty of impiety to gods and men? No. The reason for this is that the various principles, whether in the state or in the individual, do their own work. Justice is the quality that makes just men and just states. Our old division of labor, which required that there should be one man for one job, was a dream or preview of what was to come. That dream has now been realized in justice, which begins by binding together the three chords of the soul and then acts harmoniously in every aspect of life. Injustice, which is the rebellion and disobedience of the inferior elements in the soul, is the opposite of justice. It is discordant and unnatural, being to the soul what disease is to the body. In the soul as well as in the body, good or bad actions produce good or bad habits. Virtue is the health and beauty and well-being of the soul, and vice is the disease and weakness and deformity of the soul.
Again the old question returns upon us: Is justice or injustice the more profitable? The question has become ridiculous. For injustice, like mortal disease, makes life not worth having. Come up with me to the hill which overhangs the city and look down upon the single form of virtue, and the infinite forms of vice, among which are four special ones, characteristic both of states and of individuals. And the state which corresponds to the single form of virtue is that which we have been describing, wherein reason rules under one of two names—monarchy and aristocracy. Thus there are five forms in all, both of states and of souls...
Once again, we face the old question: Is justice or injustice more profitable? The question has become ridiculous. Injustice is like a deadly disease. It makes life not worth living. Come with me to the hill that overlooks the city. Look down at the single form of virtue and the countless forms of vice. Among these vices are four special ones. They appear in both states and individuals. The state that matches the single form of virtue is the one we have been describing. In this state, reason rules under one of two names: monarchy and aristocracy. So there are five forms in total, both of states and of souls...
In attempting to prove that the soul has three separate faculties, Plato takes occasion to discuss what makes difference of faculties. And the criterion which he proposes is difference in the working of the faculties. The same faculty cannot produce contradictory effects. But the path of early reasoners is beset by thorny entanglements, and he will not proceed a step without first clearing the ground. This leads him into a tiresome digression, which is intended to explain the nature of contradiction. First, the contradiction must be at the same time and in the same relation. Secondly, no extraneous word must be introduced into either of the terms in which the contradictory proposition is expressed: for example, thirst is of drink, not of warm drink. He implies, what he does not say, that if, by the advice of reason, or by the impulse of anger, a man is restrained from drinking, this proves that thirst, or desire under which thirst is included, is distinct from anger and reason. But suppose that we allow the term ‘thirst’ or ‘desire’ to be modified, and say an ‘angry thirst,’ or a ‘revengeful desire,’ then the two spheres of desire and anger overlap and become confused. This case therefore has to be excluded. And still there remains an exception to the rule in the use of the term ‘good,’ which is always implied in the object of desire. These are the discussions of an age before logic; and any one who is wearied by them should remember that they are necessary to the clearing up of ideas in the first development of the human faculties.
Plato wanted to prove that the soul has three separate abilities. To do this, he discussed what makes these abilities different from each other. His test was simple: different abilities produce different results. The same ability cannot create opposite effects at the same time. But early philosophers faced many tricky problems. Plato wouldn't move forward without first solving these issues. This led him into a long, boring side discussion about the nature of contradiction. First, he said the contradiction must happen at the same time and in the same way. Second, you can't add extra words to either side of a contradictory statement. For example, thirst is simply for drink, not specifically for warm drink. Plato hints at something he doesn't directly say. If reason or anger stops a man from drinking, this proves that thirst (or desire, which includes thirst) is separate from anger and reason. But imagine we change the term 'thirst' or 'desire' and say 'angry thirst' or 'vengeful desire.' Then desire and anger would overlap and become mixed up. This case has to be ruled out. There's still one exception to the rule with the word 'good,' which is always part of what we desire. These discussions come from a time before formal logic existed. Anyone who finds them tedious should remember they were necessary. They helped clear up ideas during the first development of human thinking.
The psychology of Plato extends no further than the division of the soul into the rational, irascible, and concupiscent elements, which, as far as we know, was first made by him, and has been retained by Aristotle and succeeding ethical writers. The chief difficulty in this early analysis of the mind is to define exactly the place of the irascible faculty (Greek), which may be variously described under the terms righteous indignation, spirit, passion. It is the foundation of courage, which includes in Plato moral courage, the courage of enduring pain, and of surmounting intellectual difficulties, as well as of meeting dangers in war. Though irrational, it inclines to side with the rational: it cannot be aroused by punishment when justly inflicted: it sometimes takes the form of an enthusiasm which sustains a man in the performance of great actions. It is the ‘lion heart’ with which the reason makes a treaty. On the other hand it is negative rather than positive; it is indignant at wrong or falsehood, but does not, like Love in the Symposium and Phaedrus, aspire to the vision of Truth or Good. It is the peremptory military spirit which prevails in the government of honour. It differs from anger (Greek), this latter term having no accessory notion of righteous indignation. Although Aristotle has retained the word, yet we may observe that ‘passion’ (Greek) has with him lost its affinity to the rational and has become indistinguishable from ‘anger’ (Greek). And to this vernacular use Plato himself in the Laws seems to revert, though not always. By modern philosophy too, as well as in our ordinary conversation, the words anger or passion are employed almost exclusively in a bad sense; there is no connotation of a just or reasonable cause by which they are aroused. The feeling of ‘righteous indignation’ is too partial and accidental to admit of our regarding it as a separate virtue or habit. We are tempted also to doubt whether Plato is right in supposing that an offender, however justly condemned, could be expected to acknowledge the justice of his sentence; this is the spirit of a philosopher or martyr rather than of a criminal.
Plato's psychology goes no further than dividing the soul into three parts: rational, irascible, and concupiscent. As far as we know, he was the first to make this division. Aristotle and later ethical writers kept this framework. The main problem with this early analysis of the mind is defining exactly what the irascible faculty means. We can describe it in various ways: righteous indignation, spirit, or passion. It forms the foundation of courage. For Plato, this includes moral courage, the courage to endure pain, to overcome intellectual difficulties, and to face dangers in war. Though irrational, it tends to side with reason. It cannot be stirred up by punishment when that punishment is deserved. Sometimes it takes the form of enthusiasm that sustains a person through great actions. It is the "lion heart" that reason makes a treaty with. On the other hand, it is more negative than positive. It gets indignant at wrong or falsehood. But unlike Love in the Symposium and Phaedrus, it does not aspire to see Truth or Good. It is the commanding military spirit that rules in governments based on honor. It differs from simple anger, since anger has no added sense of righteous indignation. Aristotle kept the word, but we can see that "passion" lost its connection to reason in his work. It became the same as "anger." Plato himself seems to return to this common usage in the Laws, though not always. Modern philosophy and our ordinary conversation use the words anger or passion almost entirely in a bad sense. There is no suggestion that they arise from a just or reasonable cause. The feeling of "righteous indignation" is too partial and accidental for us to consider it a separate virtue or habit. We are also tempted to doubt whether Plato is right in thinking that an offender, however justly condemned, could be expected to admit his sentence is fair. This is the spirit of a philosopher or martyr rather than a criminal.
We may observe how nearly Plato approaches Aristotle’s famous thesis, that ‘good actions produce good habits.’ The words ‘as healthy practices (Greek) produce health, so do just practices produce justice,’ have a sound very like the Nicomachean Ethics. But we note also that an incidental remark in Plato has become a far-reaching principle in Aristotle, and an inseparable part of a great Ethical system.
We can see how closely Plato comes to Aristotle's famous idea that "good actions produce good habits." Plato's words "as healthy practices produce health, so do just practices produce justice" sound very much like the Nicomachean Ethics. But we also notice that what was just a passing comment in Plato became a major principle in Aristotle. It became an essential part of a great ethical system.
There is a difficulty in understanding what Plato meant by ‘the longer way’: he seems to intimate some metaphysic of the future which will not be satisfied with arguing from the principle of contradiction. In the sixth and seventh books (compare Sophist and Parmenides) he has given us a sketch of such a metaphysic; but when Glaucon asks for the final revelation of the idea of good, he is put off with the declaration that he has not yet studied the preliminary sciences. How he would have filled up the sketch, or argued about such questions from a higher point of view, we can only conjecture. Perhaps he hoped to find some a priori method of developing the parts out of the whole; or he might have asked which of the ideas contains the other ideas, and possibly have stumbled on the Hegelian identity of the ‘ego’ and the ‘universal.’ Or he may have imagined that ideas might be constructed in some manner analogous to the construction of figures and numbers in the mathematical sciences. The most certain and necessary truth was to Plato the universal; and to this he was always seeking to refer all knowledge or opinion, just as in modern times we seek to rest them on the opposite pole of induction and experience. The aspirations of metaphysicians have always tended to pass beyond the limits of human thought and language: they seem to have reached a height at which they are ‘moving about in worlds unrealized,’ and their conceptions, although profoundly affecting their own minds, become invisible or unintelligible to others. We are not therefore surprized to find that Plato himself has nowhere clearly explained his doctrine of ideas; or that his school in a later generation, like his contemporaries Glaucon and Adeimantus, were unable to follow him in this region of speculation. In the Sophist, where he is refuting the scepticism which maintained either that there was no such thing as predication, or that all might be predicated of all, he arrives at the conclusion that some ideas combine with some, but not all with all. But he makes only one or two steps forward on this path; he nowhere attains to any connected system of ideas, or even to a knowledge of the most elementary relations of the sciences to one another.
There is a difficulty in understanding what Plato meant by 'the longer way.' He seems to hint at some future metaphysics that won't be satisfied with arguing from the principle of contradiction. In the sixth and seventh books (compare Sophist and Parmenides) he has given us a sketch of such a metaphysics. But when Glaucon asks for the final revelation of the idea of good, he is put off. Plato declares that Glaucon has not yet studied the preliminary sciences. How Plato would have filled up the sketch, or argued about such questions from a higher point of view, we can only guess. Perhaps he hoped to find some method of developing the parts out of the whole without relying on experience. Or he might have asked which of the ideas contains the other ideas. He possibly could have stumbled on the Hegelian identity of the 'ego' and the 'universal.' Or he may have imagined that ideas might be constructed in some manner similar to the construction of figures and numbers in the mathematical sciences. The most certain and necessary truth was to Plato the universal. To this he was always seeking to refer all knowledge or opinion, just as in modern times we seek to rest them on the opposite pole of induction and experience. The aspirations of metaphysicians have always tended to pass beyond the limits of human thought and language. They seem to have reached a height at which they are 'moving about in worlds unrealized.' Their conceptions, although profoundly affecting their own minds, become invisible or unintelligible to others. We are not surprised to find that Plato himself has nowhere clearly explained his doctrine of ideas. His school in a later generation, like his contemporaries Glaucon and Adeimantus, were unable to follow him in this region of speculation. In the Sophist, where he is refuting the skepticism which maintained either that there was no such thing as predication, or that all might be predicated of all, he arrives at the conclusion that some ideas combine with some, but not all with all. But he makes only one or two steps forward on this path. He nowhere attains to any connected system of ideas, or even to a knowledge of the most elementary relations of the sciences to one another.
BOOK V. I was going to enumerate the four forms of vice or decline in states, when Polemarchus—he was sitting a little farther from me than Adeimantus—taking him by the coat and leaning towards him, said something in an undertone, of which I only caught the words, ‘Shall we let him off?’ ‘Certainly not,’ said Adeimantus, raising his voice. Whom, I said, are you not going to let off? ‘You,’ he said. Why? ‘Because we think that you are not dealing fairly with us in omitting women and children, of whom you have slily disposed under the general formula that friends have all things in common.’ And was I not right? ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘but there are many sorts of communism or community, and we want to know which of them is right. The company, as you have just heard, are resolved to have a further explanation.’ Thrasymachus said, ‘Do you think that we have come hither to dig for gold, or to hear you discourse?’ Yes, I said; but the discourse should be of a reasonable length. Glaucon added, ‘Yes, Socrates, and there is reason in spending the whole of life in such discussions; but pray, without more ado, tell us how this community is to be carried out, and how the interval between birth and education is to be filled up.’ Well, I said, the subject has several difficulties—What is possible? is the first question. What is desirable? is the second. ‘Fear not,’ he replied, ‘for you are speaking among friends.’ That, I replied, is a sorry consolation; I shall destroy my friends as well as myself. Not that I mind a little innocent laughter; but he who kills the truth is a murderer. ‘Then,’ said Glaucon, laughing, ‘in case you should murder us we will acquit you beforehand, and you shall be held free from the guilt of deceiving us.’
BOOK V. I was about to list the four types of corruption that can destroy governments. But Polemarchus was sitting a bit farther away than Adeimantus. He grabbed Adeimantus by the coat and leaned toward him. He whispered something I couldn't quite hear, except for the words "Should we let him get away with this?" "Absolutely not," Adeimantus said loudly. "Who aren't you going to let get away with what?" I asked. "You," he said. "Why?" "Because we think you're being unfair to us. You've skipped over the topic of women and children. You cleverly dismissed them with that general statement about friends sharing everything in common." "Wasn't I right to do that?" "Yes," he replied, "but there are many different kinds of sharing and community. We want to know which one is correct. The whole group, as you just heard, has decided we need a fuller explanation." Thrasymachus said, "Do you think we came here to dig for gold, or to listen to you speak?" "To listen to me speak," I said, "but the discussion should be a reasonable length." Glaucon added, "Yes, Socrates, and it makes sense to spend our whole lives having such discussions. But please, without any more delay, tell us how this community system would actually work. How would we handle the time between birth and education?" "Well," I said, "this topic has several difficulties. The first question is: What's possible? The second is: What's desirable?" "Don't worry," he replied, "you're speaking among friends." "That's cold comfort," I replied. "I'll destroy my friends along with myself. Not that I mind a little harmless laughter. But anyone who kills the truth is a murderer." "Then," said Glaucon, laughing, "in case you end up murdering us, we'll pardon you in advance. You'll be free from any guilt of deceiving us."
Socrates proceeds:—The guardians of our state are to be watch-dogs, as we have already said. Now dogs are not divided into hes and shes—we do not take the masculine gender out to hunt and leave the females at home to look after their puppies. They have the same employments—the only difference between them is that the one sex is stronger and the other weaker. But if women are to have the same employments as men, they must have the same education—they must be taught music and gymnastics, and the art of war. I know that a great joke will be made of their riding on horseback and carrying weapons; the sight of the naked old wrinkled women showing their agility in the palaestra will certainly not be a vision of beauty, and may be expected to become a famous jest. But we must not mind the wits; there was a time when they might have laughed at our present gymnastics. All is habit: people have at last found out that the exposure is better than the concealment of the person, and now they laugh no more. Evil only should be the subject of ridicule.
Socrates continues: The guardians of our state should be like watchdogs, as we've already said. Now dogs aren't divided into males and females when it comes to work. We don't take only the males out to hunt while leaving the females at home to care for their puppies. They have the same jobs. The only difference is that one sex is stronger and the other weaker. If women are to have the same jobs as men, they must have the same education. They must be taught music and gymnastics, and the art of war. I know people will make fun of women riding horses and carrying weapons. The sight of naked old wrinkled women showing off their skills in the palaestra will certainly not be beautiful, and will probably become a famous joke. But we shouldn't worry about the critics. There was a time when they might have laughed at our current gymnastics too. Everything is just habit. People have finally figured out that showing the body is better than hiding it, and now they don't laugh anymore. Only evil things should be made fun of.
The first question is, whether women are able either wholly or partially to share in the employments of men. And here we may be charged with inconsistency in making the proposal at all. For we started originally with the division of labour; and the diversity of employments was based on the difference of natures. But is there no difference between men and women? Nay, are they not wholly different? THERE was the difficulty, Glaucon, which made me unwilling to speak of family relations. However, when a man is out of his depth, whether in a pool or in an ocean, he can only swim for his life; and we must try to find a way of escape, if we can.
The first question is whether women can share in men's work, either completely or partially. You might accuse us of being inconsistent for even suggesting this. After all, we started with the idea that people should divide up different jobs. We based this division on the fact that people have different natures. But aren't there differences between men and women? In fact, aren't they completely different? That was the problem, Glaucon, which made me reluctant to talk about family relationships. But when someone is drowning, whether in a shallow pool or the deep ocean, they can only swim to save their life. We must try to find a way out of this difficulty if we can.
The argument is, that different natures have different uses, and the natures of men and women are said to differ. But this is only a verbal opposition. We do not consider that the difference may be purely nominal and accidental; for example, a bald man and a hairy man are opposed in a single point of view, but you cannot infer that because a bald man is a cobbler a hairy man ought not to be a cobbler. Now why is such an inference erroneous? Simply because the opposition between them is partial only, like the difference between a male physician and a female physician, not running through the whole nature, like the difference between a physician and a carpenter. And if the difference of the sexes is only that the one beget and the other bear children, this does not prove that they ought to have distinct educations. Admitting that women differ from men in capacity, do not men equally differ from one another? Has not nature scattered all the qualities which our citizens require indifferently up and down among the two sexes? and even in their peculiar pursuits, are not women often, though in some cases superior to men, ridiculously enough surpassed by them? Women are the same in kind as men, and have the same aptitude or want of aptitude for medicine or gymnastic or war, but in a less degree. One woman will be a good guardian, another not; and the good must be chosen to be the colleagues of our guardians. If however their natures are the same, the inference is that their education must also be the same; there is no longer anything unnatural or impossible in a woman learning music and gymnastic. And the education which we give them will be the very best, far superior to that of cobblers, and will train up the very best women, and nothing can be more advantageous to the State than this. Therefore let them strip, clothed in their chastity, and share in the toils of war and in the defence of their country; he who laughs at them is a fool for his pains.
The argument goes like this: different natures have different uses, and men and women are said to have different natures. But this is just a word game. We don't consider that the difference might be purely in name and accidental. For example, a bald man and a hairy man are different in one way, but you can't conclude that because a bald man is a cobbler, a hairy man shouldn't be a cobbler. Why is this reasoning wrong? Simply because the difference between them is only partial, like the difference between a male doctor and a female doctor. It doesn't run through their whole nature, like the difference between a doctor and a carpenter. If the only difference between the sexes is that one fathers children and the other bears them, this doesn't prove they should have separate educations. Even if we admit that women differ from men in ability, don't men also differ from each other? Hasn't nature scattered all the qualities our citizens need randomly between both sexes? Even in their special pursuits, aren't women often superior to men in some cases, though ridiculously surpassed by them in others? Women are the same kind as men and have the same talent or lack of talent for medicine, athletics, or war, just to a lesser degree. One woman will make a good guardian, another won't. We must choose the good ones to work alongside our guardians. If their natures are the same, then their education must also be the same. There's nothing unnatural or impossible about a woman learning music and athletics. The education we give them will be the very best, far better than that of cobblers. It will train the very best women, and nothing could benefit the State more than this. So let them strip, clothed in their virtue, and share in the hardships of war and defending their country. Anyone who laughs at them is a fool wasting his effort.
The first wave is past, and the argument is compelled to admit that men and women have common duties and pursuits. A second and greater wave is rolling in—community of wives and children; is this either expedient or possible? The expediency I do not doubt; I am not so sure of the possibility. ‘Nay, I think that a considerable doubt will be entertained on both points.’ I meant to have escaped the trouble of proving the first, but as you have detected the little stratagem I must even submit. Only allow me to feed my fancy like the solitary in his walks, with a dream of what might be, and then I will return to the question of what can be.
The first wave is past, and the argument is forced to admit that men and women have common duties and pursuits. A second and greater wave is rolling in: community of wives and children. Is this either wise or possible? I don't doubt the wisdom of it. I'm not so sure about the possibility. 'No, I think people will have serious doubts about both points.' I had hoped to avoid the trouble of proving the first point, but since you've caught my little trick, I must give in. Just let me indulge my imagination like someone walking alone, dreaming of what might be. Then I'll return to the question of what can be.
In the first place our rulers will enforce the laws and make new ones where they are wanted, and their allies or ministers will obey. You, as legislator, have already selected the men; and now you shall select the women. After the selection has been made, they will dwell in common houses and have their meals in common, and will be brought together by a necessity more certain than that of mathematics. But they cannot be allowed to live in licentiousness; that is an unholy thing, which the rulers are determined to prevent. For the avoidance of this, holy marriage festivals will be instituted, and their holiness will be in proportion to their usefulness. And here, Glaucon, I should like to ask (as I know that you are a breeder of birds and animals), Do you not take the greatest care in the mating? ‘Certainly.’ And there is no reason to suppose that less care is required in the marriage of human beings. But then our rulers must be skilful physicians of the State, for they will often need a strong dose of falsehood in order to bring about desirable unions between their subjects. The good must be paired with the good, and the bad with the bad, and the offspring of the one must be reared, and of the other destroyed; in this way the flock will be preserved in prime condition. Hymeneal festivals will be celebrated at times fixed with an eye to population, and the brides and bridegrooms will meet at them; and by an ingenious system of lots the rulers will contrive that the brave and the fair come together, and that those of inferior breed are paired with inferiors—the latter will ascribe to chance what is really the invention of the rulers. And when children are born, the offspring of the brave and fair will be carried to an enclosure in a certain part of the city, and there attended by suitable nurses; the rest will be hurried away to places unknown. The mothers will be brought to the fold and will suckle the children; care however must be taken that none of them recognise their own offspring; and if necessary other nurses may also be hired. The trouble of watching and getting up at night will be transferred to attendants. ‘Then the wives of our guardians will have a fine easy time when they are having children.’ And quite right too, I said, that they should.
First, our rulers will enforce the laws and create new ones where needed. Their allies and ministers will obey them. You, as legislator, have already chosen the men. Now you must choose the women. After making your selections, they will live in shared houses and eat meals together. They will be brought together by a necessity more certain than mathematics itself. But we cannot allow them to live without moral restraint. That would be unholy, and the rulers are determined to prevent it. To avoid this problem, we will establish holy marriage festivals. Their holiness will match their usefulness. Here, Glaucon, I want to ask you something. I know you breed birds and animals. Don't you take the greatest care in mating them? "Certainly." There's no reason to think that human marriages require less care. But our rulers must be skilled physicians of the State. They will often need strong doses of falsehood to bring about the right unions between their subjects. The good must be paired with the good, and the bad with the bad. We must raise the offspring of the good and destroy the offspring of the bad. This way the flock will stay in prime condition. We will celebrate Hymeneal festivals at times chosen with population in mind. The brides and bridegrooms will meet at these festivals. Through a clever system of lots, the rulers will arrange for the brave and beautiful to come together. Those of inferior breeding will be paired with other inferiors. The inferior ones will think chance controls what is really the rulers' design. When children are born, the offspring of the brave and beautiful will be taken to an enclosure in a certain part of the city. Suitable nurses will care for them there. The rest will be hurried away to unknown places. The mothers will be brought to the nursery to feed the children. But we must make sure none of them recognize their own offspring. If necessary, we can hire other nurses too. Attendants will handle the trouble of watching and getting up at night. "Then the wives of our guardians will have a fine easy time when they're having children." Exactly right, I said. That's how it should be.
The parents ought to be in the prime of life, which for a man may be reckoned at thirty years—from twenty-five, when he has ‘passed the point at which the speed of life is greatest,’ to fifty-five; and at twenty years for a woman—from twenty to forty. Any one above or below those ages who partakes in the hymeneals shall be guilty of impiety; also every one who forms a marriage connexion at other times without the consent of the rulers. This latter regulation applies to those who are within the specified ages, after which they may range at will, provided they avoid the prohibited degrees of parents and children, or of brothers and sisters, which last, however, are not absolutely prohibited, if a dispensation be procured. ‘But how shall we know the degrees of affinity, when all things are common?’ The answer is, that brothers and sisters are all such as are born seven or nine months after the espousals, and their parents those who are then espoused, and every one will have many children and every child many parents.
Parents should be in their prime when they have children. For men, this means between twenty-five and fifty-five years old. At twenty-five, a man has "passed the point at which the speed of life is greatest." For women, the ideal age is between twenty and forty. Anyone who marries outside these age ranges commits a sin against the gods. The same applies to anyone who marries at other times without the rulers' permission. This rule applies to people within the specified ages. After those ages, they can marry freely, as long as they avoid forbidden relationships between parents and children, or brothers and sisters. However, even marriages between brothers and sisters aren't absolutely forbidden if special permission is granted. "But how will we know who is related to whom when all things are shared?" The answer is simple. Brothers and sisters are all those born seven or nine months after marriages take place. Their parents are those who were married at that time. In this system, everyone will have many children and every child will have many parents.
Socrates proceeds: I have now to prove that this scheme is advantageous and also consistent with our entire polity. The greatest good of a State is unity; the greatest evil, discord and distraction. And there will be unity where there are no private pleasures or pains or interests—where if one member suffers all the members suffer, if one citizen is touched all are quickly sensitive; and the least hurt to the little finger of the State runs through the whole body and vibrates to the soul. For the true State, like an individual, is injured as a whole when any part is affected. Every State has subjects and rulers, who in a democracy are called rulers, and in other States masters: but in our State they are called saviours and allies; and the subjects who in other States are termed slaves, are by us termed nurturers and paymasters, and those who are termed comrades and colleagues in other places, are by us called fathers and brothers. And whereas in other States members of the same government regard one of their colleagues as a friend and another as an enemy, in our State no man is a stranger to another; for every citizen is connected with every other by ties of blood, and these names and this way of speaking will have a corresponding reality—brother, father, sister, mother, repeated from infancy in the ears of children, will not be mere words. Then again the citizens will have all things in common, in having common property they will have common pleasures and pains.
Socrates continues: I must now prove that this plan is beneficial and fits with our entire system of government. The greatest good for a state is unity. The greatest evil is conflict and division. Unity exists when there are no private pleasures, pains, or interests. When one member suffers, all members suffer. When one citizen is hurt, all feel it quickly. Even the smallest injury to any part of the state affects the whole body and reaches the soul. A true state, like a person, is injured as a whole when any part is damaged. Every state has subjects and rulers. In a democracy they are called rulers. In other states they are called masters. But in our state they are called saviours and allies. The subjects who are called slaves in other states are called nurturers and paymasters by us. Those who are called comrades and colleagues elsewhere are called fathers and brothers by us. In other states, members of the same government see one colleague as a friend and another as an enemy. In our state, no one is a stranger to another. Every citizen is connected to every other by blood ties. These names and this way of speaking will reflect reality. Brother, father, sister, mother - these words repeated in children's ears from birth will not be empty terms. The citizens will share all things in common. Having common property, they will have common pleasures and pains.
Can there be strife and contention among those who are of one mind; or lawsuits about property when men have nothing but their bodies which they call their own; or suits about violence when every one is bound to defend himself? The permission to strike when insulted will be an ‘antidote’ to the knife and will prevent disturbances in the State. But no younger man will strike an elder; reverence will prevent him from laying hands on his kindred, and he will fear that the rest of the family may retaliate. Moreover, our citizens will be rid of the lesser evils of life; there will be no flattery of the rich, no sordid household cares, no borrowing and not paying. Compared with the citizens of other States, ours will be Olympic victors, and crowned with blessings greater still—they and their children having a better maintenance during life, and after death an honourable burial. Nor has the happiness of the individual been sacrificed to the happiness of the State; our Olympic victor has not been turned into a cobbler, but he has a happiness beyond that of any cobbler. At the same time, if any conceited youth begins to dream of appropriating the State to himself, he must be reminded that ‘half is better than the whole.’ ‘I should certainly advise him to stay where he is when he has the promise of such a brave life.’
Can there be conflict and arguments among people who think alike? Can there be lawsuits about property when people own nothing but their own bodies? Can there be fights about violence when everyone must defend themselves? The right to strike back when insulted will serve as an 'antidote' to the knife and will prevent trouble in the State. But no younger man will strike an elder. Respect will stop him from attacking his family, and he will fear that the rest of the family may fight back. Our citizens will be free from life's smaller problems. There will be no flattery of the rich, no dirty household worries, no borrowing and failing to pay back. Compared with citizens of other States, ours will be Olympic victors, crowned with even greater blessings. They and their children will have better support during life, and after death an honorable burial. The happiness of the individual has not been sacrificed to the happiness of the State. Our Olympic victor has not been turned into a cobbler, but he has a happiness beyond that of any cobbler. At the same time, if any arrogant youth begins to dream of taking over the State for himself, he must be reminded that 'half is better than the whole.' 'I would certainly advise him to stay where he is when he has the promise of such a good life.'
But is such a community possible?—as among the animals, so also among men; and if possible, in what way possible? About war there is no difficulty; the principle of communism is adapted to military service. Parents will take their children to look on at a battle, just as potters’ boys are trained to the business by looking on at the wheel. And to the parents themselves, as to other animals, the sight of their young ones will prove a great incentive to bravery. Young warriors must learn, but they must not run into danger, although a certain degree of risk is worth incurring when the benefit is great. The young creatures should be placed under the care of experienced veterans, and they should have wings—that is to say, swift and tractable steeds on which they may fly away and escape. One of the first things to be done is to teach a youth to ride.
But is such a community possible? It works among animals, so it might work among people too. If it's possible, how would it work? War presents no difficulty. The principle of communism works well for military service. Parents will bring their children to watch battles, just as potter's apprentices learn their trade by watching at the wheel. For parents, like other animals, seeing their young ones will inspire great bravery. Young warriors must learn, but they shouldn't face real danger. Still, some risk is worth taking when the benefits are great. Experienced veterans should supervise the young soldiers. They should have wings—meaning swift and obedient horses they can use to fly away and escape if needed. One of the first things to teach a young person is how to ride.
Cowards and deserters shall be degraded to the class of husbandmen; gentlemen who allow themselves to be taken prisoners, may be presented to the enemy. But what shall be done to the hero? First of all he shall be crowned by all the youths in the army; secondly, he shall receive the right hand of fellowship; and thirdly, do you think that there is any harm in his being kissed? We have already determined that he shall have more wives than others, in order that he may have as many children as possible. And at a feast he shall have more to eat; we have the authority of Homer for honouring brave men with ‘long chines,’ which is an appropriate compliment, because meat is a very strengthening thing. Fill the bowl then, and give the best seats and meats to the brave—may they do them good! And he who dies in battle will be at once declared to be of the golden race, and will, as we believe, become one of Hesiod’s guardian angels. He shall be worshipped after death in the manner prescribed by the oracle; and not only he, but all other benefactors of the State who die in any other way, shall be admitted to the same honours.
Cowards and deserters will be demoted to the class of farmers. Gentlemen who let themselves be taken prisoner may be handed over to the enemy. But what should we do for the hero? First, all the young soldiers in the army will crown him. Second, he will receive the right hand of fellowship. Third, do you think there's any harm in him being kissed? We've already decided he should have more wives than others, so he can have as many children as possible. At feasts he will get more to eat. We have Homer's authority for honoring brave men with "long chines," which is fitting praise, since meat gives great strength. Fill the bowl then, and give the best seats and food to the brave—may it serve them well! Anyone who dies in battle will immediately be declared part of the golden race. He will become one of Hesiod's guardian angels, we believe. After death he will be worshipped according to the oracle's instructions. Not only him, but all other benefactors of the State who die in any other way will receive the same honors.
The next question is, How shall we treat our enemies? Shall Hellenes be enslaved? No; for there is too great a risk of the whole race passing under the yoke of the barbarians. Or shall the dead be despoiled? Certainly not; for that sort of thing is an excuse for skulking, and has been the ruin of many an army. There is meanness and feminine malice in making an enemy of the dead body, when the soul which was the owner has fled—like a dog who cannot reach his assailants, and quarrels with the stones which are thrown at him instead. Again, the arms of Hellenes should not be offered up in the temples of the Gods; they are a pollution, for they are taken from brethren. And on similar grounds there should be a limit to the devastation of Hellenic territory—the houses should not be burnt, nor more than the annual produce carried off. For war is of two kinds, civil and foreign; the first of which is properly termed ‘discord,’ and only the second ‘war;’ and war between Hellenes is in reality civil war—a quarrel in a family, which is ever to be regarded as unpatriotic and unnatural, and ought to be prosecuted with a view to reconciliation in a true phil-Hellenic spirit, as of those who would chasten but not utterly enslave. The war is not against a whole nation who are a friendly multitude of men, women, and children, but only against a few guilty persons; when they are punished peace will be restored. That is the way in which Hellenes should war against one another—and against barbarians, as they war against one another now.
The next question is: How should we treat our enemies? Should we enslave fellow Greeks? No, because there's too great a risk that our entire race will fall under barbarian rule. Should we strip the dead of their possessions? Certainly not. That kind of behavior is an excuse for cowardice and has ruined many armies. There's something mean and spiteful about making an enemy of a dead body after the soul has fled. It's like a dog that can't reach its attackers, so it fights with the stones thrown at it instead. Greek weapons should not be offered up in the temples of the gods. They pollute the sacred space because they're taken from our brothers. For similar reasons, there should be limits to how much we devastate Greek territory. Houses should not be burned, and we should take no more than the year's harvest. War comes in two forms: civil and foreign. The first should properly be called "discord," and only the second deserves the name "war." War between Greeks is really civil war, a family quarrel. We should always see it as unpatriotic and unnatural. It should be fought with reconciliation in mind, in a true spirit of Greek brotherhood. We should aim to discipline, not completely enslave. The war is not against an entire nation of friendly men, women, and children, but only against a few guilty people. Once they're punished, peace will return. This is how Greeks should fight each other, and against barbarians as they fight each other now.
‘But, my dear Socrates, you are forgetting the main question: Is such a State possible? I grant all and more than you say about the blessedness of being one family—fathers, brothers, mothers, daughters, going out to war together; but I want to ascertain the possibility of this ideal State.’ You are too unmerciful. The first wave and the second wave I have hardly escaped, and now you will certainly drown me with the third. When you see the towering crest of the wave, I expect you to take pity. ‘Not a whit.’
"But, my dear Socrates, you're forgetting the main question: Is such a State actually possible? I agree with everything you say about how wonderful it would be to have one big family. Fathers, brothers, mothers, daughters all going to war together. But I want to know if this ideal State could really exist." You are too harsh on me. I barely survived the first wave and the second wave. Now you're going to drown me with the third. When you see this huge wave coming, I expect you to show some mercy. "Not a chance."
Well, then, we were led to form our ideal polity in the search after justice, and the just man answered to the just State. Is this ideal at all the worse for being impracticable? Would the picture of a perfectly beautiful man be any the worse because no such man ever lived? Can any reality come up to the idea? Nature will not allow words to be fully realized; but if I am to try and realize the ideal of the State in a measure, I think that an approach may be made to the perfection of which I dream by one or two, I do not say slight, but possible changes in the present constitution of States. I would reduce them to a single one—the great wave, as I call it. Until, then, kings are philosophers, or philosophers are kings, cities will never cease from ill: no, nor the human race; nor will our ideal polity ever come into being. I know that this is a hard saying, which few will be able to receive. ‘Socrates, all the world will take off his coat and rush upon you with sticks and stones, and therefore I would advise you to prepare an answer.’ You got me into the scrape, I said. ‘And I was right,’ he replied; ‘however, I will stand by you as a sort of do-nothing, well-meaning ally.’ Having the help of such a champion, I will do my best to maintain my position. And first, I must explain of whom I speak and what sort of natures these are who are to be philosophers and rulers. As you are a man of pleasure, you will not have forgotten how indiscriminate lovers are in their attachments; they love all, and turn blemishes into beauties. The snub-nosed youth is said to have a winning grace; the beak of another has a royal look; the featureless are faultless; the dark are manly, the fair angels; the sickly have a new term of endearment invented expressly for them, which is ‘honey-pale.’ Lovers of wine and lovers of ambition also desire the objects of their affection in every form. Now here comes the point:—The philosopher too is a lover of knowledge in every form; he has an insatiable curiosity. ‘But will curiosity make a philosopher? Are the lovers of sights and sounds, who let out their ears to every chorus at the Dionysiac festivals, to be called philosophers?’ They are not true philosophers, but only an imitation. ‘Then how are we to describe the true?’
Well, then, we created our ideal government while searching for justice. The just man matched the just State. Is this ideal any worse for being impossible to achieve? Would a picture of a perfectly beautiful man be any worse because no such man ever lived? Can any reality match the idea? Nature won't allow words to be fully realized. But if I'm going to try to realize the ideal State to some degree, I think we can approach the perfection I dream of. This would require one or two changes in how States are currently set up. I wouldn't call these changes slight, but they are possible. I would reduce them to a single one. I call it the great wave. Until kings are philosophers, or philosophers are kings, cities will never stop suffering. Neither will the human race. Our ideal government will never come into being either. I know this is a hard truth that few people will accept. 'Socrates, everyone in the world will take off his coat and rush at you with sticks and stones. I'd advise you to prepare an answer.' You got me into this mess, I said. 'And I was right,' he replied. 'But I'll stand by you as a sort of do-nothing, well-meaning ally.' With the help of such a champion, I'll do my best to defend my position. First, I must explain who I'm talking about. What kind of people are these who should be philosophers and rulers? Since you're a man of pleasure, you won't have forgotten how indiscriminate lovers are in their attachments. They love everyone and turn flaws into beauties. The snub-nosed youth is said to have winning grace. Another's beak has a royal look. The plain-featured are faultless. The dark are manly, the fair are angels. The sickly have a new term of endearment invented just for them: 'honey-pale.' Lovers of wine and lovers of ambition also desire the objects of their affection in every form. Now here's the point. The philosopher is also a lover of knowledge in every form. He has insatiable curiosity. 'But will curiosity make a philosopher? Are the lovers of sights and sounds philosophers? The ones who rent out their ears to every chorus at the Dionysiac festivals?' They are not true philosophers, but only an imitation. 'Then how do we describe the true ones?'
You would acknowledge the existence of abstract ideas, such as justice, beauty, good, evil, which are severally one, yet in their various combinations appear to be many. Those who recognize these realities are philosophers; whereas the other class hear sounds and see colours, and understand their use in the arts, but cannot attain to the true or waking vision of absolute justice or beauty or truth; they have not the light of knowledge, but of opinion, and what they see is a dream only. Perhaps he of whom we say the last will be angry with us; can we pacify him without revealing the disorder of his mind? Suppose we say that, if he has knowledge we rejoice to hear it, but knowledge must be of something which is, as ignorance is of something which is not; and there is a third thing, which both is and is not, and is matter of opinion only. Opinion and knowledge, then, having distinct objects, must also be distinct faculties. And by faculties I mean powers unseen and distinguishable only by the difference in their objects, as opinion and knowledge differ, since the one is liable to err, but the other is unerring and is the mightiest of all our faculties. If being is the object of knowledge, and not-being of ignorance, and these are the extremes, opinion must lie between them, and may be called darker than the one and brighter than the other. This intermediate or contingent matter is and is not at the same time, and partakes both of existence and of non-existence. Now I would ask my good friend, who denies abstract beauty and justice, and affirms a many beautiful and a many just, whether everything he sees is not in some point of view different—the beautiful ugly, the pious impious, the just unjust? Is not the double also the half, and are not heavy and light relative terms which pass into one another? Everything is and is not, as in the old riddle—‘A man and not a man shot and did not shoot a bird and not a bird with a stone and not a stone.’ The mind cannot be fixed on either alternative; and these ambiguous, intermediate, erring, half-lighted objects, which have a disorderly movement in the region between being and not-being, are the proper matter of opinion, as the immutable objects are the proper matter of knowledge. And he who grovels in the world of sense, and has only this uncertain perception of things, is not a philosopher, but a lover of opinion only...
You would accept that abstract ideas exist—things like justice, beauty, good, and evil. Each of these is one thing, but they appear to be many when combined in different ways. People who recognize these realities are philosophers. The other group hears sounds and sees colors. They understand how to use these in the arts, but they cannot truly see absolute justice, beauty, or truth. They don't have the light of knowledge, only opinion. What they see is just a dream. Perhaps the person we're criticizing will be angry with us. Can we calm him down without pointing out his confused thinking? Let's say that if he has real knowledge, we're happy to hear it. But knowledge must be about something that exists, just as ignorance is about something that doesn't exist. There's also a third thing that both exists and doesn't exist—this is the realm of opinion only. Opinion and knowledge have different objects, so they must be different abilities. By abilities, I mean unseen powers that we can only tell apart by what they focus on. Opinion and knowledge are different because opinion can be wrong, but knowledge is never wrong and is the strongest of all our abilities. If knowledge deals with what exists, and ignorance deals with what doesn't exist, then opinion must lie between them. Opinion is darker than knowledge but brighter than ignorance. This middle ground both exists and doesn't exist at the same time. It shares in both existence and non-existence. Now I want to ask my friend who denies abstract beauty and justice. He claims there are many beautiful things and many just things. Isn't everything he sees different from some point of view? Isn't the beautiful also ugly, the pious also impious, the just also unjust? Isn't the double also the half? Aren't heavy and light relative terms that change into each other? Everything both is and isn't, like in the old riddle: "A man and not a man shot and did not shoot a bird and not a bird with a stone and not a stone." The mind cannot settle on either choice. These unclear, in-between, mistaken, half-lit objects move chaotically in the space between being and not-being. They are the proper subject of opinion, just as unchanging objects are the proper subject of knowledge. Someone who crawls around in the world of the senses and has only this uncertain view of things is not a philosopher. He is only a lover of opinion.
The fifth book is the new beginning of the Republic, in which the community of property and of family are first maintained, and the transition is made to the kingdom of philosophers. For both of these Plato, after his manner, has been preparing in some chance words of Book IV, which fall unperceived on the reader’s mind, as they are supposed at first to have fallen on the ear of Glaucon and Adeimantus. The ‘paradoxes,’ as Morgenstern terms them, of this book of the Republic will be reserved for another place; a few remarks on the style, and some explanations of difficulties, may be briefly added.
Book Five marks a new beginning for the Republic. Here, Plato first defends the community of property and family, then transitions to the kingdom of philosophers. In his typical style, Plato has been preparing for both ideas through casual remarks in Book IV. These comments pass by unnoticed by readers, just as they supposedly first passed by Glaucon and Adeimantus without much attention. The 'paradoxes,' as Morgenstern calls them, of this book of the Republic will be discussed elsewhere. Here, I'll briefly add a few remarks on the style and some explanations of difficulties.
First, there is the image of the waves, which serves for a sort of scheme or plan of the book. The first wave, the second wave, the third and greatest wave come rolling in, and we hear the roar of them. All that can be said of the extravagance of Plato’s proposals is anticipated by himself. Nothing is more admirable than the hesitation with which he proposes the solemn text, ‘Until kings are philosophers,’ etc.; or the reaction from the sublime to the ridiculous, when Glaucon describes the manner in which the new truth will be received by mankind.
First, there is the image of the waves, which serves as a sort of outline or plan of the book. The first wave, the second wave, the third and greatest wave come rolling in, and we hear the roar of them. Plato himself anticipates all that can be said about how extreme his proposals are. Nothing is more admirable than the hesitation with which he proposes the solemn text, 'Until kings are philosophers,' etc. Or consider the shift from the sublime to the ridiculous, when Glaucon describes how mankind will receive this new truth.
Some defects and difficulties may be noted in the execution of the communistic plan. Nothing is told us of the application of communism to the lower classes; nor is the table of prohibited degrees capable of being made out. It is quite possible that a child born at one hymeneal festival may marry one of its own brothers or sisters, or even one of its parents, at another. Plato is afraid of incestuous unions, but at the same time he does not wish to bring before us the fact that the city would be divided into families of those born seven and nine months after each hymeneal festival. If it were worth while to argue seriously about such fancies, we might remark that while all the old affinities are abolished, the newly prohibited affinity rests not on any natural or rational principle, but only upon the accident of children having been born in the same month and year. Nor does he explain how the lots could be so manipulated by the legislature as to bring together the fairest and best. The singular expression which is employed to describe the age of five-and-twenty may perhaps be taken from some poet.
Some problems and difficulties can be found in how the communist plan would actually work. We're told nothing about how communism would apply to the lower classes. We also can't figure out the table of prohibited marriages. It's quite possible that a child born at one wedding festival might marry one of its own brothers or sisters, or even one of its parents, at another festival. Plato fears incestuous unions, but he doesn't want to face the fact that the city would be divided into families of those born seven and nine months after each wedding festival. If it were worth arguing seriously about such fantasies, we might point out that while all the old family connections are abolished, the newly prohibited relationships don't rest on any natural or rational principle. They're based only on the accident of children being born in the same month and year. He also doesn't explain how the lots could be manipulated by the legislature to bring together the most beautiful and best people. The strange expression used to describe the age of twenty-five may perhaps be taken from some poet.
In the delineation of the philosopher, the illustrations of the nature of philosophy derived from love are more suited to the apprehension of Glaucon, the Athenian man of pleasure, than to modern tastes or feelings. They are partly facetious, but also contain a germ of truth. That science is a whole, remains a true principle of inductive as well as of metaphysical philosophy; and the love of universal knowledge is still the characteristic of the philosopher in modern as well as in ancient times.
When describing the philosopher, the examples about philosophy coming from love work better for Glaucon, the pleasure-loving Athenian, than for modern readers. These examples are partly joking, but they also contain some truth. The idea that science forms a complete whole remains valid for both inductive and metaphysical philosophy. The love of universal knowledge still defines the philosopher today, just as it did in ancient times.
At the end of the fifth book Plato introduces the figment of contingent matter, which has exercised so great an influence both on the Ethics and Theology of the modern world, and which occurs here for the first time in the history of philosophy. He did not remark that the degrees of knowledge in the subject have nothing corresponding to them in the object. With him a word must answer to an idea; and he could not conceive of an opinion which was an opinion about nothing. The influence of analogy led him to invent ‘parallels and conjugates’ and to overlook facts. To us some of his difficulties are puzzling only from their simplicity: we do not perceive that the answer to them ‘is tumbling out at our feet.’ To the mind of early thinkers, the conception of not-being was dark and mysterious; they did not see that this terrible apparition which threatened destruction to all knowledge was only a logical determination. The common term under which, through the accidental use of language, two entirely different ideas were included was another source of confusion. Thus through the ambiguity of (Greek) Plato, attempting to introduce order into the first chaos of human thought, seems to have confused perception and opinion, and to have failed to distinguish the contingent from the relative. In the Theaetetus the first of these difficulties begins to clear up; in the Sophist the second; and for this, as well as for other reasons, both these dialogues are probably to be regarded as later than the Republic.
At the end of the fifth book, Plato introduces the concept of contingent matter. This idea has greatly influenced both the Ethics and Theology of the modern world. It appears here for the first time in the history of philosophy. He didn't notice that the degrees of knowledge in the subject have nothing corresponding to them in the object. For him, a word must answer to an idea. He couldn't conceive of an opinion that was an opinion about nothing. The influence of analogy led him to invent 'parallels and conjugates' and to overlook facts. To us, some of his difficulties are puzzling only because they're so simple. We don't see that the answer to them 'is tumbling out at our feet.' To the mind of early thinkers, the conception of not-being was dark and mysterious. They didn't see that this terrible apparition which threatened destruction to all knowledge was only a logical determination. The common term under which two entirely different ideas were included through the accidental use of language was another source of confusion. Through the ambiguity of Greek, Plato was attempting to introduce order into the first chaos of human thought. He seems to have confused perception and opinion, and failed to distinguish the contingent from the relative. In the Theaetetus, the first of these difficulties begins to clear up. In the Sophist, the second clears up. For this reason, as well as others, both these dialogues are probably to be regarded as later than the Republic.
BOOK VI. Having determined that the many have no knowledge of true being, and have no clear patterns in their minds of justice, beauty, truth, and that philosophers have such patterns, we have now to ask whether they or the many shall be rulers in our State. But who can doubt that philosophers should be chosen, if they have the other qualities which are required in a ruler? For they are lovers of the knowledge of the eternal and of all truth; they are haters of falsehood; their meaner desires are absorbed in the interests of knowledge; they are spectators of all time and all existence; and in the magnificence of their contemplation the life of man is as nothing to them, nor is death fearful. Also they are of a social, gracious disposition, equally free from cowardice and arrogance. They learn and remember easily; they have harmonious, well-regulated minds; truth flows to them sweetly by nature. Can the god of Jealousy himself find any fault with such an assemblage of good qualities?
BOOK VI. We've established that ordinary people don't understand true reality. They have no clear ideas about justice, beauty, or truth in their minds. Philosophers do have such clear ideas. Now we must ask: should philosophers or ordinary people rule our State? Who can doubt that philosophers should be chosen as rulers? They need the other qualities required in a ruler, of course. But philosophers are lovers of eternal knowledge and all truth. They hate lies. Their lesser desires fade away because they're so interested in knowledge. They observe all of time and existence. In the greatness of their thinking, human life means nothing to them. Death doesn't frighten them either. They also have social, gracious personalities. They're free from both cowardice and arrogance. They learn and remember easily. Their minds are harmonious and well-organized. Truth flows to them naturally and sweetly. Could even the god of Jealousy find fault with such a collection of good qualities?
Here Adeimantus interposes:—‘No man can answer you, Socrates; but every man feels that this is owing to his own deficiency in argument. He is driven from one position to another, until he has nothing more to say, just as an unskilful player at draughts is reduced to his last move by a more skilled opponent. And yet all the time he may be right. He may know, in this very instance, that those who make philosophy the business of their lives, generally turn out rogues if they are bad men, and fools if they are good. What do you say?’ I should say that he is quite right. ‘Then how is such an admission reconcileable with the doctrine that philosophers should be kings?’
Here Adeimantus interrupts: "No one can answer you, Socrates. But everyone feels this happens because they're not good at arguing. You drive them from one position to another until they have nothing left to say. It's like watching a bad checkers player get cornered by a skilled opponent until they can only make one final move. "Yet the whole time, they might be right. They might know that in this very case, people who make philosophy their life's work usually turn out to be rogues if they're bad men, and fools if they're good. What do you say?" I would say he's quite right. "Then how can you reconcile that admission with the idea that philosophers should be kings?"
I shall answer you in a parable which will also let you see how poor a hand I am at the invention of allegories. The relation of good men to their governments is so peculiar, that in order to defend them I must take an illustration from the world of fiction. Conceive the captain of a ship, taller by a head and shoulders than any of the crew, yet a little deaf, a little blind, and rather ignorant of the seaman’s art. The sailors want to steer, although they know nothing of the art; and they have a theory that it cannot be learned. If the helm is refused them, they drug the captain’s posset, bind him hand and foot, and take possession of the ship. He who joins in the mutiny is termed a good pilot and what not; they have no conception that the true pilot must observe the winds and the stars, and must be their master, whether they like it or not;—such an one would be called by them fool, prater, star-gazer. This is my parable; which I will beg you to interpret for me to those gentlemen who ask why the philosopher has such an evil name, and to explain to them that not he, but those who will not use him, are to blame for his uselessness. The philosopher should not beg of mankind to be put in authority over them. The wise man should not seek the rich, as the proverb bids, but every man, whether rich or poor, must knock at the door of the physician when he has need of him. Now the pilot is the philosopher—he whom in the parable they call star-gazer, and the mutinous sailors are the mob of politicians by whom he is rendered useless. Not that these are the worst enemies of philosophy, who is far more dishonoured by her own professing sons when they are corrupted by the world. Need I recall the original image of the philosopher? Did we not say of him just now, that he loved truth and hated falsehood, and that he could not rest in the multiplicity of phenomena, but was led by a sympathy in his own nature to the contemplation of the absolute? All the virtues as well as truth, who is the leader of them, took up their abode in his soul. But as you were observing, if we turn aside to view the reality, we see that the persons who were thus described, with the exception of a small and useless class, are utter rogues.
I'll answer you with a parable that will also show you how bad I am at creating allegories. The relationship between good men and their governments is so strange that I need to use a fictional example to defend them. Picture the captain of a ship who is taller than any of his crew, but he's a little deaf, a little blind, and doesn't know much about sailing. The sailors want to steer the ship, even though they know nothing about navigation. They believe that sailing can't be learned. When the captain refuses to let them take the helm, they drug his drink, tie him up, and take over the ship. Anyone who joins their mutiny gets called a good pilot and other flattering names. They have no idea that a true pilot must watch the winds and stars and must be their master, whether they like it or not. They would call such a person a fool, a chatterbox, or a star-gazer. This is my parable. I ask you to interpret it for those gentlemen who wonder why the philosopher has such a bad reputation. Explain to them that the philosopher isn't to blame for being useless—those who refuse to use him are. The philosopher shouldn't have to beg mankind to put him in charge. The wise man shouldn't seek out the rich, as the proverb says. Instead, every person, rich or poor, must knock on the physician's door when they need him. The pilot in my story is the philosopher—the one they call a star-gazer. The mutinous sailors are the mob of politicians who make him useless. But these aren't philosophy's worst enemies. Philosophy is far more dishonored by her own followers when the world corrupts them. Do I need to remind you of our original image of the philosopher? Didn't we just say that he loved truth and hated lies? That he couldn't rest among the confusion of everyday things but was drawn by his nature to contemplate the absolute? All the virtues, along with truth who leads them, made their home in his soul. But as you pointed out, when we look at reality, we see that the people we described this way are, except for a small and useless group, complete scoundrels.
The point which has to be considered, is the origin of this corruption in nature. Every one will admit that the philosopher, in our description of him, is a rare being. But what numberless causes tend to destroy these rare beings! There is no good thing which may not be a cause of evil—health, wealth, strength, rank, and the virtues themselves, when placed under unfavourable circumstances. For as in the animal or vegetable world the strongest seeds most need the accompaniment of good air and soil, so the best of human characters turn out the worst when they fall upon an unsuitable soil; whereas weak natures hardly ever do any considerable good or harm; they are not the stuff out of which either great criminals or great heroes are made. The philosopher follows the same analogy: he is either the best or the worst of all men. Some persons say that the Sophists are the corrupters of youth; but is not public opinion the real Sophist who is everywhere present—in those very persons, in the assembly, in the courts, in the camp, in the applauses and hisses of the theatre re-echoed by the surrounding hills? Will not a young man’s heart leap amid these discordant sounds? and will any education save him from being carried away by the torrent? Nor is this all. For if he will not yield to opinion, there follows the gentle compulsion of exile or death. What principle of rival Sophists or anybody else can overcome in such an unequal contest? Characters there may be more than human, who are exceptions—God may save a man, but not his own strength. Further, I would have you consider that the hireling Sophist only gives back to the world their own opinions; he is the keeper of the monster, who knows how to flatter or anger him, and observes the meaning of his inarticulate grunts. Good is what pleases him, evil what he dislikes; truth and beauty are determined only by the taste of the brute. Such is the Sophist’s wisdom, and such is the condition of those who make public opinion the test of truth, whether in art or in morals. The curse is laid upon them of being and doing what it approves, and when they attempt first principles the failure is ludicrous. Think of all this and ask yourself whether the world is more likely to be a believer in the unity of the idea, or in the multiplicity of phenomena. And the world if not a believer in the idea cannot be a philosopher, and must therefore be a persecutor of philosophers. There is another evil:—the world does not like to lose the gifted nature, and so they flatter the young (Alcibiades) into a magnificent opinion of his own capacity; the tall, proper youth begins to expand, and is dreaming of kingdoms and empires. If at this instant a friend whispers to him, ‘Now the gods lighten thee; thou art a great fool’ and must be educated—do you think that he will listen? Or suppose a better sort of man who is attracted towards philosophy, will they not make Herculean efforts to spoil and corrupt him? Are we not right in saying that the love of knowledge, no less than riches, may divert him? Men of this class (Critias) often become politicians—they are the authors of great mischief in states, and sometimes also of great good. And thus philosophy is deserted by her natural protectors, and others enter in and dishonour her. Vulgar little minds see the land open and rush from the prisons of the arts into her temple. A clever mechanic having a soul coarse as his body, thinks that he will gain caste by becoming her suitor. For philosophy, even in her fallen estate, has a dignity of her own—and he, like a bald little blacksmith’s apprentice as he is, having made some money and got out of durance, washes and dresses himself as a bridegroom and marries his master’s daughter. What will be the issue of such marriages? Will they not be vile and bastard, devoid of truth and nature? ‘They will.’ Small, then, is the remnant of genuine philosophers; there may be a few who are citizens of small states, in which politics are not worth thinking of, or who have been detained by Theages’ bridle of ill health; for my own case of the oracular sign is almost unique, and too rare to be worth mentioning. And these few when they have tasted the pleasures of philosophy, and have taken a look at that den of thieves and place of wild beasts, which is human life, will stand aside from the storm under the shelter of a wall, and try to preserve their own innocence and to depart in peace. ‘A great work, too, will have been accomplished by them.’ Great, yes, but not the greatest; for man is a social being, and can only attain his highest development in the society which is best suited to him.
The point we need to consider is where this corruption in human nature comes from. Everyone will agree that the philosopher we've described is a rare person. But countless forces work to destroy these rare individuals! Any good thing can become a cause of evil. Health, wealth, strength, high position, and even virtues themselves can corrupt when placed in the wrong circumstances. Just as the strongest seeds in nature need good air and soil to thrive, the best human characters turn out worst when they fall on unsuitable ground. Weak natures, on the other hand, rarely do much good or harm. They're not the material from which great criminals or great heroes are made. The philosopher follows the same pattern: he becomes either the best or the worst of all people. Some say the Sophists corrupt young people. But isn't public opinion the real Sophist? It's everywhere present—in those very people, in the assembly, in the courts, in the military camps, in the applause and boos of the theater that echo from the surrounding hills. Won't a young man's heart race amid these conflicting sounds? What education can save him from being swept away by this flood? That's not all. If he refuses to yield to popular opinion, gentle pressure follows in the form of exile or death. What principle from rival Sophists or anyone else can win in such an unequal contest? There may be characters more than human who are exceptions. God may save a man, but his own strength cannot. I want you to consider something else. The hired Sophist only gives back to the world their own opinions. He's like a keeper of a monster who knows how to flatter or anger it and understands the meaning of its wordless grunts. Good is whatever pleases the beast, evil is what it dislikes. Truth and beauty are determined only by the brute's taste. This is the Sophist's wisdom. This is the condition of those who make public opinion the test of truth, whether in art or morals. They're cursed to be and do whatever it approves. When they attempt to understand first principles, the failure is ridiculous. Think about all this and ask yourself: Is the world more likely to believe in the unity of the idea, or in the multiplicity of phenomena? If the world doesn't believe in the idea, it cannot be philosophical. Therefore it must persecute philosophers. There's another problem. The world doesn't want to lose gifted people, so they flatter the young (like Alcibiades) into having a magnificent opinion of their own abilities. The tall, handsome youth begins to expand with pride and dreams of kingdoms and empires. If at this moment a friend whispers to him, "May the gods enlighten you—you're a great fool and need education," do you think he'll listen? Or suppose a better sort of person is drawn toward philosophy. Won't they make enormous efforts to spoil and corrupt him? Aren't we right in saying that the love of knowledge, no less than riches, may lead him astray? Men of this type (like Critias) often become politicians. They cause great harm in states, and sometimes great good too. This is how philosophy is abandoned by her natural protectors, and others enter in to dishonor her. Vulgar little minds see the opportunity and rush from the prisons of the crafts into her temple. A clever mechanic with a soul as coarse as his body thinks he'll gain status by becoming her suitor. Even in her fallen state, philosophy has her own dignity. But he's like a bald little blacksmith's apprentice who has made some money and gotten out of bondage. He washes and dresses himself like a bridegroom and marries his master's daughter. What will come of such marriages? Won't they be vile and illegitimate, lacking truth and nature? They will. Small, then, is the remnant of genuine philosophers. There may be a few who are citizens of small states where politics aren't worth thinking about, or who have been held back by Theages' bridle of poor health. My own case of the oracular sign is almost unique and too rare to mention. These few have tasted the pleasures of philosophy and looked at that den of thieves and place of wild beasts which is human life. They stand aside from the storm under the shelter of a wall and try to preserve their own innocence and depart in peace. A great work will have been accomplished by them. Great, yes, but not the greatest. Man is a social being and can only reach his highest development in the society best suited to him.
Enough, then, of the causes why philosophy has such an evil name. Another question is, Which of existing states is suited to her? Not one of them; at present she is like some exotic seed which degenerates in a strange soil; only in her proper state will she be shown to be of heavenly growth. ‘And is her proper state ours or some other?’ Ours in all points but one, which was left undetermined. You may remember our saying that some living mind or witness of the legislator was needed in states. But we were afraid to enter upon a subject of such difficulty, and now the question recurs and has not grown easier:—How may philosophy be safely studied? Let us bring her into the light of day, and make an end of the inquiry.
So much for why philosophy has such a bad reputation. Now we need to ask another question: Which of our current governments would suit philosophy? None of them. Right now, philosophy is like an exotic plant that withers in foreign soil. Only in the right kind of state will philosophy show its true, divine nature. 'Is that proper state ours, or some other one?' Ours in every way except one detail we left unresolved. You might remember we said that states need some living mind or witness to the lawgiver. But we were afraid to tackle such a difficult topic. Now the question comes up again and hasn't gotten any easier. How can philosophy be studied safely? Let's bring her into the light of day and finish this inquiry.
In the first place, I say boldly that nothing can be worse than the present mode of study. Persons usually pick up a little philosophy in early youth, and in the intervals of business, but they never master the real difficulty, which is dialectic. Later, perhaps, they occasionally go to a lecture on philosophy. Years advance, and the sun of philosophy, unlike that of Heracleitus, sets never to rise again. This order of education should be reversed; it should begin with gymnastics in youth, and as the man strengthens, he should increase the gymnastics of his soul. Then, when active life is over, let him finally return to philosophy. ‘You are in earnest, Socrates, but the world will be equally earnest in withstanding you—no more than Thrasymachus.’ Do not make a quarrel between Thrasymachus and me, who were never enemies and are now good friends enough. And I shall do my best to convince him and all mankind of the truth of my words, or at any rate to prepare for the future when, in another life, we may again take part in similar discussions. ‘That will be a long time hence.’ Not long in comparison with eternity. The many will probably remain incredulous, for they have never seen the natural unity of ideas, but only artificial juxtapositions; not free and generous thoughts, but tricks of controversy and quips of law;—a perfect man ruling in a perfect state, even a single one they have not known. And we foresaw that there was no chance of perfection either in states or individuals until a necessity was laid upon philosophers—not the rogues, but those whom we called the useless class—of holding office; or until the sons of kings were inspired with a true love of philosophy. Whether in the infinity of past time there has been, or is in some distant land, or ever will be hereafter, an ideal such as we have described, we stoutly maintain that there has been, is, and will be such a state whenever the Muse of philosophy rules. Will you say that the world is of another mind? O, my friend, do not revile the world! They will soon change their opinion if they are gently entreated, and are taught the true nature of the philosopher. Who can hate a man who loves him? Or be jealous of one who has no jealousy? Consider, again, that the many hate not the true but the false philosophers—the pretenders who force their way in without invitation, and are always speaking of persons and not of principles, which is unlike the spirit of philosophy. For the true philosopher despises earthly strife; his eye is fixed on the eternal order in accordance with which he moulds himself into the Divine image (and not himself only, but other men), and is the creator of the virtues private as well as public. When mankind see that the happiness of states is only to be found in that image, will they be angry with us for attempting to delineate it? ‘Certainly not. But what will be the process of delineation?’ The artist will do nothing until he has made a tabula rasa; on this he will inscribe the constitution of a state, glancing often at the divine truth of nature, and from that deriving the godlike among men, mingling the two elements, rubbing out and painting in, until there is a perfect harmony or fusion of the divine and human. But perhaps the world will doubt the existence of such an artist. What will they doubt? That the philosopher is a lover of truth, having a nature akin to the best?—and if they admit this will they still quarrel with us for making philosophers our kings? ‘They will be less disposed to quarrel.’ Let us assume then that they are pacified. Still, a person may hesitate about the probability of the son of a king being a philosopher. And we do not deny that they are very liable to be corrupted; but yet surely in the course of ages there might be one exception—and one is enough. If one son of a king were a philosopher, and had obedient citizens, he might bring the ideal polity into being. Hence we conclude that our laws are not only the best, but that they are also possible, though not free from difficulty.
First, I'll say boldly that nothing could be worse than our current way of studying. People usually pick up a little philosophy when they're young, squeezing it in between other business. But they never master the real challenge, which is dialectic. Later, maybe they go to an occasional philosophy lecture. Years pass, and the sun of philosophy sets, never to rise again unlike the sun of Heracleitus. We should reverse this order of education. It should begin with physical training in youth. As a person grows stronger, they should increase the training of their soul. Then, when active life is over, let them finally return to philosophy. 'You're serious, Socrates, but the world will be just as serious in opposing you—no more than Thrasymachus did.' Don't make a quarrel between Thrasymachus and me. We were never enemies and are good friends now. I'll do my best to convince him and all mankind that my words are true. Or at least I'll prepare for the future when, in another life, we might take part in similar discussions again. 'That will be a long time from now.' Not long compared to eternity. Most people will probably remain doubtful. They've never seen the natural unity of ideas, only artificial combinations. They haven't seen free and generous thoughts, but only tricks of argument and legal quips. They haven't known even a single perfect man ruling in a perfect state. We predicted there was no chance of perfection in either states or individuals until philosophers were forced to hold office. Not the rogues, but those we called the useless class. Or until the sons of kings were inspired with a true love of philosophy. Whether in the infinity of past time there has been such an ideal as we described, or exists in some distant land, or ever will exist, we firmly believe there has been, is, and will be such a state whenever the Muse of philosophy rules. Will you say that the world thinks differently? My friend, don't attack the world! They'll soon change their opinion if they're gently approached and taught the true nature of the philosopher. Who can hate someone who loves them? Or be jealous of someone who has no jealousy? Consider that most people hate not the true philosophers but the false ones. They hate the pretenders who force their way in without invitation and always speak of persons instead of principles. This goes against the spirit of philosophy. The true philosopher despises earthly conflict. His eye is fixed on the eternal order. He shapes himself according to this Divine image, and not just himself but other people too. He creates virtues both private and public. When mankind sees that the happiness of states can only be found in that image, will they be angry with us for trying to describe it? 'Certainly not. But what will be the process of description?' The artist will do nothing until he has made a clean slate. On this he will write the constitution of a state. He'll often look at the divine truth of nature and derive the godlike qualities among people. He'll mix the two elements, erasing and painting, until there's perfect harmony between the divine and human. But perhaps the world will doubt that such an artist exists. What will they doubt? That the philosopher loves truth and has a nature similar to the best? If they admit this, will they still quarrel with us for making philosophers our kings? 'They'll be less likely to quarrel.' Let's assume they're satisfied then. Still, someone might question whether the son of a king could be a philosopher. We don't deny that they're very likely to be corrupted. But surely over the course of ages there might be one exception. And one is enough. If one son of a king were a philosopher and had obedient citizens, he might bring the ideal government into being. We conclude that our laws are not only the best, but they're also possible, though not without difficulty.
I gained nothing by evading the troublesome questions which arose concerning women and children. I will be wiser now and acknowledge that we must go to the bottom of another question: What is to be the education of our guardians? It was agreed that they were to be lovers of their country, and were to be tested in the refiner’s fire of pleasures and pains, and those who came forth pure and remained fixed in their principles were to have honours and rewards in life and after death. But at this point, the argument put on her veil and turned into another path. I hesitated to make the assertion which I now hazard,—that our guardians must be philosophers. You remember all the contradictory elements, which met in the philosopher—how difficult to find them all in a single person! Intelligence and spirit are not often combined with steadiness; the stolid, fearless, nature is averse to intellectual toil. And yet these opposite elements are all necessary, and therefore, as we were saying before, the aspirant must be tested in pleasures and dangers; and also, as we must now further add, in the highest branches of knowledge. You will remember, that when we spoke of the virtues mention was made of a longer road, which you were satisfied to leave unexplored. ‘Enough seemed to have been said.’ Enough, my friend; but what is enough while anything remains wanting? Of all men the guardian must not faint in the search after truth; he must be prepared to take the longer road, or he will never reach that higher region which is above the four virtues; and of the virtues too he must not only get an outline, but a clear and distinct vision. (Strange that we should be so precise about trifles, so careless about the highest truths!) ‘And what are the highest?’ You to pretend unconsciousness, when you have so often heard me speak of the idea of good, about which we know so little, and without which though a man gain the world he has no profit of it! Some people imagine that the good is wisdom; but this involves a circle,—the good, they say, is wisdom, wisdom has to do with the good. According to others the good is pleasure; but then comes the absurdity that good is bad, for there are bad pleasures as well as good. Again, the good must have reality; a man may desire the appearance of virtue, but he will not desire the appearance of good. Ought our guardians then to be ignorant of this supreme principle, of which every man has a presentiment, and without which no man has any real knowledge of anything? ‘But, Socrates, what is this supreme principle, knowledge or pleasure, or what? You may think me troublesome, but I say that you have no business to be always repeating the doctrines of others instead of giving us your own.’ Can I say what I do not know? ‘You may offer an opinion.’ And will the blindness and crookedness of opinion content you when you might have the light and certainty of science? ‘I will only ask you to give such an explanation of the good as you have given already of temperance and justice.’ I wish that I could, but in my present mood I cannot reach to the height of the knowledge of the good. To the parent or principal I cannot introduce you, but to the child begotten in his image, which I may compare with the interest on the principal, I will. (Audit the account, and do not let me give you a false statement of the debt.) You remember our old distinction of the many beautiful and the one beautiful, the particular and the universal, the objects of sight and the objects of thought? Did you ever consider that the objects of sight imply a faculty of sight which is the most complex and costly of our senses, requiring not only objects of sense, but also a medium, which is light; without which the sight will not distinguish between colours and all will be a blank? For light is the noble bond between the perceiving faculty and the thing perceived, and the god who gives us light is the sun, who is the eye of the day, but is not to be confounded with the eye of man. This eye of the day or sun is what I call the child of the good, standing in the same relation to the visible world as the good to the intellectual. When the sun shines the eye sees, and in the intellectual world where truth is, there is sight and light. Now that which is the sun of intelligent natures, is the idea of good, the cause of knowledge and truth, yet other and fairer than they are, and standing in the same relation to them in which the sun stands to light. O inconceivable height of beauty, which is above knowledge and above truth! (‘You cannot surely mean pleasure,’ he said. Peace, I replied.) And this idea of good, like the sun, is also the cause of growth, and the author not of knowledge only, but of being, yet greater far than either in dignity and power. ‘That is a reach of thought more than human; but, pray, go on with the image, for I suspect that there is more behind.’ There is, I said; and bearing in mind our two suns or principles, imagine further their corresponding worlds—one of the visible, the other of the intelligible; you may assist your fancy by figuring the distinction under the image of a line divided into two unequal parts, and may again subdivide each part into two lesser segments representative of the stages of knowledge in either sphere. The lower portion of the lower or visible sphere will consist of shadows and reflections, and its upper and smaller portion will contain real objects in the world of nature or of art. The sphere of the intelligible will also have two divisions,—one of mathematics, in which there is no ascent but all is descent; no inquiring into premises, but only drawing of inferences. In this division the mind works with figures and numbers, the images of which are taken not from the shadows, but from the objects, although the truth of them is seen only with the mind’s eye; and they are used as hypotheses without being analysed. Whereas in the other division reason uses the hypotheses as stages or steps in the ascent to the idea of good, to which she fastens them, and then again descends, walking firmly in the region of ideas, and of ideas only, in her ascent as well as descent, and finally resting in them. ‘I partly understand,’ he replied; ‘you mean that the ideas of science are superior to the hypothetical, metaphorical conceptions of geometry and the other arts or sciences, whichever is to be the name of them; and the latter conceptions you refuse to make subjects of pure intellect, because they have no first principle, although when resting on a first principle, they pass into the higher sphere.’ You understand me very well, I said. And now to those four divisions of knowledge you may assign four corresponding faculties—pure intelligence to the highest sphere; active intelligence to the second; to the third, faith; to the fourth, the perception of shadows—and the clearness of the several faculties will be in the same ratio as the truth of the objects to which they are related...
I gained nothing by avoiding the difficult questions about women and children. I will be wiser now and admit that we must explore another question thoroughly: What should be the education of our guardians? We agreed that they were to be lovers of their country. They were to be tested in the fire of pleasures and pains. Those who came through pure and stayed true to their principles would receive honors and rewards in life and after death. But at this point, the argument veiled itself and turned down another path. I hesitated to make the claim I now dare to make: our guardians must be philosophers. You remember all the contradictory elements that meet in the philosopher. How difficult to find them all in one person! Intelligence and spirit rarely combine with steadiness. The solid, fearless nature resists intellectual work. Yet these opposite elements are all necessary. So, as we said before, the candidate must be tested in pleasures and dangers. And also, as we must now add, in the highest branches of knowledge. You will remember that when we spoke of the virtues, we mentioned a longer road that you were content to leave unexplored. 'Enough seemed to have been said.' Enough, my friend, but what is enough while anything remains missing? Of all people, the guardian must not give up in the search for truth. He must be prepared to take the longer road, or he will never reach that higher region above the four virtues. And of the virtues too, he must not only get an outline, but a clear and distinct vision. (Strange that we should be so precise about small things, so careless about the highest truths!) 'And what are the highest?' You pretend not to know, when you have so often heard me speak of the idea of good. We know so little about it, and without it, though a man gains the world, he has no profit from it! Some people think that the good is wisdom, but this creates a circle. The good, they say, is wisdom, and wisdom has to do with the good. Others say the good is pleasure, but then comes the absurdity that good is bad, for there are bad pleasures as well as good. Again, the good must have reality. A man may desire the appearance of virtue, but he will not desire the appearance of good. Should our guardians then be ignorant of this supreme principle? Every person has a sense of it, and without it no one has any real knowledge of anything. 'But, Socrates, what is this supreme principle? Knowledge or pleasure, or what? You may think me troublesome, but I say you have no business always repeating the doctrines of others instead of giving us your own.' Can I say what I do not know? 'You may offer an opinion.' And will the blindness and crookedness of opinion satisfy you when you might have the light and certainty of science? 'I will only ask you to give such an explanation of the good as you have already given of temperance and justice.' I wish I could, but in my present state I cannot reach the height of knowledge of the good. I cannot introduce you to the parent or principal, but to the child born in his image. I may compare this with the interest on the principal. (Check the account, and do not let me give you a false statement of the debt.) You remember our old distinction between the many beautiful things and the one beautiful, the particular and the universal, the objects of sight and the objects of thought. Did you ever consider that the objects of sight require a faculty of sight? This is the most complex and costly of our senses. It requires not only objects of sense, but also a medium, which is light. Without light, sight will not distinguish between colors and all will be blank. Light is the noble bond between the perceiving faculty and the thing perceived. The god who gives us light is the sun, who is the eye of the day. But the sun is not to be confused with the eye of man. This eye of the day, or sun, is what I call the child of the good. It stands in the same relation to the visible world as the good does to the intellectual world. When the sun shines, the eye sees. In the intellectual world where truth is, there is sight and light. Now that which is the sun of intelligent natures is the idea of good. It is the cause of knowledge and truth, yet other and fairer than they are. It stands in the same relation to them as the sun stands to light. O inconceivable height of beauty, which is above knowledge and above truth! ('You cannot surely mean pleasure,' he said. Peace, I replied.) And this idea of good, like the sun, is also the cause of growth. It is the author not only of knowledge, but of being, yet greater far than either in dignity and power. 'That is a reach of thought more than human, but please, go on with the image, for I suspect there is more behind.' There is, I said. Bearing in mind our two suns or principles, imagine their corresponding worlds. One is visible, the other intelligible. You may help your imagination by picturing the distinction as a line divided into two unequal parts. You may again subdivide each part into two smaller segments representing the stages of knowledge in either sphere. The lower portion of the lower or visible sphere will consist of shadows and reflections. Its upper and smaller portion will contain real objects in the world of nature or of art. The sphere of the intelligible will also have two divisions. One is mathematics, in which there is no ascent but all is descent. There is no inquiring into premises, but only drawing of inferences. In this division the mind works with figures and numbers. The images of these are taken not from the shadows, but from the objects. Yet the truth of them is seen only with the mind's eye, and they are used as hypotheses without being analyzed. In the other division, reason uses the hypotheses as stages or steps in the ascent to the idea of good. She fastens them to it, and then again descends, walking firmly in the region of ideas, and of ideas only, in her ascent as well as descent, and finally resting in them. 'I partly understand,' he replied. 'You mean that the ideas of science are superior to the hypothetical, metaphorical conceptions of geometry and the other arts or sciences, whatever we should call them. And the latter conceptions you refuse to make subjects of pure intellect, because they have no first principle. Although when resting on a first principle, they pass into the higher sphere.' You understand me very well, I said. And now to those four divisions of knowledge you may assign four corresponding faculties. Pure intelligence to the highest sphere. Active intelligence to the second. To the third, faith. To the fourth, the perception of shadows. The clearness of the several faculties will be in the same ratio as the truth of the objects to which they are related.
Like Socrates, we may recapitulate the virtues of the philosopher. In language which seems to reach beyond the horizon of that age and country, he is described as ‘the spectator of all time and all existence.’ He has the noblest gifts of nature, and makes the highest use of them. All his desires are absorbed in the love of wisdom, which is the love of truth. None of the graces of a beautiful soul are wanting in him; neither can he fear death, or think much of human life. The ideal of modern times hardly retains the simplicity of the antique; there is not the same originality either in truth or error which characterized the Greeks. The philosopher is no longer living in the unseen, nor is he sent by an oracle to convince mankind of ignorance; nor does he regard knowledge as a system of ideas leading upwards by regular stages to the idea of good. The eagerness of the pursuit has abated; there is more division of labour and less of comprehensive reflection upon nature and human life as a whole; more of exact observation and less of anticipation and inspiration. Still, in the altered conditions of knowledge, the parallel is not wholly lost; and there may be a use in translating the conception of Plato into the language of our own age. The philosopher in modern times is one who fixes his mind on the laws of nature in their sequence and connexion, not on fragments or pictures of nature; on history, not on controversy; on the truths which are acknowledged by the few, not on the opinions of the many. He is aware of the importance of ‘classifying according to nature,’ and will try to ‘separate the limbs of science without breaking them’ (Phaedr.). There is no part of truth, whether great or small, which he will dishonour; and in the least things he will discern the greatest (Parmen.). Like the ancient philosopher he sees the world pervaded by analogies, but he can also tell ‘why in some cases a single instance is sufficient for an induction’ (Mill’s Logic), while in other cases a thousand examples would prove nothing. He inquires into a portion of knowledge only, because the whole has grown too vast to be embraced by a single mind or life. He has a clearer conception of the divisions of science and of their relation to the mind of man than was possible to the ancients. Like Plato, he has a vision of the unity of knowledge, not as the beginning of philosophy to be attained by a study of elementary mathematics, but as the far-off result of the working of many minds in many ages. He is aware that mathematical studies are preliminary to almost every other; at the same time, he will not reduce all varieties of knowledge to the type of mathematics. He too must have a nobility of character, without which genius loses the better half of greatness. Regarding the world as a point in immensity, and each individual as a link in a never-ending chain of existence, he will not think much of his own life, or be greatly afraid of death.
Like Socrates, we can summarize what makes a philosopher virtuous. The philosopher is described in language that seems to reach beyond any single age or country as "the spectator of all time and all existence." He possesses the finest natural gifts and uses them to their fullest potential. All his desires focus on the love of wisdom, which is the love of truth. He lacks none of the qualities of a beautiful soul. He cannot fear death or think too highly of human life. The modern ideal hardly keeps the simplicity of ancient times. There is not the same originality in truth or error that characterized the Greeks. The philosopher no longer lives in the unseen world. No oracle sends him to convince people of their ignorance. He no longer sees knowledge as a system of ideas leading upward in stages to the idea of good. The eagerness of the pursuit has lessened. There is more division of labor and less comprehensive reflection on nature and human life as a whole. There is more exact observation and less anticipation and inspiration. Still, even with these changed conditions of knowledge, the parallel is not completely lost. There may be value in translating Plato's conception into the language of our own age. The modern philosopher focuses his mind on the laws of nature in their sequence and connection, not on fragments or pictures of nature. He studies history, not controversy. He pursues truths acknowledged by the few, not the opinions of the many. He understands the importance of "classifying according to nature" and will try to "separate the limbs of science without breaking them" (Phaedr.). There is no part of truth, whether great or small, that he will dishonor. In the smallest things he will see the greatest (Parmen.). Like the ancient philosopher, he sees the world filled with analogies. But he can also explain "why in some cases a single instance is sufficient for an induction" (Mill's Logic), while in other cases a thousand examples would prove nothing. He investigates only a portion of knowledge because the whole has grown too vast for a single mind or life to embrace. He has a clearer understanding of the divisions of science and their relation to the human mind than was possible for the ancients. Like Plato, he has a vision of the unity of knowledge. But this is not the beginning of philosophy achieved through elementary mathematics. Instead, it is the distant result of many minds working across many ages. He knows that mathematical studies prepare the way for almost every other field. At the same time, he will not reduce all varieties of knowledge to the mathematical type. He too must have nobility of character, without which genius loses the better half of greatness. He sees the world as a point in immensity and each individual as a link in a never-ending chain of existence. He will not think much of his own life or greatly fear death.
Adeimantus objects first of all to the form of the Socratic reasoning, thus showing that Plato is aware of the imperfection of his own method. He brings the accusation against himself which might be brought against him by a modern logician—that he extracts the answer because he knows how to put the question. In a long argument words are apt to change their meaning slightly, or premises may be assumed or conclusions inferred with rather too much certainty or universality; the variation at each step may be unobserved, and yet at last the divergence becomes considerable. Hence the failure of attempts to apply arithmetical or algebraic formulae to logic. The imperfection, or rather the higher and more elastic nature of language, does not allow words to have the precision of numbers or of symbols. And this quality in language impairs the force of an argument which has many steps.
Adeimantus first objects to how Socratic reasoning works. This shows that Plato knows his own method has flaws. Adeimantus brings up the same criticism a modern logician might make. He says Socrates gets the answer he wants because he knows how to ask the right questions. In long arguments, words tend to shift their meaning slightly. Premises might be assumed too quickly, or conclusions drawn with too much certainty. The small changes at each step might go unnoticed. But by the end, the argument has drifted far from where it started. This is why attempts to apply mathematical formulas to logic fail. Language is imperfect, or rather it's more flexible and elastic than math. Words can't be as precise as numbers or symbols. This quality of language weakens arguments that have many steps.
The objection, though fairly met by Socrates in this particular instance, may be regarded as implying a reflection upon the Socratic mode of reasoning. And here, as elsewhere, Plato seems to intimate that the time had come when the negative and interrogative method of Socrates must be superseded by a positive and constructive one, of which examples are given in some of the later dialogues. Adeimantus further argues that the ideal is wholly at variance with facts; for experience proves philosophers to be either useless or rogues. Contrary to all expectation Socrates has no hesitation in admitting the truth of this, and explains the anomaly in an allegory, first characteristically depreciating his own inventive powers. In this allegory the people are distinguished from the professional politicians, and, as elsewhere, are spoken of in a tone of pity rather than of censure under the image of ‘the noble captain who is not very quick in his perceptions.’
The objection is fairly answered by Socrates in this case. But it may reflect a criticism of the Socratic way of reasoning. Here, as elsewhere, Plato seems to suggest that the time had come for a change. The negative and questioning method of Socrates needed to be replaced by a positive and constructive one. Examples of this new approach appear in some of the later dialogues. Adeimantus argues further that the ideal completely contradicts the facts. Experience proves that philosophers are either useless or rogues. Against all expectation, Socrates readily admits this is true. He explains this strange situation through an allegory. First, he characteristically puts down his own creative abilities. In this allegory, the people are separated from the professional politicians. As elsewhere, they are spoken of with pity rather than blame. They appear under the image of "the noble captain who is not very quick in his perceptions."
The uselessness of philosophers is explained by the circumstance that mankind will not use them. The world in all ages has been divided between contempt and fear of those who employ the power of ideas and know no other weapons. Concerning the false philosopher, Socrates argues that the best is most liable to corruption; and that the finer nature is more likely to suffer from alien conditions. We too observe that there are some kinds of excellence which spring from a peculiar delicacy of constitution; as is evidently true of the poetical and imaginative temperament, which often seems to depend on impressions, and hence can only breathe or live in a certain atmosphere. The man of genius has greater pains and greater pleasures, greater powers and greater weaknesses, and often a greater play of character than is to be found in ordinary men. He can assume the disguise of virtue or disinterestedness without having them, or veil personal enmity in the language of patriotism and philosophy,—he can say the word which all men are thinking, he has an insight which is terrible into the follies and weaknesses of his fellow-men. An Alcibiades, a Mirabeau, or a Napoleon the First, are born either to be the authors of great evils in states, or ‘of great good, when they are drawn in that direction.’
Philosophers seem useless because humanity refuses to use them. Throughout history, the world has been split between those who despise and those who fear people who wield the power of ideas and know no other weapons. Socrates argues that when it comes to false philosophers, the best are most likely to become corrupted. He believes that finer natures are more likely to suffer under hostile conditions. We also notice that some types of excellence come from a particularly delicate constitution. This is clearly true of the poetical and imaginative temperament, which often depends on impressions and can only survive in certain atmospheres. The man of genius experiences greater pain and greater pleasure, greater powers and greater weaknesses. He often shows more complexity of character than ordinary men. He can pretend to be virtuous or selfless without actually being so. He can disguise personal hatred in the language of patriotism and philosophy. He can say what everyone is thinking. He has a terrible insight into the foolishness and weaknesses of his fellow men. An Alcibiades, a Mirabeau, or a Napoleon the First are born to be either the cause of great evil in nations, or of great good when they are drawn in that direction.
Yet the thesis, ‘corruptio optimi pessima,’ cannot be maintained generally or without regard to the kind of excellence which is corrupted. The alien conditions which are corrupting to one nature, may be the elements of culture to another. In general a man can only receive his highest development in a congenial state or family, among friends or fellow-workers. But also he may sometimes be stirred by adverse circumstances to such a degree that he rises up against them and reforms them. And while weaker or coarser characters will extract good out of evil, say in a corrupt state of the church or of society, and live on happily, allowing the evil to remain, the finer or stronger natures may be crushed or spoiled by surrounding influences—may become misanthrope and philanthrope by turns; or in a few instances, like the founders of the monastic orders, or the Reformers, owing to some peculiarity in themselves or in their age, may break away entirely from the world and from the church, sometimes into great good, sometimes into great evil, sometimes into both. And the same holds in the lesser sphere of a convent, a school, a family.
The saying "the corruption of the best is the worst" cannot be applied universally without considering what type of excellence is being corrupted. Conditions that corrupt one person's nature might actually help develop another person's character. Generally, a person can only reach their highest potential in a supportive environment. This means being in a compatible community, family, or among friends and colleagues. But sometimes adverse circumstances can motivate someone so strongly that they rise up to fight against those conditions and change them. Weaker or less refined people will find ways to benefit even from corrupt situations. They might thrive in a corrupt church or society and live happily while allowing the problems to continue. But finer or stronger natures may be crushed or damaged by their surroundings. They might swing between hating humanity and loving it. In rare cases, like the founders of monastic orders or the Reformers, they might break away completely from the world and the church due to something unique about themselves or their time. Sometimes this leads to great good, sometimes to great evil, and sometimes to both. The same pattern holds true in smaller settings like a convent, a school, or a family.
Plato would have us consider how easily the best natures are overpowered by public opinion, and what efforts the rest of mankind will make to get possession of them. The world, the church, their own profession, any political or party organization, are always carrying them off their legs and teaching them to apply high and holy names to their own prejudices and interests. The ‘monster’ corporation to which they belong judges right and truth to be the pleasure of the community. The individual becomes one with his order; or, if he resists, the world is too much for him, and will sooner or later be revenged on him. This is, perhaps, a one-sided but not wholly untrue picture of the maxims and practice of mankind when they ‘sit down together at an assembly,’ either in ancient or modern times.
Plato would have us think about how easily the best people are overwhelmed by public opinion. He shows us what efforts the rest of humanity will make to control them. The world, the church, their own profession, any political or party organization are always sweeping them away. These forces teach them to use high and holy names for their own prejudices and interests. The 'monster' corporation they belong to decides that right and truth are whatever pleases the community. The individual becomes one with his group. If he resists, the world is too much for him. Sooner or later, it will take revenge on him. This may be a one-sided picture, but it's not completely false. It shows the principles and practices of humanity when they 'sit down together at an assembly,' whether in ancient or modern times.
When the higher natures are corrupted by politics, the lower take possession of the vacant place of philosophy. This is described in one of those continuous images in which the argument, to use a Platonic expression, ‘veils herself,’ and which is dropped and reappears at intervals. The question is asked,—Why are the citizens of states so hostile to philosophy? The answer is, that they do not know her. And yet there is also a better mind of the many; they would believe if they were taught. But hitherto they have only known a conventional imitation of philosophy, words without thoughts, systems which have no life in them; a (divine) person uttering the words of beauty and freedom, the friend of man holding communion with the Eternal, and seeking to frame the state in that image, they have never known. The same double feeling respecting the mass of mankind has always existed among men. The first thought is that the people are the enemies of truth and right; the second, that this only arises out of an accidental error and confusion, and that they do not really hate those who love them, if they could be educated to know them.
When people with higher natures get corrupted by politics, those with lower natures take over philosophy's empty place. This idea appears in one of those ongoing images where the argument, as Plato would say, "veils herself." The image disappears and comes back throughout the discussion. The question comes up: Why are citizens so hostile to philosophy? The answer is simple—they don't really know her. But there's also a better side to most people. They would believe if someone taught them properly. So far, they've only seen a fake version of philosophy. They've encountered empty words without real thoughts, and lifeless systems. They've never met a divine person who speaks words of beauty and freedom. They've never known the friend of humanity who talks with the Eternal and tries to shape the state in that perfect image. This mixed feeling about ordinary people has always existed. The first reaction is that people are enemies of truth and justice. The second thought is that this only happens because of accidental mistakes and confusion. People don't really hate those who love them, if they could just learn to understand them.
In the latter part of the sixth book, three questions have to be considered: 1st, the nature of the longer and more circuitous way, which is contrasted with the shorter and more imperfect method of Book IV; 2nd, the heavenly pattern or idea of the state; 3rd, the relation of the divisions of knowledge to one another and to the corresponding faculties of the soul:
In the second half of the sixth book, we need to examine three questions: First, what is the nature of the longer and more roundabout approach? This method contrasts with the shorter but less complete approach used in Book IV. Second, what is the heavenly pattern or ideal form of the state? Third, how do the different areas of knowledge relate to each other and to the matching abilities of the soul?
1. Of the higher method of knowledge in Plato we have only a glimpse. Neither here nor in the Phaedrus or Symposium, nor yet in the Philebus or Sophist, does he give any clear explanation of his meaning. He would probably have described his method as proceeding by regular steps to a system of universal knowledge, which inferred the parts from the whole rather than the whole from the parts. This ideal logic is not practised by him in the search after justice, or in the analysis of the parts of the soul; there, like Aristotle in the Nicomachean Ethics, he argues from experience and the common use of language. But at the end of the sixth book he conceives another and more perfect method, in which all ideas are only steps or grades or moments of thought, forming a connected whole which is self-supporting, and in which consistency is the test of truth. He does not explain to us in detail the nature of the process. Like many other thinkers both in ancient and modern times his mind seems to be filled with a vacant form which he is unable to realize. He supposes the sciences to have a natural order and connexion in an age when they can hardly be said to exist. He is hastening on to the ‘end of the intellectual world’ without even making a beginning of them.
We only get a glimpse of Plato's higher method of knowledge. He doesn't give any clear explanation of what he means in this dialogue, or in the Phaedrus, Symposium, Philebus, or Sophist. He would probably have described his method as proceeding through regular steps to create a system of universal knowledge. This system would infer the parts from the whole rather than the whole from the parts. He doesn't actually practice this ideal logic when searching for justice or analyzing the parts of the soul. There, like Aristotle in the Nicomachean Ethics, he argues from experience and common language use. But at the end of the sixth book, he imagines another and more perfect method. In this method, all ideas are only steps, grades, or moments of thought. They form a connected whole that supports itself, and consistency becomes the test of truth. He doesn't explain the details of this process to us. Like many other thinkers in both ancient and modern times, his mind seems filled with an empty form that he can't make real. He assumes the sciences have a natural order and connection in an age when they barely exist. He's rushing toward the "end of the intellectual world" without even beginning to develop these sciences.
In modern times we hardly need to be reminded that the process of acquiring knowledge is here confused with the contemplation of absolute knowledge. In all science a priori and a posteriori truths mingle in various proportions. The a priori part is that which is derived from the most universal experience of men, or is universally accepted by them; the a posteriori is that which grows up around the more general principles and becomes imperceptibly one with them. But Plato erroneously imagines that the synthesis is separable from the analysis, and that the method of science can anticipate science. In entertaining such a vision of a priori knowledge he is sufficiently justified, or at least his meaning may be sufficiently explained by the similar attempts of Descartes, Kant, Hegel, and even of Bacon himself, in modern philosophy. Anticipations or divinations, or prophetic glimpses of truths whether concerning man or nature, seem to stand in the same relation to ancient philosophy which hypotheses bear to modern inductive science. These ‘guesses at truth’ were not made at random; they arose from a superficial impression of uniformities and first principles in nature which the genius of the Greek, contemplating the expanse of heaven and earth, seemed to recognize in the distance. Nor can we deny that in ancient times knowledge must have stood still, and the human mind been deprived of the very instruments of thought, if philosophy had been strictly confined to the results of experience.
Today we hardly need reminding that the process of learning gets confused with contemplating absolute knowledge. In all science, a priori and a posteriori truths mix in different amounts. The a priori part comes from the most universal human experience, or what everyone accepts. The a posteriori part grows around these general principles and gradually becomes one with them. But Plato wrongly imagines that synthesis can be separated from analysis. He thinks the method of science can come before science itself. His vision of a priori knowledge makes sense, or at least we can explain his meaning by looking at similar attempts by Descartes, Kant, Hegel, and even Bacon in modern philosophy. Anticipations, divinations, or prophetic glimpses of truths about man or nature seem to relate to ancient philosophy the same way hypotheses relate to modern inductive science. These 'guesses at truth' weren't made randomly. They came from surface impressions of patterns and first principles in nature that Greek genius seemed to recognize in the distance when contemplating the vast heavens and earth. We can't deny that in ancient times, knowledge would have stopped completely. The human mind would have been stripped of the very tools of thought if philosophy had been strictly limited to the results of experience.
2. Plato supposes that when the tablet has been made blank the artist will fill in the lineaments of the ideal state. Is this a pattern laid up in heaven, or mere vacancy on which he is supposed to gaze with wondering eye? The answer is, that such ideals are framed partly by the omission of particulars, partly by imagination perfecting the form which experience supplies (Phaedo). Plato represents these ideals in a figure as belonging to another world; and in modern times the idea will sometimes seem to precede, at other times to co-operate with the hand of the artist. As in science, so also in creative art, there is a synthetical as well as an analytical method. One man will have the whole in his mind before he begins; to another the processes of mind and hand will be simultaneous.
Plato imagines that once the tablet has been wiped clean, the artist will sketch the outline of the ideal state. But is this a pattern stored in heaven, or just an empty space that he stares at in wonder? The answer is that such ideals are created partly by leaving out specific details and partly by imagination perfecting the form that experience provides (Phaedo). Plato presents these ideals as belonging to another world. In modern times, the idea sometimes seems to come first, and other times it works together with the artist's hand. Just like in science, creative art has both a synthetic and analytical method. One person will have the complete vision in mind before starting. For another, the mental and physical processes happen at the same time.
3. There is no difficulty in seeing that Plato’s divisions of knowledge are based, first, on the fundamental antithesis of sensible and intellectual which pervades the whole pre-Socratic philosophy; in which is implied also the opposition of the permanent and transient, of the universal and particular. But the age of philosophy in which he lived seemed to require a further distinction;—numbers and figures were beginning to separate from ideas. The world could no longer regard justice as a cube, and was learning to see, though imperfectly, that the abstractions of sense were distinct from the abstractions of mind. Between the Eleatic being or essence and the shadows of phenomena, the Pythagorean principle of number found a place, and was, as Aristotle remarks, a conducting medium from one to the other. Hence Plato is led to introduce a third term which had not hitherto entered into the scheme of his philosophy. He had observed the use of mathematics in education; they were the best preparation for higher studies. The subjective relation between them further suggested an objective one; although the passage from one to the other is really imaginary (Metaph.). For metaphysical and moral philosophy has no connexion with mathematics; number and figure are the abstractions of time and space, not the expressions of purely intellectual conceptions. When divested of metaphor, a straight line or a square has no more to do with right and justice than a crooked line with vice. The figurative association was mistaken for a real one; and thus the three latter divisions of the Platonic proportion were constructed.
It's easy to see that Plato's divisions of knowledge are based on a fundamental contrast between the sensible and intellectual worlds. This contrast runs through all pre-Socratic philosophy. It also includes the opposition between permanent and temporary things, and between universal and particular things. But the philosophical age Plato lived in seemed to need another distinction. Numbers and figures were starting to separate from ideas. The world could no longer think of justice as a cube. People were learning to see, though not perfectly, that abstractions of the senses were different from abstractions of the mind. Between the Eleatic being or essence and the shadows of phenomena, the Pythagorean principle of number found a place. As Aristotle notes, it served as a bridge from one to the other. This led Plato to introduce a third term that hadn't been part of his philosophy before. He had observed how mathematics was used in education. Math was the best preparation for higher studies. The subjective relationship between them suggested an objective one too. But the passage from one to the other is really imaginary (Metaph.). Metaphysical and moral philosophy has no connection with mathematics. Number and figure are abstractions of time and space, not expressions of purely intellectual ideas. When we strip away the metaphor, a straight line or a square has no more to do with right and justice than a crooked line has to do with vice. The figurative association was mistaken for a real one. This is how the three latter divisions of the Platonic proportion were constructed.
There is more difficulty in comprehending how he arrived at the first term of the series, which is nowhere else mentioned, and has no reference to any other part of his system. Nor indeed does the relation of shadows to objects correspond to the relation of numbers to ideas. Probably Plato has been led by the love of analogy (Timaeus) to make four terms instead of three, although the objects perceived in both divisions of the lower sphere are equally objects of sense. He is also preparing the way, as his manner is, for the shadows of images at the beginning of the seventh book, and the imitation of an imitation in the tenth. The line may be regarded as reaching from unity to infinity, and is divided into two unequal parts, and subdivided into two more; each lower sphere is the multiplication of the preceding. Of the four faculties, faith in the lower division has an intermediate position (cp. for the use of the word faith or belief, (Greek), Timaeus), contrasting equally with the vagueness of the perception of shadows (Greek) and the higher certainty of understanding (Greek) and reason (Greek).
It's harder to understand how he came up with the first term of the series. This term isn't mentioned anywhere else and doesn't connect to any other part of his system. The relationship between shadows and objects doesn't really match the relationship between numbers and ideas either. Plato was probably influenced by his love of analogy (as seen in Timaeus) to create four terms instead of three. This happened even though the objects in both parts of the lower sphere are equally objects of sense. He's also setting up, in his typical way, for the shadows of images at the start of the seventh book and the imitation of an imitation in the tenth. The line can be seen as stretching from unity to infinity. It's divided into two unequal parts, then subdivided into two more. Each lower sphere multiplies the one before it. Among the four faculties, faith in the lower division holds a middle position (compare the use of the word faith or belief in Timaeus). It contrasts equally with the vagueness of perceiving shadows and the higher certainty of understanding and reason.
The difference between understanding and mind or reason (Greek) is analogous to the difference between acquiring knowledge in the parts and the contemplation of the whole. True knowledge is a whole, and is at rest; consistency and universality are the tests of truth. To this self-evidencing knowledge of the whole the faculty of mind is supposed to correspond. But there is a knowledge of the understanding which is incomplete and in motion always, because unable to rest in the subordinate ideas. Those ideas are called both images and hypotheses—images because they are clothed in sense, hypotheses because they are assumptions only, until they are brought into connexion with the idea of good.
The difference between understanding and mind or reason (Greek) is like the difference between learning facts piece by piece and seeing the big picture all at once. True knowledge forms a complete whole and stays constant. We test truth by checking if it's consistent and universal. The faculty of mind is meant to match this self-evident knowledge of the whole. But there's also knowledge that comes from understanding, which is always incomplete and changing. It can't find rest in smaller, subordinate ideas. These ideas are called both images and hypotheses. They're images because they're wrapped up in what we can sense. They're hypotheses because they remain just assumptions until we connect them with the idea of good.
The general meaning of the passage, ‘Noble, then, is the bond which links together sight...And of this kind I spoke as the intelligible...’ so far as the thought contained in it admits of being translated into the terms of modern philosophy, may be described or explained as follows:—There is a truth, one and self-existent, to which by the help of a ladder let down from above, the human intelligence may ascend. This unity is like the sun in the heavens, the light by which all things are seen, the being by which they are created and sustained. It is the IDEA of good. And the steps of the ladder leading up to this highest or universal existence are the mathematical sciences, which also contain in themselves an element of the universal. These, too, we see in a new manner when we connect them with the idea of good. They then cease to be hypotheses or pictures, and become essential parts of a higher truth which is at once their first principle and their final cause.
The general meaning of the passage, 'Noble, then, is the bond which links together sight...And of this kind I spoke as the intelligible...' can be explained in modern terms as follows: There is one universal truth that exists on its own. Human intelligence can climb up to reach this truth, like climbing a ladder that comes down from above. This unity is like the sun in the sky. It's the light that lets us see all things. It's also the being that creates and sustains everything. This is the IDEA of good. The steps of the ladder that lead up to this highest universal existence are the mathematical sciences. These sciences also contain something universal within themselves. We see them in a new way when we connect them with the idea of good. They stop being just theories or mental pictures. Instead, they become essential parts of a higher truth that serves as both their starting point and their ultimate purpose.
We cannot give any more precise meaning to this remarkable passage, but we may trace in it several rudiments or vestiges of thought which are common to us and to Plato: such as (1) the unity and correlation of the sciences, or rather of science, for in Plato’s time they were not yet parted off or distinguished; (2) the existence of a Divine Power, or life or idea or cause or reason, not yet conceived or no longer conceived as in the Timaeus and elsewhere under the form of a person; (3) the recognition of the hypothetical and conditional character of the mathematical sciences, and in a measure of every science when isolated from the rest; (4) the conviction of a truth which is invisible, and of a law, though hardly a law of nature, which permeates the intellectual rather than the visible world.
We cannot give any more precise meaning to this remarkable passage. But we can trace several basic ideas in it that Plato and we share today. First, there is the unity and connection of all sciences. Or rather, of science itself, since in Plato's time the different fields had not yet been separated or distinguished from each other. Second, there is the existence of a Divine Power. This might be life, idea, cause, or reason. Plato had not yet conceived it as a person, or perhaps no longer thought of it that way, as he did in the Timaeus and other works. Third, there is the recognition that mathematical sciences are hypothetical and conditional. To some extent, every science has this character when it stands alone, cut off from the rest. Fourth, there is the conviction that truth is invisible. There is also a law, though hardly a law of nature, that runs through the intellectual world rather than the visible world.
The method of Socrates is hesitating and tentative, awaiting the fuller explanation of the idea of good, and of the nature of dialectic in the seventh book. The imperfect intelligence of Glaucon, and the reluctance of Socrates to make a beginning, mark the difficulty of the subject. The allusion to Theages’ bridle, and to the internal oracle, or demonic sign, of Socrates, which here, as always in Plato, is only prohibitory; the remark that the salvation of any remnant of good in the present evil state of the world is due to God only; the reference to a future state of existence, which is unknown to Glaucon in the tenth book, and in which the discussions of Socrates and his disciples would be resumed; the surprise in the answers; the fanciful irony of Socrates, where he pretends that he can only describe the strange position of the philosopher in a figure of speech; the original observation that the Sophists, after all, are only the representatives and not the leaders of public opinion; the picture of the philosopher standing aside in the shower of sleet under a wall; the figure of ‘the great beast’ followed by the expression of good-will towards the common people who would not have rejected the philosopher if they had known him; the ‘right noble thought’ that the highest truths demand the greatest exactness; the hesitation of Socrates in returning once more to his well-worn theme of the idea of good; the ludicrous earnestness of Glaucon; the comparison of philosophy to a deserted maiden who marries beneath her—are some of the most interesting characteristics of the sixth book.
Socrates uses a hesitant and tentative method here. He waits for a fuller explanation of the idea of good and the nature of dialectic in the seventh book. Glaucon's imperfect understanding and Socrates' reluctance to begin show how difficult this subject is. Several elements make the sixth book particularly interesting. There's the allusion to Theages' bridle and to Socrates' internal oracle or demonic sign, which in Plato always only forbids action. Socrates remarks that God alone saves any remnant of good in our current evil world. He refers to a future state of existence that Glaucon doesn't know about in the tenth book, where Socrates and his disciples would continue their discussions. The answers contain surprises. Socrates uses fanciful irony when he pretends he can only describe the philosopher's strange position through figures of speech. He makes the original observation that the Sophists are really just representatives of public opinion, not its leaders. He paints a picture of the philosopher standing aside in a shower of sleet under a wall. He uses the figure of "the great beast" followed by his expression of goodwill toward common people who wouldn't have rejected the philosopher if they had known him. There's his "right noble thought" that the highest truths demand the greatest exactness. Socrates hesitates before returning once more to his familiar theme of the idea of good. Glaucon shows ludicrous earnestness. Philosophy is compared to a deserted maiden who marries beneath her station. These are some of the most interesting characteristics of the sixth book.
Yet a few more words may be added, on the old theme, which was so oft discussed in the Socratic circle, of which we, like Glaucon and Adeimantus, would fain, if possible, have a clearer notion. Like them, we are dissatisfied when we are told that the idea of good can only be revealed to a student of the mathematical sciences, and we are inclined to think that neither we nor they could have been led along that path to any satisfactory goal. For we have learned that differences of quantity cannot pass into differences of quality, and that the mathematical sciences can never rise above themselves into the sphere of our higher thoughts, although they may sometimes furnish symbols and expressions of them, and may train the mind in habits of abstraction and self-concentration. The illusion which was natural to an ancient philosopher has ceased to be an illusion to us. But if the process by which we are supposed to arrive at the idea of good be really imaginary, may not the idea itself be also a mere abstraction? We remark, first, that in all ages, and especially in primitive philosophy, words such as being, essence, unity, good, have exerted an extraordinary influence over the minds of men. The meagreness or negativeness of their content has been in an inverse ratio to their power. They have become the forms under which all things were comprehended. There was a need or instinct in the human soul which they satisfied; they were not ideas, but gods, and to this new mythology the men of a later generation began to attach the powers and associations of the elder deities.
We should say a few more words about that old question that was discussed so often in Socrates' circle. Like Glaucon and Adeimantus, we would love to understand it more clearly if possible. Like them, we're not satisfied when we're told that the idea of good can only be revealed to students of mathematics. We don't think that either we or they could have found any satisfactory answer by following that path. We've learned that differences in quantity cannot become differences in quality. Mathematical sciences can never rise above themselves into the realm of our higher thoughts. They may sometimes provide symbols and expressions for these thoughts, and they may train the mind in habits of abstraction and focus. But that's all. The illusion that seemed natural to ancient philosophers is no longer an illusion to us. But if the process we're supposed to use to reach the idea of good is really imaginary, might the idea itself also be just an abstraction? We notice, first, that in all ages, especially in early philosophy, words like being, essence, unity, and good have had extraordinary power over people's minds. The emptier or more negative their content, the more powerful they became. They became the forms that contained all things. There was a need or instinct in the human soul that they satisfied. They weren't ideas, but gods. Later generations began to attach the powers and associations of the older deities to this new mythology.
The idea of good is one of those sacred words or forms of thought, which were beginning to take the place of the old mythology. It meant unity, in which all time and all existence were gathered up. It was the truth of all things, and also the light in which they shone forth, and became evident to intelligences human and divine. It was the cause of all things, the power by which they were brought into being. It was the universal reason divested of a human personality. It was the life as well as the light of the world, all knowledge and all power were comprehended in it. The way to it was through the mathematical sciences, and these too were dependent on it. To ask whether God was the maker of it, or made by it, would be like asking whether God could be conceived apart from goodness, or goodness apart from God. The God of the Timaeus is not really at variance with the idea of good; they are aspects of the same, differing only as the personal from the impersonal, or the masculine from the neuter, the one being the expression or language of mythology, the other of philosophy.
The idea of good was one of those sacred words or forms of thought that began to replace the old mythology. It meant unity, bringing together all time and all existence. It was the truth of all things and also the light that made them shine forth and become clear to human and divine minds. It was the cause of all things, the power that brought them into being. It was universal reason without human personality. It was both the life and the light of the world. All knowledge and all power were contained within it. The path to it led through the mathematical sciences, and these sciences also depended on it. To ask whether God was the maker of it, or made by it, would be like asking whether God could exist apart from goodness, or goodness apart from God. The God of the Timaeus doesn't really conflict with the idea of good. They are aspects of the same thing, differing only as the personal differs from the impersonal, or the masculine from the neuter. One is the expression or language of mythology, the other of philosophy.
This, or something like this, is the meaning of the idea of good as conceived by Plato. Ideas of number, order, harmony, development may also be said to enter into it. The paraphrase which has just been given of it goes beyond the actual words of Plato. We have perhaps arrived at the stage of philosophy which enables us to understand what he is aiming at, better than he did himself. We are beginning to realize what he saw darkly and at a distance. But if he could have been told that this, or some conception of the same kind, but higher than this, was the truth at which he was aiming, and the need which he sought to supply, he would gladly have recognized that more was contained in his own thoughts than he himself knew. As his words are few and his manner reticent and tentative, so must the style of his interpreter be. We should not approach his meaning more nearly by attempting to define it further. In translating him into the language of modern thought, we might insensibly lose the spirit of ancient philosophy. It is remarkable that although Plato speaks of the idea of good as the first principle of truth and being, it is nowhere mentioned in his writings except in this passage. Nor did it retain any hold upon the minds of his disciples in a later generation; it was probably unintelligible to them. Nor does the mention of it in Aristotle appear to have any reference to this or any other passage in his extant writings.
This, or something similar, is what Plato meant by his idea of good. Ideas of number, order, harmony, and development also play a part in it. The explanation I've just given goes beyond Plato's actual words. We may have reached a point in philosophy where we understand what he was trying to say better than he did himself. We're starting to grasp what he saw only dimly and from far away. But if someone could have told him that this concept, or something even higher, was the truth he was seeking, he would have gladly agreed that his own thoughts contained more than he realized. Since his words are few and his approach cautious and uncertain, his interpreter must write in the same style. We wouldn't get closer to his meaning by trying to define it more precisely. In translating him into modern language, we might accidentally lose the spirit of ancient philosophy. It's striking that although Plato calls the idea of good the first principle of truth and being, it appears nowhere else in his writings except this passage. Later generations of his students didn't grasp it either. It was probably incomprehensible to them. Even when Aristotle mentions it, he doesn't seem to be referring to this passage or any other in Plato's surviving works.
BOOK VII. And now I will describe in a figure the enlightenment or unenlightenment of our nature:—Imagine human beings living in an underground den which is open towards the light; they have been there from childhood, having their necks and legs chained, and can only see into the den. At a distance there is a fire, and between the fire and the prisoners a raised way, and a low wall is built along the way, like the screen over which marionette players show their puppets. Behind the wall appear moving figures, who hold in their hands various works of art, and among them images of men and animals, wood and stone, and some of the passers-by are talking and others silent. ‘A strange parable,’ he said, ‘and strange captives.’ They are ourselves, I replied; and they see only the shadows of the images which the fire throws on the wall of the den; to these they give names, and if we add an echo which returns from the wall, the voices of the passengers will seem to proceed from the shadows. Suppose now that you suddenly turn them round and make them look with pain and grief to themselves at the real images; will they believe them to be real? Will not their eyes be dazzled, and will they not try to get away from the light to something which they are able to behold without blinking? And suppose further, that they are dragged up a steep and rugged ascent into the presence of the sun himself, will not their sight be darkened with the excess of light? Some time will pass before they get the habit of perceiving at all; and at first they will be able to perceive only shadows and reflections in the water; then they will recognize the moon and the stars, and will at length behold the sun in his own proper place as he is. Last of all they will conclude:—This is he who gives us the year and the seasons, and is the author of all that we see. How will they rejoice in passing from darkness to light! How worthless to them will seem the honours and glories of the den! But now imagine further, that they descend into their old habitations;—in that underground dwelling they will not see as well as their fellows, and will not be able to compete with them in the measurement of the shadows on the wall; there will be many jokes about the man who went on a visit to the sun and lost his eyes, and if they find anybody trying to set free and enlighten one of their number, they will put him to death, if they can catch him. Now the cave or den is the world of sight, the fire is the sun, the way upwards is the way to knowledge, and in the world of knowledge the idea of good is last seen and with difficulty, but when seen is inferred to be the author of good and right—parent of the lord of light in this world, and of truth and understanding in the other. He who attains to the beatific vision is always going upwards; he is unwilling to descend into political assemblies and courts of law; for his eyes are apt to blink at the images or shadows of images which they behold in them—he cannot enter into the ideas of those who have never in their lives understood the relation of the shadow to the substance. But blindness is of two kinds, and may be caused either by passing out of darkness into light or out of light into darkness, and a man of sense will distinguish between them, and will not laugh equally at both of them, but the blindness which arises from fulness of light he will deem blessed, and pity the other; or if he laugh at the puzzled soul looking at the sun, he will have more reason to laugh than the inhabitants of the den at those who descend from above. There is a further lesson taught by this parable of ours. Some persons fancy that instruction is like giving eyes to the blind, but we say that the faculty of sight was always there, and that the soul only requires to be turned round towards the light. And this is conversion; other virtues are almost like bodily habits, and may be acquired in the same manner, but intelligence has a diviner life, and is indestructible, turning either to good or evil according to the direction given. Did you never observe how the mind of a clever rogue peers out of his eyes, and the more clearly he sees, the more evil he does? Now if you take such an one, and cut away from him those leaden weights of pleasure and desire which bind his soul to earth, his intelligence will be turned round, and he will behold the truth as clearly as he now discerns his meaner ends. And have we not decided that our rulers must neither be so uneducated as to have no fixed rule of life, nor so over-educated as to be unwilling to leave their paradise for the business of the world? We must choose out therefore the natures who are most likely to ascend to the light and knowledge of the good; but we must not allow them to remain in the region of light; they must be forced down again among the captives in the den to partake of their labours and honours. ‘Will they not think this a hardship?’ You should remember that our purpose in framing the State was not that our citizens should do what they like, but that they should serve the State for the common good of all. May we not fairly say to our philosopher,—Friend, we do you no wrong; for in other States philosophy grows wild, and a wild plant owes nothing to the gardener, but you have been trained by us to be the rulers and kings of our hive, and therefore we must insist on your descending into the den. You must, each of you, take your turn, and become able to use your eyes in the dark, and with a little practice you will see far better than those who quarrel about the shadows, whose knowledge is a dream only, whilst yours is a waking reality. It may be that the saint or philosopher who is best fitted, may also be the least inclined to rule, but necessity is laid upon him, and he must no longer live in the heaven of ideas. And this will be the salvation of the State. For those who rule must not be those who are desirous to rule; and, if you can offer to our citizens a better life than that of rulers generally is, there will be a chance that the rich, not only in this world’s goods, but in virtue and wisdom, may bear rule. And the only life which is better than the life of political ambition is that of philosophy, which is also the best preparation for the government of a State.
BOOK VII. Now I will describe the enlightenment or ignorance of human nature through a story. Imagine people living in an underground cave that opens toward the light. They have been there since childhood with their necks and legs chained. They can only look straight ahead into the cave. Behind them, at a distance, burns a fire. Between the fire and the prisoners runs a raised walkway. Along this walkway stands a low wall, like the screen that puppet masters use to hide behind. Behind the wall, people walk back and forth carrying various objects - statues of people and animals made of wood and stone. Some of these people talk as they walk, others stay silent. "A strange story," he said, "and strange prisoners." They are like us, I replied. They see only the shadows that the fire casts on the cave wall. They give names to these shadows. If we add an echo bouncing off the wall, the voices of the people walking behind them will seem to come from the shadows themselves. Now suppose you suddenly turn the prisoners around and force them to look at the real objects. Will they believe these objects are real? Won't their eyes hurt from the brightness? Won't they try to turn back to the shadows they can look at without pain? Suppose you drag them up a steep, rocky path into the sunlight itself. Won't they be blinded by too much light? They will need time to get used to seeing at all. At first they will only be able to see shadows and reflections in water. Then they will recognize the moon and stars. Finally they will look directly at the sun in its proper place. At last they will understand that the sun gives us the seasons and is the source of everything they see. How happy they will be to move from darkness to light! How worthless the honors and prizes of the cave will seem to them! But now imagine they go back down to their old home. In that underground place, they won't see as well as their fellow prisoners. They won't be able to compete in identifying the shadows on the wall. The others will make jokes about the person who went to visit the sun and ruined his eyes. If they catch anyone trying to free and enlighten another prisoner, they will kill him if they can. The cave represents the world we see with our eyes. The fire is the sun. The upward journey is the path to knowledge. In the world of knowledge, the idea of good is the last thing we see and the hardest to understand. But once we see it, we realize it is the source of all good and right. It is the parent of light in this visible world and of truth and understanding in the other world. The person who reaches this blessed vision always wants to keep moving upward. He doesn't want to come down to political meetings and law courts. His eyes have trouble adjusting to the images and shadows he sees there. He can't relate to people who have never understood the difference between shadows and real things. There are two kinds of blindness. One comes from moving out of darkness into light. The other comes from moving out of light into darkness. A wise person will tell the difference between them. He won't laugh at both equally. He will consider the blindness that comes from too much light to be blessed, and he will pity the other kind. If he laughs at someone struggling to look at the sun, he has more reason to laugh than the cave dwellers have when they mock those who come down from above. This story teaches us another lesson. Some people think teaching is like giving sight to the blind. But we say the ability to see was always there. The soul just needs to be turned toward the light. This is what conversion means. Other virtues are like physical habits that can be learned through practice. But intelligence has a divine quality and cannot be destroyed. It turns toward good or evil depending on which direction it faces. Haven't you noticed how a clever criminal's mind shows in his eyes? The more clearly he sees, the more evil he does. If you could remove the heavy weights of pleasure and desire that chain his soul to earth, his intelligence would turn around. He would see the truth as clearly as he now sees his selfish goals. We have decided that our rulers must not be so uneducated that they have no principles to guide their lives. But they also must not be so overeducated that they refuse to leave their paradise to do the world's work. We must choose people who are most likely to climb toward the light and knowledge of good. But we must not let them stay in that region of light. They must be forced back down among the prisoners in the cave to share their work and honors. "Won't they think this is unfair?" Remember that our purpose in creating the State was not so citizens could do whatever they want. They should serve the State for the common good of all. We can fairly say to our philosopher: "Friend, we are not wronging you. In other states, philosophy grows wild, and a wild plant owes nothing to the gardener. But we have trained you to be the rulers and kings of our community. Therefore we must insist that you go back down into the cave." Each of you must take your turn and learn to use your eyes in the dark. With a little practice, you will see far better than those who argue about shadows. Their knowledge is only a dream, while yours is waking reality. The saint or philosopher who is best qualified to rule may also be the least willing to do it. But necessity requires it, and he must no longer live only in the heaven of ideas. This will be the salvation of the State. Those who rule must not be those who want to rule. If you can offer our citizens a better life than rulers usually have, there will be a chance that people rich not only in worldly goods but in virtue and wisdom will take charge. The only life better than political ambition is philosophy. Philosophy is also the best preparation for governing a State.
Then now comes the question,—How shall we create our rulers; what way is there from darkness to light? The change is effected by philosophy; it is not the turning over of an oyster-shell, but the conversion of a soul from night to day, from becoming to being. And what training will draw the soul upwards? Our former education had two branches, gymnastic, which was occupied with the body, and music, the sister art, which infused a natural harmony into mind and literature; but neither of these sciences gave any promise of doing what we want. Nothing remains to us but that universal or primary science of which all the arts and sciences are partakers, I mean number or calculation. ‘Very true.’ Including the art of war? ‘Yes, certainly.’ Then there is something ludicrous about Palamedes in the tragedy, coming in and saying that he had invented number, and had counted the ranks and set them in order. For if Agamemnon could not count his feet (and without number how could he?) he must have been a pretty sort of general indeed. No man should be a soldier who cannot count, and indeed he is hardly to be called a man. But I am not speaking of these practical applications of arithmetic, for number, in my view, is rather to be regarded as a conductor to thought and being. I will explain what I mean by the last expression:—Things sensible are of two kinds; the one class invite or stimulate the mind, while in the other the mind acquiesces. Now the stimulating class are the things which suggest contrast and relation. For example, suppose that I hold up to the eyes three fingers—a fore finger, a middle finger, a little finger—the sight equally recognizes all three fingers, but without number cannot further distinguish them. Or again, suppose two objects to be relatively great and small, these ideas of greatness and smallness are supplied not by the sense, but by the mind. And the perception of their contrast or relation quickens and sets in motion the mind, which is puzzled by the confused intimations of sense, and has recourse to number in order to find out whether the things indicated are one or more than one. Number replies that they are two and not one, and are to be distinguished from one another. Again, the sight beholds great and small, but only in a confused chaos, and not until they are distinguished does the question arise of their respective natures; we are thus led on to the distinction between the visible and intelligible. That was what I meant when I spoke of stimulants to the intellect; I was thinking of the contradictions which arise in perception. The idea of unity, for example, like that of a finger, does not arouse thought unless involving some conception of plurality; but when the one is also the opposite of one, the contradiction gives rise to reflection; an example of this is afforded by any object of sight. All number has also an elevating effect; it raises the mind out of the foam and flux of generation to the contemplation of being, having lesser military and retail uses also. The retail use is not required by us; but as our guardian is to be a soldier as well as a philosopher, the military one may be retained. And to our higher purpose no science can be better adapted; but it must be pursued in the spirit of a philosopher, not of a shopkeeper. It is concerned, not with visible objects, but with abstract truth; for numbers are pure abstractions—the true arithmetician indignantly denies that his unit is capable of division. When you divide, he insists that you are only multiplying; his ‘one’ is not material or resolvable into fractions, but an unvarying and absolute equality; and this proves the purely intellectual character of his study. Note also the great power which arithmetic has of sharpening the wits; no other discipline is equally severe, or an equal test of general ability, or equally improving to a stupid person.
Now comes the question: How shall we create our rulers? What way is there from darkness to light? Philosophy brings about this change. It's not like turning over an oyster shell, but the conversion of a soul from night to day, from becoming to being. And what training will draw the soul upwards? Our former education had two branches: gymnastic, which dealt with the body, and music, the sister art, which brought natural harmony into mind and literature. But neither of these sciences promised to do what we want. Nothing remains to us but that universal or primary science of which all the arts and sciences are part. I mean number or calculation. 'Very true.' Including the art of war? 'Yes, certainly.' Then there is something ridiculous about Palamedes in the tragedy, coming in and saying that he had invented number, and had counted the ranks and set them in order. For if Agamemnon could not count his feet (and without number how could he?) he must have been a pretty sort of general indeed. No man should be a soldier who cannot count, and indeed he is hardly to be called a man. But I am not speaking of these practical uses of arithmetic. Number, in my view, should be regarded as a guide to thought and being. I will explain what I mean by that last expression. Things we can sense are of two kinds. One class invites or stimulates the mind, while in the other the mind rests content. Now the stimulating class are the things which suggest contrast and relation. For example, suppose that I hold up to the eyes three fingers: a fore finger, a middle finger, a little finger. The sight equally recognizes all three fingers, but without number cannot further distinguish them. Or again, suppose two objects to be relatively great and small. These ideas of greatness and smallness are supplied not by the sense, but by the mind. And the perception of their contrast or relation quickens and sets in motion the mind, which is puzzled by the confused hints of sense, and turns to number to find out whether the things indicated are one or more than one. Number replies that they are two and not one, and are to be distinguished from one another. Again, the sight sees great and small, but only in a confused chaos. Not until they are distinguished does the question arise of their respective natures. We are thus led on to the distinction between the visible and intelligible. That was what I meant when I spoke of stimulants to the intellect. I was thinking of the contradictions which arise in perception. The idea of unity, for example, like that of a finger, does not arouse thought unless involving some conception of plurality. But when the one is also the opposite of one, the contradiction gives rise to reflection. Any object of sight provides an example of this. All number has also an elevating effect. It raises the mind out of the foam and flux of generation to the contemplation of being, having lesser military and retail uses also. The retail use is not required by us. But as our guardian is to be a soldier as well as a philosopher, the military one may be retained. And to our higher purpose no science can be better adapted. But it must be pursued in the spirit of a philosopher, not of a shopkeeper. It is concerned, not with visible objects, but with abstract truth. Numbers are pure abstractions. The true arithmetician indignantly denies that his unit is capable of division. When you divide, he insists that you are only multiplying. His 'one' is not material or resolvable into fractions, but an unvarying and absolute equality. And this proves the purely intellectual character of his study. Note also the great power which arithmetic has of sharpening the wits. No other discipline is equally severe, or an equal test of general ability, or equally improving to a stupid person.
Let our second branch of education be geometry. ‘I can easily see,’ replied Glaucon, ‘that the skill of the general will be doubled by his knowledge of geometry.’ That is a small matter; the use of geometry, to which I refer, is the assistance given by it in the contemplation of the idea of good, and the compelling the mind to look at true being, and not at generation only. Yet the present mode of pursuing these studies, as any one who is the least of a mathematician is aware, is mean and ridiculous; they are made to look downwards to the arts, and not upwards to eternal existence. The geometer is always talking of squaring, subtending, apposing, as if he had in view action; whereas knowledge is the real object of the study. It should elevate the soul, and create the mind of philosophy; it should raise up what has fallen down, not to speak of lesser uses in war and military tactics, and in the improvement of the faculties.
Let our second branch of education be geometry. "I can easily see," replied Glaucon, "that the skill of the general will be doubled by his knowledge of geometry." That is a small matter. The use of geometry I refer to is the assistance it gives in contemplating the idea of good. It compels the mind to look at true being, not just at generation alone. Yet the present way of pursuing these studies is mean and ridiculous, as anyone who is even slightly a mathematician knows. They are made to look downwards to the arts, not upwards to eternal existence. The geometer is always talking of squaring, subtending, and apposing, as if he had action in view. But knowledge is the real object of the study. It should elevate the soul and create the mind of philosophy. It should raise up what has fallen down, not to speak of lesser uses in war and military tactics, and in the improvement of the faculties.
Shall we propose, as a third branch of our education, astronomy? ‘Very good,’ replied Glaucon; ‘the knowledge of the heavens is necessary at once for husbandry, navigation, military tactics.’ I like your way of giving useful reasons for everything in order to make friends of the world. And there is a difficulty in proving to mankind that education is not only useful information but a purification of the eye of the soul, which is better than the bodily eye, for by this alone is truth seen. Now, will you appeal to mankind in general or to the philosopher? or would you prefer to look to yourself only? ‘Every man is his own best friend.’ Then take a step backward, for we are out of order, and insert the third dimension which is of solids, after the second which is of planes, and then you may proceed to solids in motion. But solid geometry is not popular and has not the patronage of the State, nor is the use of it fully recognized; the difficulty is great, and the votaries of the study are conceited and impatient. Still the charm of the pursuit wins upon men, and, if government would lend a little assistance, there might be great progress made. ‘Very true,’ replied Glaucon; ‘but do I understand you now to begin with plane geometry, and to place next geometry of solids, and thirdly, astronomy, or the motion of solids?’ Yes, I said; my hastiness has only hindered us.
Should we add astronomy as the third branch of our education? "Very good," replied Glaucon. "Knowledge of the heavens is essential for farming, navigation, and military tactics." I like how you always give practical reasons for everything to win people over. But there's a challenge in proving to people that education isn't just useful information. It's a purification of the soul's eye, which is better than the physical eye. Only through this can we see truth. Now, will you appeal to people in general or to the philosopher? Or would you rather look only to yourself? "Every man is his own best friend." Then take a step back, because we're out of order. Insert the third dimension, which deals with solids, after the second dimension, which deals with planes. Then you can proceed to solids in motion. But solid geometry isn't popular and doesn't have government support. Its usefulness isn't fully recognized. The difficulty is great, and those who study it are conceited and impatient. Still, the charm of the subject attracts people. If the government would lend a little help, great progress could be made. "Very true," replied Glaucon. "But do I understand you now to begin with plane geometry, then place geometry of solids next, and third, astronomy, or the motion of solids?" Yes, I said. My haste has only slowed us down.
‘Very good, and now let us proceed to astronomy, about which I am willing to speak in your lofty strain. No one can fail to see that the contemplation of the heavens draws the soul upwards.’ I am an exception, then; astronomy as studied at present appears to me to draw the soul not upwards, but downwards. Star-gazing is just looking up at the ceiling—no better; a man may lie on his back on land or on water—he may look up or look down, but there is no science in that. The vision of knowledge of which I speak is seen not with the eyes, but with the mind. All the magnificence of the heavens is but the embroidery of a copy which falls far short of the divine Original, and teaches nothing about the absolute harmonies or motions of things. Their beauty is like the beauty of figures drawn by the hand of Daedalus or any other great artist, which may be used for illustration, but no mathematician would seek to obtain from them true conceptions of equality or numerical relations. How ridiculous then to look for these in the map of the heavens, in which the imperfection of matter comes in everywhere as a disturbing element, marring the symmetry of day and night, of months and years, of the sun and stars in their courses. Only by problems can we place astronomy on a truly scientific basis. Let the heavens alone, and exert the intellect.
"Very good, and now let us proceed to astronomy, about which I am willing to speak in your lofty strain. No one can fail to see that the contemplation of the heavens draws the soul upwards." I am an exception, then. Astronomy as studied at present appears to me to draw the soul not upwards, but downwards. Star-gazing is just looking up at the ceiling, nothing better. A man may lie on his back on land or on water. He may look up or look down, but there is no science in that. The vision of knowledge I speak of is seen not with the eyes, but with the mind. All the magnificence of the heavens is but the embroidery of a copy which falls far short of the divine Original. It teaches nothing about the absolute harmonies or motions of things. Their beauty is like the beauty of figures drawn by the hand of Daedalus or any other great artist. These may be used for illustration, but no mathematician would seek to obtain from them true conceptions of equality or numerical relations. How ridiculous then to look for these in the map of the heavens, in which the imperfection of matter comes in everywhere as a disturbing element. It mars the symmetry of day and night, of months and years, of the sun and stars in their courses. Only by problems can we place astronomy on a truly scientific basis. Let the heavens alone, and exert the intellect.
Still, mathematics admit of other applications, as the Pythagoreans say, and we agree. There is a sister science of harmonical motion, adapted to the ear as astronomy is to the eye, and there may be other applications also. Let us inquire of the Pythagoreans about them, not forgetting that we have an aim higher than theirs, which is the relation of these sciences to the idea of good. The error which pervades astronomy also pervades harmonics. The musicians put their ears in the place of their minds. ‘Yes,’ replied Glaucon, ‘I like to see them laying their ears alongside of their neighbours’ faces—some saying, “That’s a new note,” others declaring that the two notes are the same.’ Yes, I said; but you mean the empirics who are always twisting and torturing the strings of the lyre, and quarrelling about the tempers of the strings; I am referring rather to the Pythagorean harmonists, who are almost equally in error. For they investigate only the numbers of the consonances which are heard, and ascend no higher,—of the true numerical harmony which is unheard, and is only to be found in problems, they have not even a conception. ‘That last,’ he said, ‘must be a marvellous thing.’ A thing, I replied, which is only useful if pursued with a view to the good.
Mathematics has other applications, as the Pythagoreans say, and we agree. There is a sister science of harmonical motion, adapted to the ear as astronomy is to the eye. There may be other applications also. Let us inquire of the Pythagoreans about them, not forgetting that we have an aim higher than theirs. Our aim is the relation of these sciences to the idea of good. The error which pervades astronomy also pervades harmonics. The musicians put their ears in the place of their minds. "Yes," replied Glaucon, "I like to see them laying their ears alongside of their neighbors' faces. Some say, 'That's a new note,' others declare that the two notes are the same." Yes, I said, but you mean the empirics who are always twisting and torturing the strings of the lyre. They quarrel about the tempers of the strings. I am referring rather to the Pythagorean harmonists, who are almost equally in error. They investigate only the numbers of the consonances which are heard, and ascend no higher. Of the true numerical harmony which is unheard, and is only to be found in problems, they have not even a conception. "That last," he said, "must be a marvelous thing." A thing, I replied, which is only useful if pursued with a view to the good.
All these sciences are the prelude of the strain, and are profitable if they are regarded in their natural relations to one another. ‘I dare say, Socrates,’ said Glaucon; ‘but such a study will be an endless business.’ What study do you mean—of the prelude, or what? For all these things are only the prelude, and you surely do not suppose that a mere mathematician is also a dialectician? ‘Certainly not. I have hardly ever known a mathematician who could reason.’ And yet, Glaucon, is not true reasoning that hymn of dialectic which is the music of the intellectual world, and which was by us compared to the effort of sight, when from beholding the shadows on the wall we arrived at last at the images which gave the shadows? Even so the dialectical faculty withdrawing from sense arrives by the pure intellect at the contemplation of the idea of good, and never rests but at the very end of the intellectual world. And the royal road out of the cave into the light, and the blinking of the eyes at the sun and turning to contemplate the shadows of reality, not the shadows of an image only—this progress and gradual acquisition of a new faculty of sight by the help of the mathematical sciences, is the elevation of the soul to the contemplation of the highest ideal of being.
All these sciences are just the beginning, and they're useful if we understand how they relate to each other. "I'm sure you're right, Socrates," said Glaucon, "but such a study would take forever." What study do you mean—the beginning, or something else? All these things are only the prelude. You surely don't think that a mathematician is automatically a dialectician? "Certainly not. I've hardly ever known a mathematician who could reason properly." And yet, Glaucon, isn't true reasoning that song of dialectic which is the music of the intellectual world? We compared it to the effort of sight, when we moved from seeing shadows on the wall to finally seeing the actual objects that cast those shadows. In the same way, the dialectical faculty withdraws from the senses. Through pure intellect, it reaches the contemplation of the idea of good. It never stops until it reaches the very end of the intellectual world. The royal road leads out of the cave into the light. The eyes blink at the sun and turn to contemplate the shadows of reality, not just the shadows of an image. This progress and gradual development of a new faculty of sight, helped by the mathematical sciences, lifts the soul to contemplate the highest ideal of being.
‘So far, I agree with you. But now, leaving the prelude, let us proceed to the hymn. What, then, is the nature of dialectic, and what are the paths which lead thither?’ Dear Glaucon, you cannot follow me here. There can be no revelation of the absolute truth to one who has not been disciplined in the previous sciences. But that there is a science of absolute truth, which is attained in some way very different from those now practised, I am confident. For all other arts or sciences are relative to human needs and opinions; and the mathematical sciences are but a dream or hypothesis of true being, and never analyse their own principles. Dialectic alone rises to the principle which is above hypotheses, converting and gently leading the eye of the soul out of the barbarous slough of ignorance into the light of the upper world, with the help of the sciences which we have been describing—sciences, as they are often termed, although they require some other name, implying greater clearness than opinion and less clearness than science, and this in our previous sketch was understanding. And so we get four names—two for intellect, and two for opinion,—reason or mind, understanding, faith, perception of shadows—which make a proportion— being:becoming::intellect:opinion—and science:belief::understanding: perception of shadows. Dialectic may be further described as that science which defines and explains the essence or being of each nature, which distinguishes and abstracts the good, and is ready to do battle against all opponents in the cause of good. To him who is not a dialectician life is but a sleepy dream; and many a man is in his grave before his is well waked up. And would you have the future rulers of your ideal State intelligent beings, or stupid as posts? ‘Certainly not the latter.’ Then you must train them in dialectic, which will teach them to ask and answer questions, and is the coping-stone of the sciences.
'So far, I agree with you. But now, let's move past the introduction and get to the main point. What is the nature of dialectic? What paths lead us there?' Dear Glaucon, you cannot follow me here. The absolute truth cannot be revealed to someone who hasn't been trained in the earlier sciences. But I'm confident there is a science of absolute truth. It's achieved in a way very different from current methods. All other arts or sciences relate to human needs and opinions. Mathematical sciences are just a dream or hypothesis of true being. They never examine their own principles. Only dialectic rises to the principle above hypotheses. It converts and gently leads the soul's eye out of the savage swamp of ignorance into the light of the upper world. It does this with help from the sciences we've been describing. These are often called sciences, though they need another name. They're clearer than opinion but less clear than science. In our earlier outline, we called this understanding. So we get four names. Two for intellect and two for opinion: reason or mind, understanding, faith, and perception of shadows. These form a proportion: being is to becoming as intellect is to opinion, and science is to belief as understanding is to perception of shadows. We can describe dialectic further. It's the science that defines and explains the essence or being of each nature. It distinguishes and separates the good. It's ready to fight all opponents for the cause of good. For someone who isn't a dialectician, life is just a sleepy dream. Many people are in their graves before they truly wake up. Would you want the future rulers of your ideal State to be intelligent beings or stupid as posts? 'Certainly not the latter.' Then you must train them in dialectic. It will teach them to ask and answer questions. It's the crowning achievement of all the sciences.
I dare say that you have not forgotten how our rulers were chosen; and the process of selection may be carried a step further:—As before, they must be constant and valiant, good-looking, and of noble manners, but now they must also have natural ability which education will improve; that is to say, they must be quick at learning, capable of mental toil, retentive, solid, diligent natures, who combine intellectual with moral virtues; not lame and one-sided, diligent in bodily exercise and indolent in mind, or conversely; not a maimed soul, which hates falsehood and yet unintentionally is always wallowing in the mire of ignorance; not a bastard or feeble person, but sound in wind and limb, and in perfect condition for the great gymnastic trial of the mind. Justice herself can find no fault with natures such as these; and they will be the saviours of our State; disciples of another sort would only make philosophy more ridiculous than she is at present. Forgive my enthusiasm; I am becoming excited; but when I see her trampled underfoot, I am angry at the authors of her disgrace. ‘I did not notice that you were more excited than you ought to have been.’ But I felt that I was. Now do not let us forget another point in the selection of our disciples—that they must be young and not old. For Solon is mistaken in saying that an old man can be always learning; youth is the time of study, and here we must remember that the mind is free and dainty, and, unlike the body, must not be made to work against the grain. Learning should be at first a sort of play, in which the natural bent is detected. As in training them for war, the young dogs should at first only taste blood; but when the necessary gymnastics are over which during two or three years divide life between sleep and bodily exercise, then the education of the soul will become a more serious matter. At twenty years of age, a selection must be made of the more promising disciples, with whom a new epoch of education will begin. The sciences which they have hitherto learned in fragments will now be brought into relation with each other and with true being; for the power of combining them is the test of speculative and dialectical ability. And afterwards at thirty a further selection shall be made of those who are able to withdraw from the world of sense into the abstraction of ideas. But at this point, judging from present experience, there is a danger that dialectic may be the source of many evils. The danger may be illustrated by a parallel case:—Imagine a person who has been brought up in wealth and luxury amid a crowd of flatterers, and who is suddenly informed that he is a supposititious son. He has hitherto honoured his reputed parents and disregarded the flatterers, and now he does the reverse. This is just what happens with a man’s principles. There are certain doctrines which he learnt at home and which exercised a parental authority over him. Presently he finds that imputations are cast upon them; a troublesome querist comes and asks, ‘What is the just and good?’ or proves that virtue is vice and vice virtue, and his mind becomes unsettled, and he ceases to love, honour, and obey them as he has hitherto done. He is seduced into the life of pleasure, and becomes a lawless person and a rogue. The case of such speculators is very pitiable, and, in order that our thirty years’ old pupils may not require this pity, let us take every possible care that young persons do not study philosophy too early. For a young man is a sort of puppy who only plays with an argument; and is reasoned into and out of his opinions every day; he soon begins to believe nothing, and brings himself and philosophy into discredit. A man of thirty does not run on in this way; he will argue and not merely contradict, and adds new honour to philosophy by the sobriety of his conduct. What time shall we allow for this second gymnastic training of the soul?—say, twice the time required for the gymnastics of the body; six, or perhaps five years, to commence at thirty, and then for fifteen years let the student go down into the den, and command armies, and gain experience of life. At fifty let him return to the end of all things, and have his eyes uplifted to the idea of good, and order his life after that pattern; if necessary, taking his turn at the helm of State, and training up others to be his successors. When his time comes he shall depart in peace to the islands of the blest. He shall be honoured with sacrifices, and receive such worship as the Pythian oracle approves.
I'm sure you remember how we chose our rulers. We can take the selection process one step further. As before, they must be steady and brave, good-looking, and well-mannered. But now they also need natural ability that education can improve. They must be quick learners who can handle mental work. They need good memories and solid, hardworking natures that combine intellectual and moral virtues. We don't want people who are lame and one-sided. We don't want those who work hard at physical exercise but are lazy in mind, or the opposite. We don't want damaged souls who hate lies but constantly wallow in ignorance without meaning to. We don't want weak or feeble people, but those who are sound in body and mind, in perfect condition for the great mental trial ahead. Justice herself can find no fault with people like these. They will save our State. Students of a different sort would only make philosophy more ridiculous than it already is. Forgive my enthusiasm. I'm getting excited. But when I see philosophy trampled underfoot, I get angry at those who disgrace her. "I didn't notice you were more excited than you should have been." But I felt that I was. Now let's not forget another point in selecting our students. They must be young, not old. Solon is wrong when he says an old man can always keep learning. Youth is the time for study. Here we must remember that the mind is free and delicate. Unlike the body, it must not be forced to work against its nature. Learning should at first be like play, where we discover natural talents. Just as in training them for war, young dogs should at first only taste blood. But when the necessary physical training is over (which for two or three years divides life between sleep and exercise), then educating the soul becomes more serious. At twenty years old, we must select the most promising students. A new phase of education will begin with them. The subjects they've learned in pieces will now connect with each other and with true reality. The ability to combine them tests speculative and logical thinking. Later, at thirty, we'll make another selection of those who can withdraw from the world of the senses into abstract ideas. But at this point, judging from current experience, there's a danger that logic may cause many problems. We can illustrate this danger with a parallel case. Imagine someone raised in wealth and luxury, surrounded by flatterers. Suddenly he learns he's not the real son. He used to honor his supposed parents and ignore the flatterers. Now he does the opposite. This is exactly what happens with a person's principles. There are certain beliefs he learned at home that had parental authority over him. Then he finds that people attack these beliefs. A troublesome questioner comes and asks, "What is just and good?" or proves that virtue is vice and vice is virtue. His mind becomes unsettled. He stops loving, honoring, and obeying these beliefs as he used to. He's seduced into a life of pleasure and becomes lawless and dishonest. The case of such thinkers is very sad. To prevent our thirty-year-old students from needing this pity, let's take every possible care that young people don't study philosophy too early. A young man is like a puppy who only plays with arguments. He's reasoned into and out of his opinions every day. He soon believes nothing and brings himself and philosophy into disgrace. A thirty-year-old man doesn't act this way. He will argue, not just contradict, and adds new honor to philosophy through his sober conduct. How much time should we allow for this second mental training? Say, twice the time needed for physical training. Six years, or perhaps five, starting at thirty. Then for fifteen years let the student go down into the cave and command armies and gain life experience. At fifty let him return to the ultimate goal and lift his eyes to the idea of good. Let him order his life after that pattern. If necessary, let him take his turn leading the State and training others to succeed him. When his time comes, he will depart in peace to the islands of the blessed. He will be honored with sacrifices and receive whatever worship the Pythian oracle approves.
‘You are a statuary, Socrates, and have made a perfect image of our governors.’ Yes, and of our governesses, for the women will share in all things with the men. And you will admit that our State is not a mere aspiration, but may really come into being when there shall arise philosopher-kings, one or more, who will despise earthly vanities, and will be the servants of justice only. ‘And how will they begin their work?’ Their first act will be to send away into the country all those who are more than ten years of age, and to proceed with those who are left...
'You are a sculptor, Socrates, and you have made a perfect image of our governors.' Yes, and of our governesses too, since the women will share in all things with the men. And you will admit that our State is not just a dream. It may really come into being when philosopher-kings arise, one or more, who will despise earthly vanities and serve only justice. 'And how will they begin their work?' Their first act will be to send away into the country all those who are more than ten years of age. Then they will proceed with those who are left...
At the commencement of the sixth book, Plato anticipated his explanation of the relation of the philosopher to the world in an allegory, in this, as in other passages, following the order which he prescribes in education, and proceeding from the concrete to the abstract. At the commencement of Book VII, under the figure of a cave having an opening towards a fire and a way upwards to the true light, he returns to view the divisions of knowledge, exhibiting familiarly, as in a picture, the result which had been hardly won by a great effort of thought in the previous discussion; at the same time casting a glance onward at the dialectical process, which is represented by the way leading from darkness to light. The shadows, the images, the reflection of the sun and stars in the water, the stars and sun themselves, severally correspond,—the first, to the realm of fancy and poetry,—the second, to the world of sense,—the third, to the abstractions or universals of sense, of which the mathematical sciences furnish the type,—the fourth and last to the same abstractions, when seen in the unity of the idea, from which they derive a new meaning and power. The true dialectical process begins with the contemplation of the real stars, and not mere reflections of them, and ends with the recognition of the sun, or idea of good, as the parent not only of light but of warmth and growth. To the divisions of knowledge the stages of education partly answer:—first, there is the early education of childhood and youth in the fancies of the poets, and in the laws and customs of the State;—then there is the training of the body to be a warrior athlete, and a good servant of the mind;—and thirdly, after an interval follows the education of later life, which begins with mathematics and proceeds to philosophy in general.
At the start of the sixth book, Plato prepared to explain how philosophers relate to the world through an allegory. Here, as in other sections, he follows the educational approach he recommends: moving from concrete examples to abstract ideas. At the beginning of Book VII, he uses the image of a cave with an opening toward a fire and a path leading up to true light. Through this familiar picture, he revisits the different types of knowledge. He presents clearly what had been difficult to understand in earlier discussions. At the same time, he hints at the dialectical process, which the journey from darkness to light represents. The shadows, images, reflections of the sun and stars in water, and the actual stars and sun each correspond to different things. First, shadows represent the realm of imagination and poetry. Second, images represent the physical world we experience through our senses. Third, reflections represent abstract concepts or universal principles based on sensory experience. Mathematical sciences provide the best example of this type. Fourth and finally, the actual stars and sun represent these same abstractions when understood as part of a unified idea. From this unity, they gain new meaning and power. The true dialectical process starts with observing real stars, not just their reflections. It ends with recognizing the sun, or the idea of good, as the source of both light and the warmth and growth that sustain life. The stages of education roughly match these divisions of knowledge. First comes early childhood education through poets' stories and the state's laws and customs. Then comes physical training to create warrior athletes who can serve the mind well. Third, after a break, comes later education that begins with mathematics and advances to philosophy in general.
There seem to be two great aims in the philosophy of Plato,—first, to realize abstractions; secondly, to connect them. According to him, the true education is that which draws men from becoming to being, and to a comprehensive survey of all being. He desires to develop in the human mind the faculty of seeing the universal in all things; until at last the particulars of sense drop away and the universal alone remains. He then seeks to combine the universals which he has disengaged from sense, not perceiving that the correlation of them has no other basis but the common use of language. He never understands that abstractions, as Hegel says, are ‘mere abstractions’—of use when employed in the arrangement of facts, but adding nothing to the sum of knowledge when pursued apart from them, or with reference to an imaginary idea of good. Still the exercise of the faculty of abstraction apart from facts has enlarged the mind, and played a great part in the education of the human race. Plato appreciated the value of this faculty, and saw that it might be quickened by the study of number and relation. All things in which there is opposition or proportion are suggestive of reflection. The mere impression of sense evokes no power of thought or of mind, but when sensible objects ask to be compared and distinguished, then philosophy begins. The science of arithmetic first suggests such distinctions. The follow in order the other sciences of plain and solid geometry, and of solids in motion, one branch of which is astronomy or the harmony of the spheres,—to this is appended the sister science of the harmony of sounds. Plato seems also to hint at the possibility of other applications of arithmetical or mathematical proportions, such as we employ in chemistry and natural philosophy, such as the Pythagoreans and even Aristotle make use of in Ethics and Politics, e.g. his distinction between arithmetical and geometrical proportion in the Ethics (Book V), or between numerical and proportional equality in the Politics.
Plato's philosophy seems to have two main goals. First, he wants to make abstract ideas real. Second, he wants to connect these ideas together. According to Plato, true education pulls people away from the world of change toward the world of permanent being. It should give them a complete view of all existence. He wants to develop the human ability to see universal truths in everything. Eventually, the specific details we perceive through our senses fall away, leaving only the universal truths. Plato then tries to combine these universal truths that he has separated from sensory experience. He doesn't realize that connecting them has no foundation except how we commonly use language. He never understands what Hegel later pointed out: abstractions are "mere abstractions." They're useful when we use them to organize facts, but they add nothing to our knowledge when we pursue them separately from facts or in relation to some imaginary idea of good. Still, exercising our ability to think abstractly, even apart from facts, has expanded the human mind. It has played a major role in educating the human race. Plato recognized the value of this ability. He saw that studying numbers and relationships could sharpen it. Anything involving opposition or proportion makes us think. Simple sense impressions don't trigger thought or mental activity. But when objects we can sense demand to be compared and distinguished, philosophy begins. Arithmetic first suggests such distinctions. Then come the other sciences in order: plane geometry, solid geometry, and solids in motion. One branch of this last science is astronomy, or the harmony of the spheres. The related science of sound harmony comes next. Plato also seems to hint that we might apply mathematical proportions in other ways. We use them today in chemistry and natural science. The Pythagoreans and even Aristotle used them in ethics and politics. For example, Aristotle distinguishes between arithmetical and geometrical proportion in his Ethics (Book V). In his Politics, he separates numerical equality from proportional equality.
The modern mathematician will readily sympathise with Plato’s delight in the properties of pure mathematics. He will not be disinclined to say with him:—Let alone the heavens, and study the beauties of number and figure in themselves. He too will be apt to depreciate their application to the arts. He will observe that Plato has a conception of geometry, in which figures are to be dispensed with; thus in a distant and shadowy way seeming to anticipate the possibility of working geometrical problems by a more general mode of analysis. He will remark with interest on the backward state of solid geometry, which, alas! was not encouraged by the aid of the State in the age of Plato; and he will recognize the grasp of Plato’s mind in his ability to conceive of one science of solids in motion including the earth as well as the heavens,—not forgetting to notice the intimation to which allusion has been already made, that besides astronomy and harmonics the science of solids in motion may have other applications. Still more will he be struck with the comprehensiveness of view which led Plato, at a time when these sciences hardly existed, to say that they must be studied in relation to one another, and to the idea of good, or common principle of truth and being. But he will also see (and perhaps without surprise) that in that stage of physical and mathematical knowledge, Plato has fallen into the error of supposing that he can construct the heavens a priori by mathematical problems, and determine the principles of harmony irrespective of the adaptation of sounds to the human ear. The illusion was a natural one in that age and country. The simplicity and certainty of astronomy and harmonics seemed to contrast with the variation and complexity of the world of sense; hence the circumstance that there was some elementary basis of fact, some measurement of distance or time or vibrations on which they must ultimately rest, was overlooked by him. The modern predecessors of Newton fell into errors equally great; and Plato can hardly be said to have been very far wrong, or may even claim a sort of prophetic insight into the subject, when we consider that the greater part of astronomy at the present day consists of abstract dynamics, by the help of which most astronomical discoveries have been made.
Today's mathematicians can easily understand Plato's joy in pure mathematics. They would agree with his advice: forget about the heavens and study the beauty of numbers and shapes for their own sake. Modern mathematicians also tend to look down on applying math to practical arts. They notice that Plato had an idea of geometry that didn't need actual figures. In this vague way, he seemed to predict that we might solve geometric problems through more general analysis methods. Modern mathematicians find it interesting that solid geometry was so underdeveloped in Plato's time. The state didn't support this field back then. They admire how Plato's mind could grasp the idea of one science covering solids in motion. This would include both earth and the heavens. They also notice his hint that besides astronomy and harmonics, the science of moving solids might have other uses. Even more impressive is Plato's broad vision. At a time when these sciences barely existed, he said they must be studied together. He wanted them connected to the idea of good, or the common principle of truth and being. But modern mathematicians also see that Plato made a mistake. This probably won't surprise them. Given the limited physical and mathematical knowledge of his time, Plato wrongly thought he could build the heavens through pure mathematical problems. He believed he could determine the principles of harmony without considering how sounds actually affect human ears. This mistake was natural for that age and place. Astronomy and harmonics seemed simple and certain compared to the changing, complex world we experience through our senses. Because of this contrast, Plato overlooked something important. These sciences need some basic foundation in facts. They must rest on actual measurements of distance, time, or vibrations. Even Newton's predecessors made equally big errors. We can hardly say Plato was very wrong. He might even deserve credit for prophetic insight. After all, most of modern astronomy consists of abstract dynamics. This approach has led to most astronomical discoveries.
The metaphysical philosopher from his point of view recognizes mathematics as an instrument of education,—which strengthens the power of attention, developes the sense of order and the faculty of construction, and enables the mind to grasp under simple formulae the quantitative differences of physical phenomena. But while acknowledging their value in education, he sees also that they have no connexion with our higher moral and intellectual ideas. In the attempt which Plato makes to connect them, we easily trace the influences of ancient Pythagorean notions. There is no reason to suppose that he is speaking of the ideal numbers; but he is describing numbers which are pure abstractions, to which he assigns a real and separate existence, which, as ‘the teachers of the art’ (meaning probably the Pythagoreans) would have affirmed, repel all attempts at subdivision, and in which unity and every other number are conceived of as absolute. The truth and certainty of numbers, when thus disengaged from phenomena, gave them a kind of sacredness in the eyes of an ancient philosopher. Nor is it easy to say how far ideas of order and fixedness may have had a moral and elevating influence on the minds of men, ‘who,’ in the words of the Timaeus, ‘might learn to regulate their erring lives according to them.’ It is worthy of remark that the old Pythagorean ethical symbols still exist as figures of speech among ourselves. And those who in modern times see the world pervaded by universal law, may also see an anticipation of this last word of modern philosophy in the Platonic idea of good, which is the source and measure of all things, and yet only an abstraction (Philebus).
The metaphysical philosopher recognizes mathematics as a tool for education. It strengthens our ability to focus, develops our sense of order and our skill at building ideas, and helps the mind understand the measurable differences in physical events through simple formulas. But while he acknowledges their educational value, he also sees that mathematics has no connection to our higher moral and intellectual ideas. When Plato tries to connect them, we can easily see the influence of ancient Pythagorean ideas. There's no reason to think he's talking about ideal numbers. Instead, he's describing numbers that are pure abstractions. He gives them a real and separate existence, which "the teachers of the art" (probably meaning the Pythagoreans) would have said resist all attempts to break them down. In this view, unity and every other number are seen as absolute. The truth and certainty of numbers, when separated from physical phenomena, gave them a kind of sacred quality in the eyes of ancient philosophers. It's hard to say how much ideas of order and permanence may have had a moral and uplifting influence on people's minds. As the Timaeus puts it, they "might learn to regulate their erring lives according to them." It's worth noting that the old Pythagorean ethical symbols still exist as figures of speech among us today. Those who see the modern world as governed by universal law may also see a preview of this latest idea in modern philosophy in Plato's concept of good. This concept is the source and measure of all things, yet it remains only an abstraction (Philebus).
Two passages seem to require more particular explanations. First, that which relates to the analysis of vision. The difficulty in this passage may be explained, like many others, from differences in the modes of conception prevailing among ancient and modern thinkers. To us, the perceptions of sense are inseparable from the act of the mind which accompanies them. The consciousness of form, colour, distance, is indistinguishable from the simple sensation, which is the medium of them. Whereas to Plato sense is the Heraclitean flux of sense, not the vision of objects in the order in which they actually present themselves to the experienced sight, but as they may be imagined to appear confused and blurred to the half-awakened eye of the infant. The first action of the mind is aroused by the attempt to set in order this chaos, and the reason is required to frame distinct conceptions under which the confused impressions of sense may be arranged. Hence arises the question, ‘What is great, what is small?’ and thus begins the distinction of the visible and the intelligible.
Two passages need more detailed explanations. First, the one about analyzing vision. The difficulty in this passage can be explained, like many others, by differences in how ancient and modern thinkers approach ideas. To us, what we perceive through our senses cannot be separated from the mental process that goes with them. Our awareness of shape, color, and distance is the same as the simple sensation that carries them. But to Plato, the senses are like Heraclitus's flowing river of sensation. He doesn't see vision as how objects actually appear to experienced sight. Instead, he imagines how they might look confused and blurred to a baby's half-awake eyes. The mind first springs into action when it tries to organize this chaos. Reason is needed to create clear concepts that can arrange these confused sense impressions. This leads to the question, "What is large, what is small?" This is how the distinction between the visible and the intelligible begins.
The second difficulty relates to Plato’s conception of harmonics. Three classes of harmonists are distinguished by him:—first, the Pythagoreans, whom he proposes to consult as in the previous discussion on music he was to consult Damon—they are acknowledged to be masters in the art, but are altogether deficient in the knowledge of its higher import and relation to the good; secondly, the mere empirics, whom Glaucon appears to confuse with them, and whom both he and Socrates ludicrously describe as experimenting by mere auscultation on the intervals of sounds. Both of these fall short in different degrees of the Platonic idea of harmony, which must be studied in a purely abstract way, first by the method of problems, and secondly as a part of universal knowledge in relation to the idea of good.
The second difficulty relates to Plato's conception of harmonics. He distinguishes three classes of harmonists. First are the Pythagoreans, whom he proposes to consult just as he consulted Damon in the previous discussion on music. They are acknowledged masters of the art, but they completely lack knowledge of its higher meaning and relation to the good. Second are the mere empirics, whom Glaucon appears to confuse with the Pythagoreans. Both he and Socrates describe these empirics in ridiculous terms as experimenting by simply listening to sound intervals. Both groups fall short in different ways of the Platonic idea of harmony. True harmony must be studied in a purely abstract way, first through the method of problems, and second as part of universal knowledge in relation to the idea of good.
The allegory has a political as well as a philosophical meaning. The den or cave represents the narrow sphere of politics or law (compare the description of the philosopher and lawyer in the Theaetetus), and the light of the eternal ideas is supposed to exercise a disturbing influence on the minds of those who return to this lower world. In other words, their principles are too wide for practical application; they are looking far away into the past and future, when their business is with the present. The ideal is not easily reduced to the conditions of actual life, and may often be at variance with them. And at first, those who return are unable to compete with the inhabitants of the den in the measurement of the shadows, and are derided and persecuted by them; but after a while they see the things below in far truer proportions than those who have never ascended into the upper world. The difference between the politician turned into a philosopher and the philosopher turned into a politician, is symbolized by the two kinds of disordered eyesight, the one which is experienced by the captive who is transferred from darkness to day, the other, of the heavenly messenger who voluntarily for the good of his fellow-men descends into the den. In what way the brighter light is to dawn on the inhabitants of the lower world, or how the idea of good is to become the guiding principle of politics, is left unexplained by Plato. Like the nature and divisions of dialectic, of which Glaucon impatiently demands to be informed, perhaps he would have said that the explanation could not be given except to a disciple of the previous sciences. (Symposium.)
The allegory has both political and philosophical meaning. The cave represents the narrow world of politics or law. Compare this to how Plato describes the philosopher and lawyer in the Theaetetus. The light of eternal ideas disturbs the minds of those who return to this lower world. In other words, their principles are too broad for practical use. They look far into the past and future when they should focus on the present. The ideal doesn't easily fit the conditions of real life. It may often conflict with them. At first, those who return cannot compete with the cave dwellers in measuring the shadows. The inhabitants mock and persecute them. But after a while, the returnees see things below in much truer proportions than those who never climbed to the upper world. Plato shows the difference between the politician turned philosopher and the philosopher turned politician through two kinds of disordered eyesight. One affects the captive transferred from darkness to daylight. The other affects the heavenly messenger who voluntarily descends into the cave for the good of his fellow men. Plato leaves unexplained how the brighter light will dawn on the inhabitants of the lower world. He doesn't explain how the idea of good will become the guiding principle of politics. Like the nature and divisions of dialectic, which Glaucon impatiently demands to understand, perhaps Plato would have said the explanation could only be given to a student of the previous sciences. (Symposium.)
Many illustrations of this part of the Republic may be found in modern Politics and in daily life. For among ourselves, too, there have been two sorts of Politicians or Statesmen, whose eyesight has become disordered in two different ways. First, there have been great men who, in the language of Burke, ‘have been too much given to general maxims,’ who, like J.S. Mill or Burke himself, have been theorists or philosophers before they were politicians, or who, having been students of history, have allowed some great historical parallel, such as the English Revolution of 1688, or possibly Athenian democracy or Roman Imperialism, to be the medium through which they viewed contemporary events. Or perhaps the long projecting shadow of some existing institution may have darkened their vision. The Church of the future, the Commonwealth of the future, the Society of the future, have so absorbed their minds, that they are unable to see in their true proportions the Politics of to-day. They have been intoxicated with great ideas, such as liberty, or equality, or the greatest happiness of the greatest number, or the brotherhood of humanity, and they no longer care to consider how these ideas must be limited in practice or harmonized with the conditions of human life. They are full of light, but the light to them has become only a sort of luminous mist or blindness. Almost every one has known some enthusiastic half-educated person, who sees everything at false distances, and in erroneous proportions.
Many examples of this part of the Republic can be found in modern politics and in daily life. Among ourselves, there have been two types of politicians or statesmen whose vision has become distorted in different ways. First, there have been great men who, as Burke put it, "have been too much given to general maxims." Like J.S. Mill or Burke himself, they were theorists or philosophers before they became politicians. Some were students of history who let great historical parallels shape how they saw current events. They might focus on the English Revolution of 1688, Athenian democracy, or Roman Imperialism. Sometimes the long shadow of an existing institution darkened their vision. The Church of the future, the Commonwealth of the future, the Society of the future absorbed their minds so completely that they couldn't see today's politics in proper perspective. They became intoxicated with grand ideas like liberty, equality, the greatest happiness of the greatest number, or the brotherhood of humanity. They no longer cared to consider how these ideas must be limited in practice or balanced with the realities of human life. They are full of light, but that light has become only a kind of glowing fog or blindness. Almost everyone has known some enthusiastic, half-educated person who sees everything at wrong distances and in false proportions.
With this disorder of eyesight may be contrasted another—of those who see not far into the distance, but what is near only; who have been engaged all their lives in a trade or a profession; who are limited to a set or sect of their own. Men of this kind have no universal except their own interests or the interests of their class, no principle but the opinion of persons like themselves, no knowledge of affairs beyond what they pick up in the streets or at their club. Suppose them to be sent into a larger world, to undertake some higher calling, from being tradesmen to turn generals or politicians, from being schoolmasters to become philosophers:—or imagine them on a sudden to receive an inward light which reveals to them for the first time in their lives a higher idea of God and the existence of a spiritual world, by this sudden conversion or change is not their daily life likely to be upset; and on the other hand will not many of their old prejudices and narrownesses still adhere to them long after they have begun to take a more comprehensive view of human things? From familiar examples like these we may learn what Plato meant by the eyesight which is liable to two kinds of disorders.
This visual disorder can be contrasted with another type. Some people can't see far into the distance but only what's close by. They've spent their whole lives in one trade or profession. They're limited to their own group or social circle. These people have no universal principles except their own interests or their class's interests. They follow no principle but the opinions of people like themselves. They know nothing about broader affairs beyond what they pick up on the streets or at their club. Imagine these people are suddenly thrust into a larger world. They must take on some higher calling. A tradesman becomes a general or politician. A schoolmaster becomes a philosopher. Or imagine they suddenly receive an inner revelation that shows them, for the first time in their lives, a higher idea of God and the existence of a spiritual world. Won't this sudden conversion or change likely upset their daily life? And on the other hand, won't many of their old prejudices and narrow views still stick with them long after they've begun to take a more comprehensive view of human affairs? From familiar examples like these, we can learn what Plato meant by eyesight that suffers from two kinds of disorders.
Nor have we any difficulty in drawing a parallel between the young Athenian in the fifth century before Christ who became unsettled by new ideas, and the student of a modern University who has been the subject of a similar ‘aufklärung.’ We too observe that when young men begin to criticise customary beliefs, or to analyse the constitution of human nature, they are apt to lose hold of solid principle (ἅπαν τὸ βέβαιον αὐτῶν ἐξοίχεται). They are like trees which have been frequently transplanted. The earth about them is loose, and they have no roots reaching far into the soil. They ‘light upon every flower,’ following their own wayward wills, or because the wind blows them. They catch opinions, as diseases are caught—when they are in the air. Borne hither and thither, ‘they speedily fall into beliefs’ the opposite of those in which they were brought up. They hardly retain the distinction of right and wrong; they seem to think one thing as good as another. They suppose themselves to be searching after truth when they are playing the game of ‘follow my leader.’ They fall in love ‘at first sight’ with paradoxes respecting morality, some fancy about art, some novelty or eccentricity in religion, and like lovers they are so absorbed for a time in their new notion that they can think of nothing else. The resolution of some philosophical or theological question seems to them more interesting and important than any substantial knowledge of literature or science or even than a good life. Like the youth in the Philebus, they are ready to discourse to any one about a new philosophy. They are generally the disciples of some eminent professor or sophist, whom they rather imitate than understand. They may be counted happy if in later years they retain some of the simple truths which they acquired in early education, and which they may, perhaps, find to be worth all the rest. Such is the picture which Plato draws and which we only reproduce, partly in his own words, of the dangers which beset youth in times of transition, when old opinions are fading away and the new are not yet firmly established. Their condition is ingeniously compared by him to that of a supposititious son, who has made the discovery that his reputed parents are not his real ones, and, in consequence, they have lost their authority over him.
We can easily draw a parallel between young Athenians in the fifth century before Christ who became unsettled by new ideas, and modern university students who have undergone a similar enlightenment. We observe the same pattern today. When young people begin to criticize traditional beliefs or analyze human nature, they tend to lose their grip on solid principles. All their certainties slip away. They are like trees that have been transplanted too often. The earth around them is loose, and their roots don't reach deep into the soil. They "light upon every flower," following their own wayward impulses or simply drifting wherever the wind blows them. They catch opinions the way people catch diseases—when those ideas are floating in the air. Carried back and forth, they quickly fall into beliefs that are the complete opposite of how they were raised. They barely maintain the distinction between right and wrong. They seem to think one thing is as good as another. They believe they're searching for truth when they're really just playing "follow the leader." They fall in love at first sight with moral paradoxes, artistic fancies, religious novelties, or eccentric ideas. Like lovers, they become so absorbed in their new notion that they can think of nothing else. Solving some philosophical or theological question seems more interesting and important to them than gaining real knowledge of literature or science, or even living a good life. Like the youth in the Philebus, they're ready to lecture anyone about their new philosophy. They're usually disciples of some famous professor or intellectual, whom they imitate rather than truly understand. They can count themselves lucky if in later years they remember some of the simple truths they learned in childhood—truths that may prove worth more than all the rest. This is the picture Plato draws, which we're simply reproducing here, partly in his own words. It shows the dangers that face young people during times of change, when old beliefs are fading and new ones haven't yet taken firm root. Plato cleverly compares their situation to that of an adopted child who discovers that his supposed parents aren't his real ones. As a result, those parents lose all authority over him.
The distinction between the mathematician and the dialectician is also noticeable. Plato is very well aware that the faculty of the mathematician is quite distinct from the higher philosophical sense which recognizes and combines first principles. The contempt which he expresses for distinctions of words, the danger of involuntary falsehood, the apology which Socrates makes for his earnestness of speech, are highly characteristic of the Platonic style and mode of thought. The quaint notion that if Palamedes was the inventor of number Agamemnon could not have counted his feet; the art by which we are made to believe that this State of ours is not a dream only; the gravity with which the first step is taken in the actual creation of the State, namely, the sending out of the city all who had arrived at ten years of age, in order to expedite the business of education by a generation, are also truly Platonic. (For the last, compare the passage at the end of the third book, in which he expects the lie about the earthborn men to be believed in the second generation.)
Plato clearly understood the difference between mathematicians and dialecticians. He knew that a mathematician's abilities are quite different from the higher philosophical sense that recognizes and combines first principles. Several things show Plato's characteristic style and way of thinking. He expresses contempt for word games. He warns about the danger of unintentional lies. Socrates apologizes for speaking so earnestly. Plato also includes some quirky ideas that are truly his own. He suggests that if Palamedes invented numbers, then Agamemnon couldn't have counted his own feet. He uses clever techniques to make us believe that his ideal State isn't just a dream. He describes with complete seriousness the first step in actually creating this State. This step involves sending away everyone over ten years old from the city to speed up education by skipping a generation. This idea is genuinely Platonic. You can compare this to the passage at the end of the third book, where he expects people to believe the lie about earthborn men by the second generation.
BOOK VIII. And so we have arrived at the conclusion, that in the perfect State wives and children are to be in common; and the education and pursuits of men and women, both in war and peace, are to be common, and kings are to be philosophers and warriors, and the soldiers of the State are to live together, having all things in common; and they are to be warrior athletes, receiving no pay but only their food, from the other citizens. Now let us return to the point at which we digressed. ‘That is easily done,’ he replied: ‘You were speaking of the State which you had constructed, and of the individual who answered to this, both of whom you affirmed to be good; and you said that of inferior States there were four forms and four individuals corresponding to them, which although deficient in various degrees, were all of them worth inspecting with a view to determining the relative happiness or misery of the best or worst man. Then Polemarchus and Adeimantus interrupted you, and this led to another argument,—and so here we are.’ Suppose that we put ourselves again in the same position, and do you repeat your question. ‘I should like to know of what constitutions you were speaking?’ Besides the perfect State there are only four of any note in Hellas:—first, the famous Lacedaemonian or Cretan commonwealth; secondly, oligarchy, a State full of evils; thirdly, democracy, which follows next in order; fourthly, tyranny, which is the disease or death of all government. Now, States are not made of ‘oak and rock,’ but of flesh and blood; and therefore as there are five States there must be five human natures in individuals, which correspond to them. And first, there is the ambitious nature, which answers to the Lacedaemonian State; secondly, the oligarchical nature; thirdly, the democratical; and fourthly, the tyrannical. This last will have to be compared with the perfectly just, which is the fifth, that we may know which is the happier, and then we shall be able to determine whether the argument of Thrasymachus or our own is the more convincing. And as before we began with the State and went on to the individual, so now, beginning with timocracy, let us go on to the timocratical man, and then proceed to the other forms of government, and the individuals who answer to them.
BOOK VIII. So we've reached our conclusion about the perfect State. Wives and children should be shared in common. Men and women should have the same education and activities, both in war and peace. Kings should be philosophers and warriors. The soldiers of the State should live together and share everything. They should be warrior athletes who receive only food from other citizens, not pay. Now let's go back to where we got sidetracked. "That's easy to do," he replied. "You were talking about the State you had built and the individual who matched it. You said both were good. You mentioned there were four inferior States and four individuals that matched them. Even though they were flawed in different ways, you said they were all worth examining. This would help us figure out how happy or miserable the best or worst person could be. Then Polemarchus and Adeimantus interrupted you. This led to another argument, and here we are." Let's put ourselves back in the same position. Please repeat your question. "I'd like to know what constitutions you were talking about." Besides the perfect State, there are only four worth noting in Hellas. First is the famous Lacedaemonian or Cretan commonwealth. Second is oligarchy, a State full of problems. Third is democracy, which comes next in order. Fourth is tyranny, which is the disease or death of all government. States aren't made of "oak and rock" but of flesh and blood. Since there are five States, there must be five human natures in individuals that match them. First, there's the ambitious nature, which matches the Lacedaemonian State. Second is the oligarchical nature. Third is the democratical nature. Fourth is the tyrannical nature. We'll need to compare this last one with the perfectly just nature, which is the fifth. This way we can know which is happier. Then we can decide whether Thrasymachus's argument or ours is more convincing. Before, we started with the State and moved to the individual. Now, let's begin with timocracy and move to the timocratical man. Then we'll go through the other forms of government and the individuals who match them.
But how did timocracy arise out of the perfect State? Plainly, like all changes of government, from division in the rulers. But whence came division? ‘Sing, heavenly Muses,’ as Homer says;—let them condescend to answer us, as if we were children, to whom they put on a solemn face in jest. ‘And what will they say?’ They will say that human things are fated to decay, and even the perfect State will not escape from this law of destiny, when ‘the wheel comes full circle’ in a period short or long. Plants or animals have times of fertility and sterility, which the intelligence of rulers because alloyed by sense will not enable them to ascertain, and children will be born out of season. For whereas divine creations are in a perfect cycle or number, the human creation is in a number which declines from perfection, and has four terms and three intervals of numbers, increasing, waning, assimilating, dissimilating, and yet perfectly commensurate with each other. The base of the number with a fourth added (or which is 3:4), multiplied by five and cubed, gives two harmonies:—the first a square number, which is a hundred times the base (or a hundred times a hundred); the second, an oblong, being a hundred squares of the rational diameter of a figure the side of which is five, subtracting one from each square or two perfect squares from all, and adding a hundred cubes of three. This entire number is geometrical and contains the rule or law of generation. When this law is neglected marriages will be unpropitious; the inferior offspring who are then born will in time become the rulers; the State will decline, and education fall into decay; gymnastic will be preferred to music, and the gold and silver and brass and iron will form a chaotic mass—thus division will arise. Such is the Muses’ answer to our question. ‘And a true answer, of course:—but what more have they to say?’ They say that the two races, the iron and brass, and the silver and gold, will draw the State different ways;—the one will take to trade and moneymaking, and the others, having the true riches and not caring for money, will resist them: the contest will end in a compromise; they will agree to have private property, and will enslave their fellow-citizens who were once their friends and nurturers. But they will retain their warlike character, and will be chiefly occupied in fighting and exercising rule. Thus arises timocracy, which is intermediate between aristocracy and oligarchy.
But how did timocracy arise from the perfect State? Clearly, like all changes of government, it came from division among the rulers. But where did this division come from? "Sing, heavenly Muses," as Homer says. Let them come down to answer us, as if we were children to whom they put on a serious face as a joke. "And what will they say?" They will say that human things are destined to decay. Even the perfect State cannot escape this law of destiny when "the wheel comes full circle" in a period short or long. Plants and animals have times of fertility and sterility. The intelligence of rulers, because it's mixed with the senses, will not let them figure this out. Children will be born at the wrong times. Divine creations follow a perfect cycle or number. But human creation follows a number that falls away from perfection. It has four terms and three intervals of numbers. These are increasing, waning, assimilating, dissimilating, yet perfectly balanced with each other. The base of the number with a fourth added (which is 3:4), multiplied by five and cubed, gives two harmonies. The first is a square number, which is a hundred times the base (or a hundred times a hundred). The second is an oblong, being a hundred squares of the rational diameter of a figure whose side is five. You subtract one from each square or two perfect squares from all, and add a hundred cubes of three. This entire number is geometrical and contains the rule or law of generation. When this law is ignored, marriages will be unlucky. The inferior children who are then born will in time become the rulers. The State will decline, and education will fall into decay. Physical training will be preferred to music. The gold and silver and brass and iron will form a chaotic mass. This is how division will arise. Such is the Muses' answer to our question. "And a true answer, of course. But what more do they have to say?" They say that the two races, the iron and brass, and the silver and gold, will pull the State in different directions. One will turn to trade and moneymaking. The others, having the true riches and not caring for money, will resist them. The contest will end in a compromise. They will agree to have private property and will enslave their fellow-citizens who were once their friends and nurturers. But they will keep their warlike character and will be mainly occupied in fighting and exercising rule. This is how timocracy arises, which is halfway between aristocracy and oligarchy.
The new form of government resembles the ideal in obedience to rulers and contempt for trade, and having common meals, and in devotion to warlike and gymnastic exercises. But corruption has crept into philosophy, and simplicity of character, which was once her note, is now looked for only in the military class. Arts of war begin to prevail over arts of peace; the ruler is no longer a philosopher; as in oligarchies, there springs up among them an extravagant love of gain—get another man’s and save your own, is their principle; and they have dark places in which they hoard their gold and silver, for the use of their women and others; they take their pleasures by stealth, like boys who are running away from their father—the law; and their education is not inspired by the Muse, but imposed by the strong arm of power. The leading characteristic of this State is party spirit and ambition.
This new form of government resembles the ideal in its obedience to rulers and contempt for trade. It has common meals and devotion to warlike and gymnastic exercises. But corruption has crept into philosophy. Simplicity of character was once philosophy's defining trait. Now it can only be found in the military class. Arts of war begin to prevail over arts of peace. The ruler is no longer a philosopher. As in oligarchies, an extravagant love of gain springs up among them. "Get another man's wealth and save your own" becomes their principle. They have dark places where they hoard their gold and silver for the use of their women and others. They take their pleasures by stealth, like boys running away from their father. The law becomes that father. Their education is not inspired by the Muse but imposed by the strong arm of power. The leading characteristic of this State is party spirit and ambition.
And what manner of man answers to such a State? ‘In love of contention,’ replied Adeimantus, ‘he will be like our friend Glaucon.’ In that respect, perhaps, but not in others. He is self-asserting and ill-educated, yet fond of literature, although not himself a speaker,—fierce with slaves, but obedient to rulers, a lover of power and honour, which he hopes to gain by deeds of arms,—fond, too, of gymnastics and of hunting. As he advances in years he grows avaricious, for he has lost philosophy, which is the only saviour and guardian of men. His origin is as follows:—His father is a good man dwelling in an ill-ordered State, who has retired from politics in order that he may lead a quiet life. His mother is angry at her loss of precedence among other women; she is disgusted at her husband’s selfishness, and she expatiates to her son on the unmanliness and indolence of his father. The old family servant takes up the tale, and says to the youth:—‘When you grow up you must be more of a man than your father.’ All the world are agreed that he who minds his own business is an idiot, while a busybody is highly honoured and esteemed. The young man compares this spirit with his father’s words and ways, and as he is naturally well disposed, although he has suffered from evil influences, he rests at a middle point and becomes ambitious and a lover of honour.
And what kind of man matches such a State? "In love of contention," replied Adeimantus, "he will be like our friend Glaucon." In that respect, perhaps, but not in others. He is self-asserting and poorly educated, yet fond of literature, although not himself a speaker. He is fierce with slaves, but obedient to rulers. He loves power and honor, which he hopes to gain through military deeds. He's also fond of gymnastics and hunting. As he gets older he grows greedy, for he has lost philosophy, which is the only savior and guardian of men. His origin is as follows: His father is a good man living in a poorly governed State, who has withdrawn from politics so that he may lead a quiet life. His mother is angry at her loss of status among other women. She is disgusted at her husband's selfishness, and she complains to her son about his father's weakness and laziness. The old family servant takes up the story, and says to the youth: "When you grow up you must be more of a man than your father." Everyone agrees that he who minds his own business is an idiot, while a busybody is highly honored and respected. The young man compares this attitude with his father's words and ways. Since he is naturally well disposed, although he has suffered from bad influences, he settles at a middle point and becomes ambitious and a lover of honor.
And now let us set another city over against another man. The next form of government is oligarchy, in which the rule is of the rich only; nor is it difficult to see how such a State arises. The decline begins with the possession of gold and silver; illegal modes of expenditure are invented; one draws another on, and the multitude are infected; riches outweigh virtue; lovers of money take the place of lovers of honour; misers of politicians; and, in time, political privileges are confined by law to the rich, who do not shrink from violence in order to effect their purposes.
Now let's compare another city to another type of person. The next form of government is oligarchy, where only the rich hold power. It's easy to see how this kind of state develops. The decline starts with the accumulation of gold and silver. People invent illegal ways to spend money. One person influences another, and the corruption spreads to everyone. Wealth becomes more important than virtue. People who love money replace those who love honor. Greedy individuals take over from true politicians. Eventually, laws restrict political privileges to the wealthy alone. These rich rulers don't hesitate to use violence to achieve their goals.
Thus much of the origin,—let us next consider the evils of oligarchy. Would a man who wanted to be safe on a voyage take a bad pilot because he was rich, or refuse a good one because he was poor? And does not the analogy apply still more to the State? And there are yet greater evils: two nations are struggling together in one—the rich and the poor; and the rich dare not put arms into the hands of the poor, and are unwilling to pay for defenders out of their own money. And have we not already condemned that State in which the same persons are warriors as well as shopkeepers? The greatest evil of all is that a man may sell his property and have no place in the State; while there is one class which has enormous wealth, the other is entirely destitute. But observe that these destitutes had not really any more of the governing nature in them when they were rich than now that they are poor; they were miserable spendthrifts always. They are the drones of the hive; only whereas the actual drone is unprovided by nature with a sting, the two-legged things whom we call drones are some of them without stings and some of them have dreadful stings; in other words, there are paupers and there are rogues. These are never far apart; and in oligarchical cities, where nearly everybody is a pauper who is not a ruler, you will find abundance of both. And this evil state of society originates in bad education and bad government.
So much for the origin of oligarchy. Now let's look at its problems. If you wanted to be safe on a voyage, would you choose a bad pilot just because he was rich? Would you refuse a good pilot just because he was poor? This comparison applies even more to running a state. But there are even worse problems. Two nations struggle within one country: the rich and the poor. The rich don't dare give weapons to the poor. They also won't pay for defenders with their own money. Haven't we already criticized states where the same people are both warriors and shopkeepers? The worst evil is that a person can sell all their property and have no place left in the state. One class has enormous wealth while the other has nothing at all. Notice that these poor people didn't have any more governing ability when they were rich than they do now. They were always terrible spendthrifts. They are like drones in a hive. But while real drones have no stings, these human drones come in two types. Some have no stings, others have terrible stings. In other words, there are paupers and there are criminals. These two groups are never far apart. In oligarchical cities, nearly everyone who isn't a ruler is poor. You'll find plenty of both types there. This evil state of society comes from bad education and bad government.
Like State, like man,—the change in the latter begins with the representative of timocracy; he walks at first in the ways of his father, who may have been a statesman, or general, perhaps; and presently he sees him ‘fallen from his high estate,’ the victim of informers, dying in prison or exile, or by the hand of the executioner. The lesson which he thus receives, makes him cautious; he leaves politics, represses his pride, and saves pence. Avarice is enthroned as his bosom’s lord, and assumes the style of the Great King; the rational and spirited elements sit humbly on the ground at either side, the one immersed in calculation, the other absorbed in the admiration of wealth. The love of honour turns to love of money; the conversion is instantaneous. The man is mean, saving, toiling, the slave of one passion which is the master of the rest: Is he not the very image of the State? He has had no education, or he would never have allowed the blind god of riches to lead the dance within him. And being uneducated he will have many slavish desires, some beggarly, some knavish, breeding in his soul. If he is the trustee of an orphan, and has the power to defraud, he will soon prove that he is not without the will, and that his passions are only restrained by fear and not by reason. Hence he leads a divided existence; in which the better desires mostly prevail. But when he is contending for prizes and other distinctions, he is afraid to incur a loss which is to be repaid only by barren honour; in time of war he fights with a small part of his resources, and usually keeps his money and loses the victory.
Like State, like man. The change in the latter begins with the representative of timocracy. He walks at first in the ways of his father, who may have been a statesman, or general, perhaps. Soon he sees him 'fallen from his high estate,' the victim of informers, dying in prison or exile, or by the hand of the executioner. The lesson he receives makes him cautious. He leaves politics, represses his pride, and saves pence. Greed is enthroned as his heart's lord, and assumes the style of the Great King. The rational and spirited elements sit humbly on the ground at either side. One is immersed in calculation, the other absorbed in the admiration of wealth. The love of honor turns to love of money. The conversion is instantaneous. The man is mean, saving, toiling, the slave of one passion which is the master of the rest. Is he not the very image of the State? He has had no education, or he would never have allowed the blind god of riches to lead the dance within him. Being uneducated, he will have many slavish desires, some beggarly, some knavish, breeding in his soul. If he is the trustee of an orphan, and has the power to defraud, he will soon prove that he is not without the will. His passions are only restrained by fear and not by reason. He leads a divided existence in which the better desires mostly prevail. But when he is contending for prizes and other distinctions, he is afraid to incur a loss which is to be repaid only by barren honor. In time of war he fights with a small part of his resources, and usually keeps his money and loses the victory.
Next comes democracy and the democratic man, out of oligarchy and the oligarchical man. Insatiable avarice is the ruling passion of an oligarchy; and they encourage expensive habits in order that they may gain by the ruin of extravagant youth. Thus men of family often lose their property or rights of citizenship; but they remain in the city, full of hatred against the new owners of their estates and ripe for revolution. The usurer with stooping walk pretends not to see them; he passes by, and leaves his sting—that is, his money—in some other victim; and many a man has to pay the parent or principal sum multiplied into a family of children, and is reduced into a state of dronage by him. The only way of diminishing the evil is either to limit a man in his use of his property, or to insist that he shall lend at his own risk. But the ruling class do not want remedies; they care only for money, and are as careless of virtue as the poorest of the citizens. Now there are occasions on which the governors and the governed meet together,—at festivals, on a journey, voyaging or fighting. The sturdy pauper finds that in the hour of danger he is not despised; he sees the rich man puffing and panting, and draws the conclusion which he privately imparts to his companions,—‘that our people are not good for much;’ and as a sickly frame is made ill by a mere touch from without, or sometimes without external impulse is ready to fall to pieces of itself, so from the least cause, or with none at all, the city falls ill and fights a battle for life or death. And democracy comes into power when the poor are the victors, killing some and exiling some, and giving equal shares in the government to all the rest.
Next comes democracy and the democratic man, out of oligarchy and the oligarchical man. Insatiable greed is the ruling passion of an oligarchy. They encourage expensive habits so they can profit from the ruin of extravagant youth. This is how men of family often lose their property or rights of citizenship. But they remain in the city, full of hatred against the new owners of their estates and ready for revolution. The moneylender with his stooping walk pretends not to see them. He passes by and leaves his sting in some other victim. That sting is his money. Many a man has to pay back the original sum multiplied into a family of debts, and the moneylender reduces him to a state of slavery. The only way to reduce this evil is either to limit how a man uses his property, or to insist that he lend at his own risk. But the ruling class doesn't want remedies. They care only for money and are as careless of virtue as the poorest citizens. There are occasions when the governors and the governed meet together at festivals, on journeys, voyaging or fighting. The sturdy pauper finds that in the hour of danger he is not despised. He sees the rich man puffing and panting, and draws a conclusion which he privately shares with his companions: "Our people are not good for much." Just as a sickly body is made ill by a mere touch from outside, or sometimes falls apart without any external cause, so from the least cause, or with none at all, the city falls ill and fights a battle for life or death. Democracy comes into power when the poor are the victors, killing some and exiling some, and giving equal shares in the government to all the rest.
The manner of life in such a State is that of democrats; there is freedom and plainness of speech, and every man does what is right in his own eyes, and has his own way of life. Hence arise the most various developments of character; the State is like a piece of embroidery of which the colours and figures are the manners of men, and there are many who, like women and children, prefer this variety to real beauty and excellence. The State is not one but many, like a bazaar at which you can buy anything. The great charm is, that you may do as you like; you may govern if you like, let it alone if you like; go to war and make peace if you feel disposed, and all quite irrespective of anybody else. When you condemn men to death they remain alive all the same; a gentleman is desired to go into exile, and he stalks about the streets like a hero; and nobody sees him or cares for him. Observe, too, how grandly Democracy sets her foot upon all our fine theories of education,—how little she cares for the training of her statesmen! The only qualification which she demands is the profession of patriotism. Such is democracy;—a pleasing, lawless, various sort of government, distributing equality to equals and unequals alike.
The way people live in such a State is democratic. There is freedom and plain speaking. Every person does what seems right to them and lives their own way of life. This creates the most varied types of character. The State is like a piece of embroidery where the colors and patterns represent different human behaviors. Many people, like women and children, prefer this variety to real beauty and excellence. The State is not one thing but many, like a marketplace where you can buy anything. The great appeal is that you can do whatever you want. You can govern if you like, or ignore it if you prefer. You can go to war and make peace if you feel like it, all without considering anyone else. When you sentence people to death, they stay alive anyway. A gentleman is told to go into exile, and he walks around the streets like a hero. Nobody sees him or cares about him. Notice how boldly Democracy tramples on all our fine theories of education. She cares very little about training her leaders! The only requirement she demands is claiming to be patriotic. This is democracy: a pleasant, lawless, varied sort of government that gives equality to equals and unequals alike.
Let us now inspect the individual democrat; and first, as in the case of the State, we will trace his antecedents. He is the son of a miserly oligarch, and has been taught by him to restrain the love of unnecessary pleasures. Perhaps I ought to explain this latter term:—Necessary pleasures are those which are good, and which we cannot do without; unnecessary pleasures are those which do no good, and of which the desire might be eradicated by early training. For example, the pleasures of eating and drinking are necessary and healthy, up to a certain point; beyond that point they are alike hurtful to body and mind, and the excess may be avoided. When in excess, they may be rightly called expensive pleasures, in opposition to the useful ones. And the drone, as we called him, is the slave of these unnecessary pleasures and desires, whereas the miserly oligarch is subject only to the necessary.
Let us now examine the individual democrat. First, as we did with the State, we will trace his background. He is the son of a miserly oligarch. His father taught him to control his love of unnecessary pleasures. Perhaps I should explain this term. Necessary pleasures are those which are good and which we cannot do without. Unnecessary pleasures are those which do no good. The desire for them could be eliminated by early training. For example, the pleasures of eating and drinking are necessary and healthy up to a certain point. Beyond that point they harm both body and mind. This excess can be avoided. When in excess, they may be rightly called expensive pleasures, as opposed to the useful ones. The drone, as we called him, is the slave of these unnecessary pleasures and desires. The miserly oligarch, however, is subject only to the necessary ones.
The oligarch changes into the democrat in the following manner:—The youth who has had a miserly bringing up, gets a taste of the drone’s honey; he meets with wild companions, who introduce him to every new pleasure. As in the State, so in the individual, there are allies on both sides, temptations from without and passions from within; there is reason also and external influences of parents and friends in alliance with the oligarchical principle; and the two factions are in violent conflict with one another. Sometimes the party of order prevails, but then again new desires and new disorders arise, and the whole mob of passions gets possession of the Acropolis, that is to say, the soul, which they find void and unguarded by true words and works. Falsehoods and illusions ascend to take their place; the prodigal goes back into the country of the Lotophagi or drones, and openly dwells there. And if any offer of alliance or parley of individual elders comes from home, the false spirits shut the gates of the castle and permit no one to enter,—there is a battle, and they gain the victory; and straightway making alliance with the desires, they banish modesty, which they call folly, and send temperance over the border. When the house has been swept and garnished, they dress up the exiled vices, and, crowning them with garlands, bring them back under new names. Insolence they call good breeding, anarchy freedom, waste magnificence, impudence courage. Such is the process by which the youth passes from the necessary pleasures to the unnecessary. After a while he divides his time impartially between them; and perhaps, when he gets older and the violence of passion has abated, he restores some of the exiles and lives in a sort of equilibrium, indulging first one pleasure and then another; and if reason comes and tells him that some pleasures are good and honourable, and others bad and vile, he shakes his head and says that he can make no distinction between them. Thus he lives in the fancy of the hour; sometimes he takes to drink, and then he turns abstainer; he practises in the gymnasium or he does nothing at all; then again he would be a philosopher or a politician; or again, he would be a warrior or a man of business; he is
The oligarch changes into the democrat in the following manner. The youth who has had a miserly upbringing gets a taste of the drone's honey. He meets with wild companions who introduce him to every new pleasure. As in the State, so in the individual, there are allies on both sides. There are temptations from without and passions from within. There is reason also and external influences of parents and friends in alliance with the oligarchical principle. The two factions are in violent conflict with one another. Sometimes the party of order prevails, but then again new desires and new disorders arise. The whole mob of passions gets possession of the Acropolis, that is to say, the soul, which they find void and unguarded by true words and works. Falsehoods and illusions ascend to take their place. The prodigal goes back into the country of the Lotophagi or drones, and openly dwells there. If any offer of alliance or parley of individual elders comes from home, the false spirits shut the gates of the castle and permit no one to enter. There is a battle, and they gain the victory. Straightaway making alliance with the desires, they banish modesty, which they call folly, and send temperance over the border. When the house has been swept and garnished, they dress up the exiled vices. Crowning them with garlands, they bring them back under new names. Insolence they call good breeding, anarchy freedom, waste magnificence, impudence courage. Such is the process by which the youth passes from the necessary pleasures to the unnecessary. After a while he divides his time impartially between them. Perhaps, when he gets older and the violence of passion has abated, he restores some of the exiles and lives in a sort of equilibrium, indulging first one pleasure and then another. If reason comes and tells him that some pleasures are good and honorable, and others bad and vile, he shakes his head and says that he can make no distinction between them. Thus he lives in the fancy of the hour. Sometimes he takes to drink, and then he turns abstainer. He practices in the gymnasium or he does nothing at all. Then again he would be a philosopher or a politician. Or again, he would be a warrior or a man of business. He is
‘Every thing by starts and nothing long.’
"Everything happens in bursts, nothing lasts."
There remains still the finest and fairest of all men and all States—tyranny and the tyrant. Tyranny springs from democracy much as democracy springs from oligarchy. Both arise from excess; the one from excess of wealth, the other from excess of freedom. ‘The great natural good of life,’ says the democrat, ‘is freedom.’ And this exclusive love of freedom and regardlessness of everything else, is the cause of the change from democracy to tyranny. The State demands the strong wine of freedom, and unless her rulers give her a plentiful draught, punishes and insults them; equality and fraternity of governors and governed is the approved principle. Anarchy is the law, not of the State only, but of private houses, and extends even to the animals. Father and son, citizen and foreigner, teacher and pupil, old and young, are all on a level; fathers and teachers fear their sons and pupils, and the wisdom of the young man is a match for the elder, and the old imitate the jaunty manners of the young because they are afraid of being thought morose. Slaves are on a level with their masters and mistresses, and there is no difference between men and women. Nay, the very animals in a democratic State have a freedom which is unknown in other places. The she-dogs are as good as their she-mistresses, and horses and asses march along with dignity and run their noses against anybody who comes in their way. ‘That has often been my experience.’ At last the citizens become so sensitive that they cannot endure the yoke of laws, written or unwritten; they would have no man call himself their master. Such is the glorious beginning of things out of which tyranny springs. ‘Glorious, indeed; but what is to follow?’ The ruin of oligarchy is the ruin of democracy; for there is a law of contraries; the excess of freedom passes into the excess of slavery, and the greater the freedom the greater the slavery. You will remember that in the oligarchy were found two classes—rogues and paupers, whom we compared to drones with and without stings. These two classes are to the State what phlegm and bile are to the human body; and the State-physician, or legislator, must get rid of them, just as the bee-master keeps the drones out of the hive. Now in a democracy, too, there are drones, but they are more numerous and more dangerous than in the oligarchy; there they are inert and unpractised, here they are full of life and animation; and the keener sort speak and act, while the others buzz about the bema and prevent their opponents from being heard. And there is another class in democratic States, of respectable, thriving individuals, who can be squeezed when the drones have need of their possessions; there is moreover a third class, who are the labourers and the artisans, and they make up the mass of the people. When the people meet, they are omnipotent, but they cannot be brought together unless they are attracted by a little honey; and the rich are made to supply the honey, of which the demagogues keep the greater part themselves, giving a taste only to the mob. Their victims attempt to resist; they are driven mad by the stings of the drones, and so become downright oligarchs in self-defence. Then follow informations and convictions for treason. The people have some protector whom they nurse into greatness, and from this root the tree of tyranny springs. The nature of the change is indicated in the old fable of the temple of Zeus Lycaeus, which tells how he who tastes human flesh mixed up with the flesh of other victims will turn into a wolf. Even so the protector, who tastes human blood, and slays some and exiles others with or without law, who hints at abolition of debts and division of lands, must either perish or become a wolf—that is, a tyrant. Perhaps he is driven out, but he soon comes back from exile; and then if his enemies cannot get rid of him by lawful means, they plot his assassination. Thereupon the friend of the people makes his well-known request to them for a body-guard, which they readily grant, thinking only of his danger and not of their own. Now let the rich man make to himself wings, for he will never run away again if he does not do so then. And the Great Protector, having crushed all his rivals, stands proudly erect in the chariot of State, a full-blown tyrant: Let us enquire into the nature of his happiness.
There remains still the finest and fairest of all men and all States—tyranny and the tyrant. Tyranny springs from democracy much as democracy springs from oligarchy. Both arise from excess. One comes from too much wealth, the other from too much freedom. "The great natural good of life," says the democrat, "is freedom." This exclusive love of freedom and disregard for everything else causes the change from democracy to tyranny. The State demands the strong wine of freedom. Unless her rulers give her plenty to drink, she punishes and insults them. Equality and brotherhood between governors and governed becomes the approved principle. Anarchy becomes the law, not just of the State, but of private houses. It extends even to the animals. Father and son, citizen and foreigner, teacher and pupil, old and young—all are on the same level. Fathers and teachers fear their sons and pupils. The wisdom of the young man matches the elder. The old copy the carefree manners of the young because they're afraid of seeming grumpy. Slaves are equal with their masters and mistresses. There's no difference between men and women. Even the animals in a democratic State have a freedom unknown in other places. The female dogs are as good as their mistresses. Horses and donkeys march along with dignity and bump into anyone who gets in their way. "That has often been my experience." At last the citizens become so sensitive that they can't endure the yoke of laws, written or unwritten. They won't let any man call himself their master. Such is the glorious beginning of things from which tyranny springs. "Glorious, indeed, but what is to follow?" The ruin of oligarchy is the ruin of democracy. There's a law of opposites. The excess of freedom passes into the excess of slavery. The greater the freedom, the greater the slavery. You'll remember that in the oligarchy we found two classes—rogues and paupers. We compared them to drones with and without stings. These two classes are to the State what phlegm and bile are to the human body. The State-physician, or legislator, must get rid of them, just as the bee-master keeps the drones out of the hive. Now in a democracy, too, there are drones. But they're more numerous and more dangerous than in the oligarchy. There they were lazy and unpracticed. Here they're full of life and energy. The sharper ones speak and act, while the others buzz about the speaker's platform and prevent their opponents from being heard. There's another class in democratic States, made up of respectable, thriving individuals. They can be squeezed when the drones need their possessions. There's also a third class—the laborers and artisans. They make up the mass of the people. When the people meet, they're all-powerful. But they can't be brought together unless they're attracted by a little honey. The rich are made to supply the honey. The demagogues keep most of it for themselves, giving just a taste to the mob. Their victims try to resist. They're driven mad by the stings of the drones and become outright oligarchs in self-defense. Then follow accusations and convictions for treason. The people have some protector whom they nurse into greatness. From this root the tree of tyranny springs. The nature of the change is shown in the old fable of the temple of Zeus Lycaeus. It tells how anyone who tastes human flesh mixed with the flesh of other victims will turn into a wolf. Even so the protector, who tastes human blood and kills some and exiles others with or without law, who hints at canceling debts and dividing lands, must either die or become a wolf—that is, a tyrant. Perhaps he's driven out, but he soon comes back from exile. Then if his enemies can't get rid of him by lawful means, they plot his assassination. The friend of the people makes his well-known request to them for a bodyguard. They readily grant it, thinking only of his danger and not of their own. Now let the rich man make himself wings, for he'll never run away again if he doesn't do so then. The Great Protector, having crushed all his rivals, stands proudly upright in the chariot of State, a full-blown tyrant. Let us look into the nature of his happiness.
In the early days of his tyranny he smiles and beams upon everybody; he is not a ‘dominus,’ no, not he: he has only come to put an end to debt and the monopoly of land. Having got rid of foreign enemies, he makes himself necessary to the State by always going to war. He is thus enabled to depress the poor by heavy taxes, and so keep them at work; and he can get rid of bolder spirits by handing them over to the enemy. Then comes unpopularity; some of his old associates have the courage to oppose him. The consequence is, that he has to make a purgation of the State; but, unlike the physician who purges away the bad, he must get rid of the high-spirited, the wise and the wealthy; for he has no choice between death and a life of shame and dishonour. And the more hated he is, the more he will require trusty guards; but how will he obtain them? ‘They will come flocking like birds—for pay.’ Will he not rather obtain them on the spot? He will take the slaves from their owners and make them his body-guard; these are his trusted friends, who admire and look up to him. Are not the tragic poets wise who magnify and exalt the tyrant, and say that he is wise by association with the wise? And are not their praises of tyranny alone a sufficient reason why we should exclude them from our State? They may go to other cities, and gather the mob about them with fine words, and change commonwealths into tyrannies and democracies, receiving honours and rewards for their services; but the higher they and their friends ascend constitution hill, the more their honour will fail and become ‘too asthmatic to mount.’ To return to the tyrant—How will he support that rare army of his? First, by robbing the temples of their treasures, which will enable him to lighten the taxes; then he will take all his father’s property, and spend it on his companions, male or female. Now his father is the demus, and if the demus gets angry, and says that a great hulking son ought not to be a burden on his parents, and bids him and his riotous crew begone, then will the parent know what a monster he has been nurturing, and that the son whom he would fain expel is too strong for him. ‘You do not mean to say that he will beat his father?’ Yes, he will, after having taken away his arms. ‘Then he is a parricide and a cruel, unnatural son.’ And the people have jumped from the fear of slavery into slavery, out of the smoke into the fire. Thus liberty, when out of all order and reason, passes into the worst form of servitude...
In the early days of his rule, the tyrant smiles and acts friendly to everyone. He doesn't call himself a master—oh no, not him. He claims he's only there to end debt and break up land monopolies. After getting rid of foreign enemies, he makes himself essential to the state by constantly going to war. This lets him crush the poor with heavy taxes and keep them busy working. He can also eliminate bold opponents by handing them over to the enemy. Then he becomes unpopular. Some of his old allies find the courage to oppose him. As a result, he has to purge the state. But unlike a doctor who removes what's bad for the patient, he must get rid of the brave, the wise, and the wealthy. He has no choice between death and a life of shame and dishonor. The more people hate him, the more he'll need loyal guards. But how will he get them? "They'll flock to him like birds—for money." Won't he find them closer to home? He'll take slaves from their owners and make them his bodyguards. These become his trusted friends who admire and look up to him. Aren't the tragic poets clever when they praise and glorify the tyrant? Don't they say he becomes wise by associating with wise people? Isn't their praise of tyranny reason enough to ban them from our state? They can go to other cities and gather crowds with fancy words. They can turn republics into tyrannies and democracies, getting honors and rewards for their work. But the higher they and their friends climb up the political ladder, the more their honor will fade and become "too out of breath to keep climbing." Back to the tyrant—how will he support that expensive army of his? First, by robbing temples of their treasures, which will let him reduce taxes. Then he'll take all his father's property and spend it on his companions, both male and female. Now his father is the demus, and if the demus gets angry and says that a grown son shouldn't burden his parents, and tells him and his wild crew to leave, then the parent will realize what a monster he's been raising. The son he wants to throw out has become too strong for him. "You don't mean he'll actually attack his father?" Yes, he will, after taking away his weapons first. "Then he's a father-killer and a cruel, unnatural son." The people have jumped from fearing slavery straight into slavery itself, out of the smoke and into the fire. When liberty loses all order and reason, it turns into the worst kind of servitude.
In the previous books Plato has described the ideal State; now he returns to the perverted or declining forms, on which he had lightly touched at the end of Book IV. These he describes in a succession of parallels between the individuals and the States, tracing the origin of either in the State or individual which has preceded them. He begins by asking the point at which he digressed; and is thus led shortly to recapitulate the substance of the three former books, which also contain a parallel of the philosopher and the State.
In the previous books Plato described the ideal State. Now he returns to the corrupted or declining forms. He had briefly mentioned these at the end of Book IV. He describes these forms through a series of comparisons between individuals and States. He traces how each one develops from the State or individual that came before it. He begins by asking where he had digressed from his main topic. This leads him to briefly summarize the main points of the three earlier books. Those books also contain a comparison of the philosopher and the State.
Of the first decline he gives no intelligible account; he would not have liked to admit the most probable causes of the fall of his ideal State, which to us would appear to be the impracticability of communism or the natural antagonism of the ruling and subject classes. He throws a veil of mystery over the origin of the decline, which he attributes to ignorance of the law of population. Of this law the famous geometrical figure or number is the expression. Like the ancients in general, he had no idea of the gradual perfectibility of man or of the education of the human race. His ideal was not to be attained in the course of ages, but was to spring in full armour from the head of the legislator. When good laws had been given, he thought only of the manner in which they were likely to be corrupted, or of how they might be filled up in detail or restored in accordance with their original spirit. He appears not to have reflected upon the full meaning of his own words, ‘In the brief space of human life, nothing great can be accomplished’; or again, as he afterwards says in the Laws, ‘Infinite time is the maker of cities.’ The order of constitutions which is adopted by him represents an order of thought rather than a succession of time, and may be considered as the first attempt to frame a philosophy of history.
He gives no clear explanation for the first decline. He wouldn't have wanted to admit the most likely causes of his ideal State's fall. To us, these would seem to be that communism is impractical or that ruling and subject classes naturally oppose each other. He covers the origin of the decline in mystery. He blames it on ignorance of the law of population. The famous geometrical figure or number expresses this law. Like most ancient thinkers, he had no concept of humanity's gradual improvement or the education of the human race. His ideal wasn't meant to develop over time. Instead, it was supposed to spring fully formed from the legislator's mind. Once good laws were established, he only thought about how they might become corrupted. He also considered how they could be filled in with details or restored to their original spirit. He doesn't seem to have reflected on the full meaning of his own words: "In the brief space of human life, nothing great can be accomplished." He also said later in the Laws, "Infinite time is the maker of cities." The order of constitutions he adopts represents an order of thought rather than a sequence in time. It can be seen as the first attempt to create a philosophy of history.
The first of these declining States is timocracy, or the government of soldiers and lovers of honour, which answers to the Spartan State; this is a government of force, in which education is not inspired by the Muses, but imposed by the law, and in which all the finer elements of organization have disappeared. The philosopher himself has lost the love of truth, and the soldier, who is of a simpler and honester nature, rules in his stead. The individual who answers to timocracy has some noticeable qualities. He is described as ill educated, but, like the Spartan, a lover of literature; and although he is a harsh master to his servants he has no natural superiority over them. His character is based upon a reaction against the circumstances of his father, who in a troubled city has retired from politics; and his mother, who is dissatisfied at her own position, is always urging him towards the life of political ambition. Such a character may have had this origin, and indeed Livy attributes the Licinian laws to a feminine jealousy of a similar kind. But there is obviously no connection between the manner in which the timocratic State springs out of the ideal, and the mere accident by which the timocratic man is the son of a retired statesman.
The first of these declining States is timocracy, or the government of soldiers and lovers of honour, which answers to the Spartan State. This is a government of force. Education is not inspired by the Muses, but imposed by the law. All the finer elements of organization have disappeared. The philosopher himself has lost the love of truth. The soldier, who is of a simpler and more honest nature, rules in his place. The individual who answers to timocracy has some noticeable qualities. He is described as poorly educated, but like the Spartan, a lover of literature. Although he is a harsh master to his servants, he has no natural superiority over them. His character is based on a reaction against his father's circumstances. In a troubled city, his father has retired from politics. His mother is dissatisfied with her own position and always urges him toward the life of political ambition. Such a character may have had this origin. Livy attributes the Licinian laws to a feminine jealousy of a similar kind. But there is obviously no connection between the way the timocratic State springs out of the ideal and the mere accident by which the timocratic man is the son of a retired statesman.
The two next stages in the decline of constitutions have even less historical foundation. For there is no trace in Greek history of a polity like the Spartan or Cretan passing into an oligarchy of wealth, or of the oligarchy of wealth passing into a democracy. The order of history appears to be different; first, in the Homeric times there is the royal or patriarchal form of government, which a century or two later was succeeded by an oligarchy of birth rather than of wealth, and in which wealth was only the accident of the hereditary possession of land and power. Sometimes this oligarchical government gave way to a government based upon a qualification of property, which, according to Aristotle’s mode of using words, would have been called a timocracy; and this in some cities, as at Athens, became the conducting medium to democracy. But such was not the necessary order of succession in States; nor, indeed, can any order be discerned in the endless fluctuation of Greek history (like the tides in the Euripus), except, perhaps, in the almost uniform tendency from monarchy to aristocracy in the earliest times. At first sight there appears to be a similar inversion in the last step of the Platonic succession; for tyranny, instead of being the natural end of democracy, in early Greek history appears rather as a stage leading to democracy; the reign of Peisistratus and his sons is an episode which comes between the legislation of Solon and the constitution of Cleisthenes; and some secret cause common to them all seems to have led the greater part of Hellas at her first appearance in the dawn of history, e.g. Athens, Argos, Corinth, Sicyon, and nearly every State with the exception of Sparta, through a similar stage of tyranny which ended either in oligarchy or democracy. But then we must remember that Plato is describing rather the contemporary governments of the Sicilian States, which alternated between democracy and tyranny, than the ancient history of Athens or Corinth.
The next two stages in the decline of constitutions have even less historical support. Greek history shows no trace of a government like Sparta's or Crete's changing into an oligarchy based on wealth. There's also no evidence of wealthy oligarchies becoming democracies. The actual order of history appears different. First, in Homer's time, there was royal or patriarchal government. A century or two later, this was replaced by an oligarchy based on birth rather than wealth. In these systems, wealth was simply an accident of inheriting land and power. Sometimes this oligarchical government gave way to one based on property qualifications. According to Aristotle's way of using words, this would have been called a timocracy. In some cities like Athens, this became the path to democracy. But this wasn't the necessary order of succession in states. In fact, no clear order can be seen in the endless fluctuations of Greek history, which changed like tides in the Euripus. The only pattern might be the almost uniform tendency from monarchy to aristocracy in the earliest times. At first glance, there seems to be a similar reversal in the last step of Plato's sequence. Tyranny, instead of being the natural end of democracy, appears in early Greek history more as a stage leading to democracy. The reign of Peisistratus and his sons is an episode that comes between Solon's legislation and Cleisthenes' constitution. Some secret cause common to them all seems to have led most of Greece at her first appearance in history through a similar stage of tyranny. Athens, Argos, Corinth, Sicyon, and nearly every state except Sparta went through this tyranny, which ended in either oligarchy or democracy. But we must remember that Plato is describing the contemporary governments of the Sicilian states, which alternated between democracy and tyranny, rather than the ancient history of Athens or Corinth.
The portrait of the tyrant himself is just such as the later Greek delighted to draw of Phalaris and Dionysius, in which, as in the lives of mediaeval saints or mythic heroes, the conduct and actions of one were attributed to another in order to fill up the outline. There was no enormity which the Greek was not today to believe of them; the tyrant was the negation of government and law; his assassination was glorious; there was no crime, however unnatural, which might not with probability be attributed to him. In this, Plato was only following the common thought of his countrymen, which he embellished and exaggerated with all the power of his genius. There is no need to suppose that he drew from life; or that his knowledge of tyrants is derived from a personal acquaintance with Dionysius. The manner in which he speaks of them would rather tend to render doubtful his ever having ‘consorted’ with them, or entertained the schemes, which are attributed to him in the Epistles, of regenerating Sicily by their help.
The portrait of the tyrant himself is exactly what later Greeks loved to draw of Phalaris and Dionysius. In these portraits, just like in the lives of medieval saints or mythic heroes, the conduct and actions of one person were attributed to another to fill out the picture. There was no terrible act that Greeks weren't ready to believe about these tyrants. The tyrant represented the complete opposite of government and law. His assassination was considered glorious. There was no crime, however unnatural, that couldn't probably be attributed to him. In this, Plato was simply following the common thinking of his countrymen. He decorated and exaggerated these ideas with all the power of his genius. There's no need to assume that he drew from real life. His knowledge of tyrants probably didn't come from personal experience with Dionysius. The way he speaks about them would actually make us doubt that he ever spent time with them. It also makes us question whether he really entertained the schemes attributed to him in the Epistles about reforming Sicily with their help.
Plato in a hyperbolical and serio-comic vein exaggerates the follies of democracy which he also sees reflected in social life. To him democracy is a state of individualism or dissolution; in which every one is doing what is right in his own eyes. Of a people animated by a common spirit of liberty, rising as one man to repel the Persian host, which is the leading idea of democracy in Herodotus and Thucydides, he never seems to think. But if he is not a believer in liberty, still less is he a lover of tyranny. His deeper and more serious condemnation is reserved for the tyrant, who is the ideal of wickedness and also of weakness, and who in his utter helplessness and suspiciousness is leading an almost impossible existence, without that remnant of good which, in Plato’s opinion, was required to give power to evil (Book I). This ideal of wickedness living in helpless misery, is the reverse of that other portrait of perfect injustice ruling in happiness and splendour, which first of all Thrasymachus, and afterwards the sons of Ariston had drawn, and is also the reverse of the king whose rule of life is the good of his subjects.
Plato uses exaggeration and dark humor to criticize democracy's flaws. He sees these same problems reflected in social life. To him, democracy means individualism run wild. It's a state where everyone does whatever they think is right. He never considers the idea of a people united by liberty, rising together to fight off invaders like the Persians. This vision of democracy appears in Herodotus and Thucydides, but Plato doesn't seem to think about it. While Plato doesn't believe in liberty, he hates tyranny even more. He saves his harshest criticism for the tyrant. The tyrant represents the perfect example of both wickedness and weakness. In his complete helplessness and paranoia, the tyrant lives an almost impossible life. He lacks even that small bit of good that Plato believed was necessary to make evil truly powerful (Book I). This picture of wickedness living in helpless misery is the opposite of another portrait. First Thrasymachus, then the sons of Ariston, had painted a different picture of perfect injustice ruling in happiness and glory. It's also the opposite of the true king, whose life is devoted to serving his subjects' good.
Each of these governments and individuals has a corresponding ethical gradation: the ideal State is under the rule of reason, not extinguishing but harmonizing the passions, and training them in virtue; in the timocracy and the timocratic man the constitution, whether of the State or of the individual, is based, first, upon courage, and secondly, upon the love of honour; this latter virtue, which is hardly to be esteemed a virtue, has superseded all the rest. In the second stage of decline the virtues have altogether disappeared, and the love of gain has succeeded to them; in the third stage, or democracy, the various passions are allowed to have free play, and the virtues and vices are impartially cultivated. But this freedom, which leads to many curious extravagances of character, is in reality only a state of weakness and dissipation. At last, one monster passion takes possession of the whole nature of man—this is tyranny. In all of them excess—the excess first of wealth and then of freedom, is the element of decay.
Each of these governments and individuals has a matching ethical level. The ideal State is ruled by reason, which doesn't destroy the passions but brings them into harmony and trains them in virtue. In the timocracy and the timocratic man, the constitution is based first on courage and second on the love of honor. This second virtue, which can hardly be called a virtue, has replaced all the others. In the second stage of decline, the virtues have completely disappeared. The love of gain has taken their place. In the third stage, or democracy, various passions are allowed to run free. Virtues and vices are cultivated equally. But this freedom, which leads to many strange extremes of character, is really just a state of weakness and waste. Finally, one monstrous passion takes over the entire nature of man. This is tyranny. In all of these systems, excess is the element of decay. First comes the excess of wealth, then the excess of freedom.
The eighth book of the Republic abounds in pictures of life and fanciful allusions; the use of metaphorical language is carried to a greater extent than anywhere else in Plato. We may remark,
The eighth book of the Republic is full of vivid pictures of life and imaginative comparisons. Plato uses more metaphorical language here than anywhere else in his writings. We may note,
(1), the description of the two nations in one, which become more and more divided in the Greek Republics, as in feudal times, and perhaps also in our own;
(1), the description of the two nations in one, which grow more and more divided in the Greek Republics, as in feudal times, and perhaps also in our own.
(2), the notion of democracy expressed in a sort of Pythagorean formula as equality among unequals;
(2), the idea of democracy expressed as a kind of Pythagorean formula: equality among unequals;
(3), the free and easy ways of men and animals, which are characteristic of liberty, as foreign mercenaries and universal mistrust are of the tyrant;
(3), the relaxed and natural behavior of people and animals that comes with freedom, just as foreign soldiers and widespread suspicion are signs of a tyrant.
(4), the proposal that mere debts should not be recoverable by law is a speculation which has often been entertained by reformers of the law in modern times, and is in harmony with the tendencies of modern legislation. Debt and land were the two great difficulties of the ancient lawgiver: in modern times we may be said to have almost, if not quite, solved the first of these difficulties, but hardly the second.
The idea that simple debts should not be legally enforceable is a theory that law reformers have often considered in modern times. This concept aligns with the direction of modern legislation. Debt and land were the two major challenges facing ancient lawmakers. In modern times, we have almost completely solved the first problem, if not entirely. However, we have barely addressed the second.
Still more remarkable are the corresponding portraits of individuals: there is the family picture of the father and mother and the old servant of the timocratical man, and the outward respectability and inherent meanness of the oligarchical; the uncontrolled licence and freedom of the democrat, in which the young Alcibiades seems to be depicted, doing right or wrong as he pleases, and who at last, like the prodigal, goes into a far country (note here the play of language by which the democratic man is himself represented under the image of a State having a citadel and receiving embassies); and there is the wild-beast nature, which breaks loose in his successor. The hit about the tyrant being a parricide; the representation of the tyrant’s life as an obscene dream; the rhetorical surprise of a more miserable than the most miserable of men in Book IX; the hint to the poets that if they are the friends of tyrants there is no place for them in a constitutional State, and that they are too clever not to see the propriety of their own expulsion; the continuous image of the drones who are of two kinds, swelling at last into the monster drone having wings (Book IX),—are among Plato’s happiest touches.
Even more remarkable are the matching portraits of individuals. There's the family picture of the father, mother, and old servant of the timocratical man. There's the outward respectability and inner meanness of the oligarchical type. The democrat shows uncontrolled freedom and license. The young Alcibiades seems to be depicted here, doing right or wrong as he pleases. Like the prodigal son, he eventually goes into a far country. Note the clever wordplay here: the democratic man is represented as a State with a citadel that receives embassies. Then there's the wild-beast nature that breaks loose in his successor. The clever observation about the tyrant being a parricide stands out. So does showing the tyrant's life as an obscene dream. The rhetorical surprise of finding someone more miserable than the most miserable of men in Book IX is brilliant. There's the hint to poets that if they befriend tyrants, they have no place in a constitutional State. They're too clever not to see why their own expulsion is proper. The ongoing image of drones comes in two kinds, finally swelling into the monster drone with wings in Book IX. These are among Plato's happiest touches.
There remains to be considered the great difficulty of this book of the Republic, the so-called number of the State. This is a puzzle almost as great as the Number of the Beast in the Book of Revelation, and though apparently known to Aristotle, is referred to by Cicero as a proverb of obscurity (Ep. ad Att.). And some have imagined that there is no answer to the puzzle, and that Plato has been practising upon his readers. But such a deception as this is inconsistent with the manner in which Aristotle speaks of the number (Pol.), and would have been ridiculous to any reader of the Republic who was acquainted with Greek mathematics. As little reason is there for supposing that Plato intentionally used obscure expressions; the obscurity arises from our want of familiarity with the subject. On the other hand, Plato himself indicates that he is not altogether serious, and in describing his number as a solemn jest of the Muses, he appears to imply some degree of satire on the symbolical use of number. (Compare Cratylus; Protag.)
We still need to consider the great difficulty of this book of the Republic: the so-called number of the State. This puzzle is almost as challenging as the Number of the Beast in the Book of Revelation. Though Aristotle apparently knew about it, Cicero referred to it as a proverb of obscurity (Ep. ad Att.). Some people have imagined there is no answer to the puzzle. They think Plato was just playing tricks on his readers. But this kind of deception doesn't match the way Aristotle speaks of the number (Pol.). It would have seemed ridiculous to any reader of the Republic who understood Greek mathematics. There's just as little reason to suppose that Plato intentionally used obscure expressions. The obscurity comes from our lack of familiarity with the subject. On the other hand, Plato himself suggests that he is not altogether serious. In describing his number as a solemn jest of the Muses, he seems to imply some degree of satire on the symbolic use of number. (Compare Cratylus; Protag.)
Our hope of understanding the passage depends principally on an accurate study of the words themselves; on which a faint light is thrown by the parallel passage in the ninth book. Another help is the allusion in Aristotle, who makes the important remark that the latter part of the passage (Greek) describes a solid figure. (Pol.—‘He only says that nothing is abiding, but that all things change in a certain cycle; and that the origin of the change is a base of numbers which are in the ratio of 4:3; and this when combined with a figure of five gives two harmonies; he means when the number of this figure becomes solid.’) Some further clue may be gathered from the appearance of the Pythagorean triangle, which is denoted by the numbers 3, 4, 5, and in which, as in every right-angled triangle, the squares of the two lesser sides equal the square of the hypotenuse (9 + 16 = 25).
Our hope of understanding the passage depends mainly on studying the words carefully. The parallel passage in the ninth book sheds some light on this. Aristotle's comments also help us. He makes an important point that the latter part of the passage describes a solid figure. In his Politics, Aristotle writes: "He only says that nothing lasts forever, but that all things change in a certain cycle. The origin of the change is a base of numbers in the ratio of 4:3. When this combines with a figure of five, it gives two harmonies. He means when the number of this figure becomes solid." We can find another clue in the Pythagorean triangle. This triangle uses the numbers 3, 4, and 5. Like every right-angled triangle, the squares of the two smaller sides equal the square of the longest side (9 + 16 = 25).
Plato begins by speaking of a perfect or cyclical number (Tim.), i.e. a number in which the sum of the divisors equals the whole; this is the divine or perfect number in which all lesser cycles or revolutions are complete. He also speaks of a human or imperfect number, having four terms and three intervals of numbers which are related to one another in certain proportions; these he converts into figures, and finds in them when they have been raised to the third power certain elements of number, which give two ‘harmonies,’ the one square, the other oblong; but he does not say that the square number answers to the divine, or the oblong number to the human cycle; nor is any intimation given that the first or divine number represents the period of the world, the second the period of the state, or of the human race as Zeller supposes; nor is the divine number afterwards mentioned (Arist.). The second is the number of generations or births, and presides over them in the same mysterious manner in which the stars preside over them, or in which, according to the Pythagoreans, opportunity, justice, marriage, are represented by some number or figure. This is probably the number 216.
Plato begins by discussing a perfect or cyclical number (Tim.). This is a number where the sum of its divisors equals the whole number itself. He calls this the divine or perfect number, in which all smaller cycles or revolutions are complete. He also talks about a human or imperfect number. This number has four terms and three intervals that relate to each other in specific proportions. Plato converts these into geometric figures. When he raises them to the third power, he finds certain numerical elements that create two 'harmonies.' One harmony is square, the other is oblong. But Plato doesn't say that the square number corresponds to the divine cycle, or that the oblong number matches the human cycle. He gives no hint that the first or divine number represents the period of the world, while the second represents the period of the state or human race, as Zeller suggests. The divine number is never mentioned again (Arist.). The second number governs generations or births. It presides over them in the same mysterious way that stars preside over them. It works like how the Pythagoreans believed that opportunity, justice, and marriage were each represented by some number or figure. This number is probably 216.
The explanation given in the text supposes the two harmonies to make up the number 8000. This explanation derives a certain plausibility from the circumstance that 8000 is the ancient number of the Spartan citizens (Herod.), and would be what Plato might have called ‘a number which nearly concerns the population of a city’; the mysterious disappearance of the Spartan population may possibly have suggested to him the first cause of his decline of States. The lesser or square ‘harmony,’ of 400, might be a symbol of the guardians,—the larger or oblong ‘harmony,’ of the people, and the numbers 3, 4, 5 might refer respectively to the three orders in the State or parts of the soul, the four virtues, the five forms of government. The harmony of the musical scale, which is elsewhere used as a symbol of the harmony of the state, is also indicated. For the numbers 3, 4, 5, which represent the sides of the Pythagorean triangle, also denote the intervals of the scale.
The explanation in the text assumes the two harmonies add up to 8000. This explanation seems plausible because 8000 was the ancient number of Spartan citizens according to Herodotus. It would be what Plato might have called "a number which nearly concerns the population of a city." The mysterious disappearance of the Spartan population may have suggested to him the first cause of his decline of States. The smaller or square "harmony" of 400 might symbolize the guardians. The larger or oblong "harmony" could represent the people. The numbers 3, 4, 5 might refer to the three orders in the State or parts of the soul, the four virtues, and the five forms of government. The harmony of the musical scale is also indicated, which Plato uses elsewhere as a symbol of the harmony of the state. The numbers 3, 4, 5 represent the sides of the Pythagorean triangle and also denote the intervals of the scale.
The terms used in the statement of the problem may be explained as follows. A perfect number (Greek), as already stated, is one which is equal to the sum of its divisors. Thus 6, which is the first perfect or cyclical number, = 1 + 2 + 3. The words (Greek), ‘terms’ or ‘notes,’ and (Greek), ‘intervals,’ are applicable to music as well as to number and figure. (Greek) is the ‘base’ on which the whole calculation depends, or the ‘lowest term’ from which it can be worked out. The words (Greek) have been variously translated—‘squared and cubed’ (Donaldson), ‘equalling and equalled in power’ (Weber), ‘by involution and evolution,’ i.e. by raising the power and extracting the root (as in the translation). Numbers are called ‘like and unlike’ (Greek) when the factors or the sides of the planes and cubes which they represent are or are not in the same ratio: e.g. 8 and 27 = 2 cubed and 3 cubed; and conversely. ‘Waxing’ (Greek) numbers, called also ‘increasing’ (Greek), are those which are exceeded by the sum of their divisors: e.g. 12 and 18 are less than 16 and 21. ‘Waning’ (Greek) numbers, called also ‘decreasing’ (Greek) are those which succeed the sum of their divisors: e.g. 8 and 27 exceed 7 and 13. The words translated ‘commensurable and agreeable to one another’ (Greek) seem to be different ways of describing the same relation, with more or less precision. They are equivalent to ‘expressible in terms having the same relation to one another,’ like the series 8, 12, 18, 27, each of which numbers is in the relation of (1 and 1/2) to the preceding. The ‘base,’ or ‘fundamental number, which has 1/3 added to it’ (1 and 1/3) = 4/3 or a musical fourth. (Greek) is a ‘proportion’ of numbers as of musical notes, applied either to the parts or factors of a single number or to the relation of one number to another. The first harmony is a ‘square’ number (Greek); the second harmony is an ‘oblong’ number (Greek), i.e. a number representing a figure of which the opposite sides only are equal. (Greek) = ‘numbers squared from’ or ‘upon diameters’; (Greek) = ‘rational,’ i.e. omitting fractions, (Greek), ‘irrational,’ i.e. including fractions; e.g. 49 is a square of the rational diameter of a figure the side of which = 5: 50, of an irrational diameter of the same. For several of the explanations here given and for a good deal besides I am indebted to an excellent article on the Platonic Number by Dr. Donaldson (Proc. of the Philol. Society).
The terms used in the statement of the problem can be explained as follows. A perfect number, as already stated, equals the sum of its divisors. For example, 6 is the first perfect or cyclical number, and it equals 1 + 2 + 3. The words for 'terms' or 'notes' and 'intervals' apply to both music and mathematics. The 'base' is the foundation for the entire calculation, or the 'lowest term' from which everything can be worked out. The words have been translated in various ways: 'squared and cubed' (Donaldson), 'equalling and equalled in power' (Weber), 'by involution and evolution,' meaning by raising the power and extracting the root (as in the translation). Numbers are called 'like and unlike' when the factors or the sides of the planes and cubes they represent are or are not in the same ratio. For example, 8 and 27 equal 2 cubed and 3 cubed, and vice versa. 'Waxing' numbers, also called 'increasing' numbers, are those that are exceeded by the sum of their divisors. For example, 12 and 18 are less than 16 and 21. 'Waning' numbers, also called 'decreasing' numbers, are those that exceed the sum of their divisors. For example, 8 and 27 exceed 7 and 13. The words translated 'commensurable and agreeable to one another' seem to describe the same relationship with varying precision. They mean 'expressible in terms having the same relation to one another,' like the series 8, 12, 18, 27. Each number in this series relates to the preceding one as 1 and 1/2. The 'base,' or 'fundamental number, which has 1/3 added to it' (1 and 1/3) equals 4/3 or a musical fourth. A 'proportion' applies to numbers as well as musical notes. It can describe either the parts or factors of a single number or the relationship of one number to another. The first harmony is a 'square' number. The second harmony is an 'oblong' number, meaning a number representing a figure where only the opposite sides are equal. 'Numbers squared from diameters' means 'rational' (omitting fractions) or 'irrational' (including fractions). For example, 49 is a square of the rational diameter of a figure whose side equals 5. 50 is the square of an irrational diameter of the same figure. I am indebted to Dr. Donaldson's excellent article on the Platonic Number (Proceedings of the Philological Society) for several of these explanations and much more.
The conclusions which he draws from these data are summed up by him as follows. Having assumed that the number of the perfect or divine cycle is the number of the world, and the number of the imperfect cycle the number of the state, he proceeds: ‘The period of the world is defined by the perfect number 6, that of the state by the cube of that number or 216, which is the product of the last pair of terms in the Platonic Tetractys (a series of seven terms, 1, 2, 3, 4, 9, 8, 27); and if we take this as the basis of our computation, we shall have two cube numbers (Greek), viz. 8 and 27; and the mean proportionals between these, viz. 12 and 18, will furnish three intervals and four terms, and these terms and intervals stand related to one another in the sesqui-altera ratio, i.e. each term is to the preceding as 3/2. Now if we remember that the number 216 = 8 x 27 = 3 cubed + 4 cubed + 5 cubed, and 3 squared + 4 squared = 5 squared, we must admit that this number implies the numbers 3, 4, 5, to which musicians attach so much importance. And if we combine the ratio 4/3 with the number 5, or multiply the ratios of the sides by the hypotenuse, we shall by first squaring and then cubing obtain two expressions, which denote the ratio of the two last pairs of terms in the Platonic Tetractys, the former multiplied by the square, the latter by the cube of the number 10, the sum of the first four digits which constitute the Platonic Tetractys.’ The two (Greek) he elsewhere explains as follows: ‘The first (Greek) is (Greek), in other words (4/3 x 5) all squared = 100 x 2 squared over 3 squared. The second (Greek), a cube of the same root, is described as 100 multiplied (alpha) by the rational diameter of 5 diminished by unity, i.e., as shown above, 48: (beta) by two incommensurable diameters, i.e. the two first irrationals, or 2 and 3: and (gamma) by the cube of 3, or 27. Thus we have (48 + 5 + 27) 100 = 1000 x 2 cubed. This second harmony is to be the cube of the number of which the former harmony is the square, and therefore must be divided by the cube of 3. In other words, the whole expression will be: (1), for the first harmony, 400/9: (2), for the second harmony, 8000/27.’
Here's what he concludes from this data. He assumes that the perfect or divine cycle uses the number of the world, while the imperfect cycle uses the number of the state. He then explains: "The world's period is defined by the perfect number 6. The state's period is defined by the cube of that number, which is 216. This comes from multiplying the last pair of terms in the Platonic Tetractys (a series of seven terms: 1, 2, 3, 4, 9, 8, 27). If we use this as our starting point, we get two cube numbers: 8 and 27. The mean proportionals between these are 12 and 18. This gives us three intervals and four terms. These terms and intervals relate to each other in the sesqui-altera ratio. This means each term relates to the previous one as 3/2. Now remember that 216 = 8 x 27 = 3 cubed + 4 cubed + 5 cubed. Also, 3 squared + 4 squared = 5 squared. We must admit that this number includes the numbers 3, 4, 5, which musicians consider very important. If we combine the ratio 4/3 with the number 5, or multiply the ratios of the sides by the hypotenuse, we can square and then cube to get two expressions. These show the ratio of the two last pairs of terms in the Platonic Tetractys. The first is multiplied by the square of 10, the second by the cube of 10. Ten is the sum of the first four digits that make up the Platonic Tetractys." He explains the two expressions elsewhere like this: "The first expression is (4/3 x 5) all squared = 100 x 2 squared over 3 squared. The second expression is a cube of the same root. It equals 100 multiplied by: (a) the rational diameter of 5 diminished by unity (which is 48, as shown above), (b) two incommensurable diameters (the two first irrationals, 2 and 3), and (c) the cube of 3, which is 27. So we have (48 + 5 + 27) 100 = 1000 x 2 cubed. This second harmony should be the cube of the number that the first harmony squares. Therefore it must be divided by the cube of 3. In other words, the complete expression is: (1) for the first harmony, 400/9, and (2) for the second harmony, 8000/27."
The reasons which have inclined me to agree with Dr. Donaldson and also with Schleiermacher in supposing that 216 is the Platonic number of births are: (1) that it coincides with the description of the number given in the first part of the passage (Greek...): (2) that the number 216 with its permutations would have been familiar to a Greek mathematician, though unfamiliar to us: (3) that 216 is the cube of 6, and also the sum of 3 cubed, 4 cubed, 5 cubed, the numbers 3, 4, 5 representing the Pythagorean triangle, of which the sides when squared equal the square of the hypotenuse (9 + 16 = 25): (4) that it is also the period of the Pythagorean Metempsychosis: (5) the three ultimate terms or bases (3, 4, 5) of which 216 is composed answer to the third, fourth, fifth in the musical scale: (6) that the number 216 is the product of the cubes of 2 and 3, which are the two last terms in the Platonic Tetractys: (7) that the Pythagorean triangle is said by Plutarch (de Is. et Osir.), Proclus (super prima Eucl.), and Quintilian (de Musica) to be contained in this passage, so that the tradition of the school seems to point in the same direction: (8) that the Pythagorean triangle is called also the figure of marriage (Greek).
I agree with Dr. Donaldson and Schleiermacher that 216 is the Platonic number of births. Here are my reasons: (1) It matches the description given in the first part of the passage. (2) The number 216 and its variations would have been familiar to Greek mathematicians, though not to us. (3) 216 is the cube of 6. It's also the sum of 3 cubed, 4 cubed, and 5 cubed. The numbers 3, 4, and 5 form the Pythagorean triangle, where the squares of the two shorter sides equal the square of the longest side (9 + 16 = 25). (4) It represents the period of Pythagorean Metempsychosis. (5) The three basic numbers that make up 216 (3, 4, 5) correspond to the third, fourth, and fifth notes in the musical scale. (6) 216 is the product of the cubes of 2 and 3, which are the final two terms in the Platonic Tetractys. (7) Plutarch, Proclus, and Quintilian all say the Pythagorean triangle appears in this passage. The school tradition supports this interpretation. (8) The Pythagorean triangle is also called the figure of marriage.
But though agreeing with Dr. Donaldson thus far, I see no reason for supposing, as he does, that the first or perfect number is the world, the human or imperfect number the state; nor has he given any proof that the second harmony is a cube. Nor do I think that (Greek) can mean ‘two incommensurables,’ which he arbitrarily assumes to be 2 and 3, but rather, as the preceding clause implies, (Greek), i.e. two square numbers based upon irrational diameters of a figure the side of which is 5 = 50 x 2.
I agree with Dr. Donaldson up to this point. However, I don't see why he assumes the first or perfect number represents the world, while the human or imperfect number represents the state. He hasn't provided any proof that the second harmony is a cube. I also don't think the Greek term can mean "two incommensurables." He arbitrarily assumes these are 2 and 3. Instead, the preceding clause suggests it means two square numbers based on irrational diameters of a figure with a side of 5 = 50 x 2.
The greatest objection to the translation is the sense given to the words (Greek), ‘a base of three with a third added to it, multiplied by 5.’ In this somewhat forced manner Plato introduces once more the numbers of the Pythagorean triangle. But the coincidences in the numbers which follow are in favour of the explanation. The first harmony of 400, as has been already remarked, probably represents the rulers; the second and oblong harmony of 7600, the people.
The biggest criticism of the translation concerns how certain Greek words are interpreted: 'a base of three with a third added to it, multiplied by 5.' Plato uses this somewhat awkward approach to bring back the numbers from the Pythagorean triangle. But the matching numbers that come after support this explanation. The first harmony of 400, as already noted, probably represents the rulers. The second and oblong harmony of 7600 represents the people.
And here we take leave of the difficulty. The discovery of the riddle would be useless, and would throw no light on ancient mathematics. The point of interest is that Plato should have used such a symbol, and that so much of the Pythagorean spirit should have prevailed in him. His general meaning is that divine creation is perfect, and is represented or presided over by a perfect or cyclical number; human generation is imperfect, and represented or presided over by an imperfect number or series of numbers. The number 5040, which is the number of the citizens in the Laws, is expressly based by him on utilitarian grounds, namely, the convenience of the number for division; it is also made up of the first seven digits multiplied by one another. The contrast of the perfect and imperfect number may have been easily suggested by the corrections of the cycle, which were made first by Meton and secondly by Callippus; (the latter is said to have been a pupil of Plato). Of the degree of importance or of exactness to be attributed to the problem, the number of the tyrant in Book IX (729 = 365 x 2), and the slight correction of the error in the number 5040/12 (Laws), may furnish a criterion. There is nothing surprising in the circumstance that those who were seeking for order in nature and had found order in number, should have imagined one to give law to the other. Plato believes in a power of number far beyond what he could see realized in the world around him, and he knows the great influence which ‘the little matter of 1, 2, 3’ exercises upon education. He may even be thought to have a prophetic anticipation of the discoveries of Quetelet and others, that numbers depend upon numbers; e.g.—in population, the numbers of births and the respective numbers of children born of either sex, on the respective ages of parents, i.e. on other numbers.
Here we can set aside this difficult problem. Finding the answer to the riddle would be pointless and wouldn't help us understand ancient mathematics. What matters is that Plato chose to use such a symbol. It shows how much Pythagorean thinking influenced him. His basic idea is that divine creation is perfect. It's represented or governed by a perfect or cyclical number. Human reproduction is imperfect. It's represented or governed by an imperfect number or series of numbers. The number 5040 is the number of citizens in the Laws. Plato chose it for practical reasons—it's convenient for division. It's also made up of the first seven digits multiplied together. The contrast between perfect and imperfect numbers may have come from corrections to the calendar cycle. Meton made the first corrections, then Callippus made more. Callippus is said to have been Plato's student. We can judge how important or exact this problem is by looking at other examples. There's the tyrant's number in Book IX (729 = 365 x 2) and the small correction to the error in 5040/12 in the Laws. It's not surprising that people searching for order in nature found order in numbers. They would naturally think one controlled the other. Plato believed numbers had far more power than he could see in the world around him. He knew the great influence that "the little matter of 1, 2, 3" had on education. He may even have predicted discoveries like those of Quetelet and others. They showed that numbers depend on other numbers. For example, in population studies, birth rates and the numbers of boys versus girls born depend on parents' ages—which are also numbers.
BOOK IX. Last of all comes the tyrannical man, about whom we have to enquire, Whence is he, and how does he live—in happiness or in misery? There is, however, a previous question of the nature and number of the appetites, which I should like to consider first. Some of them are unlawful, and yet admit of being chastened and weakened in various degrees by the power of reason and law. ‘What appetites do you mean?’ I mean those which are awake when the reasoning powers are asleep, which get up and walk about naked without any self-respect or shame; and there is no conceivable folly or crime, however cruel or unnatural, of which, in imagination, they may not be guilty. ‘True,’ he said; ‘very true.’ But when a man’s pulse beats temperately; and he has supped on a feast of reason and come to a knowledge of himself before going to rest, and has satisfied his desires just enough to prevent their perturbing his reason, which remains clear and luminous, and when he is free from quarrel and heat,—the visions which he has on his bed are least irregular and abnormal. Even in good men there is such an irregular wild-beast nature, which peers out in sleep.
BOOK IX. Last of all comes the tyrannical man, about whom we have to enquire, Whence is he, and how does he live—in happiness or in misery? There is, however, a previous question of the nature and number of the appetites, which I should like to consider first. Some of them are unlawful, and yet admit of being chastened and weakened in various degrees by the power of reason and law. 'What appetites do you mean?' I mean those which are awake when our reasoning powers are asleep. They get up and walk about naked without any self-respect or shame. There is no conceivable folly or crime, however cruel or unnatural, of which they may not be guilty in our imagination. 'True,' he said. 'Very true.' But consider a different situation. A man's pulse beats calmly. He has feasted on reason and come to know himself before going to rest. He has satisfied his desires just enough to prevent them from disturbing his reason, which remains clear and bright. He is free from quarrel and anger. In this state, the visions he has on his bed are least irregular and abnormal. Even in good men there is such an irregular wild-beast nature, which peers out in sleep.
To return:—You remember what was said of the democrat; that he was the son of a miserly father, who encouraged the saving desires and repressed the ornamental and expensive ones; presently the youth got into fine company, and began to entertain a dislike to his father’s narrow ways; and being a better man than the corrupters of his youth, he came to a mean, and led a life, not of lawless or slavish passion, but of regular and successive indulgence. Now imagine that the youth has become a father, and has a son who is exposed to the same temptations, and has companions who lead him into every sort of iniquity, and parents and friends who try to keep him right. The counsellors of evil find that their only chance of retaining him is to implant in his soul a monster drone, or love; while other desires buzz around him and mystify him with sweet sounds and scents, this monster love takes possession of him, and puts an end to every true or modest thought or wish. Love, like drunkenness and madness, is a tyranny; and the tyrannical man, whether made by nature or habit, is just a drinking, lusting, furious sort of animal.
To return: You remember what we said about the democrat. He was the son of a miserly father who encouraged saving and discouraged spending on ornamental and expensive things. Eventually the young man got into fine company and began to dislike his father's narrow ways. Since he was a better man than those who corrupted his youth, he found a middle ground and led a life of regular and successive indulgence, not lawless or slavish passion. Now imagine that this youth has become a father and has a son who faces the same temptations. The son has companions who lead him into every sort of wrongdoing, and parents and friends who try to keep him on the right path. The counselors of evil find that their only chance of keeping him is to plant a monster drone in his soul, or love. While other desires buzz around him and confuse him with sweet sounds and scents, this monster love takes possession of him and puts an end to every true or modest thought or wish. Love, like drunkenness and madness, is a tyranny. The tyrannical man, whether made by nature or habit, is just a drinking, lusting, furious sort of animal.
And how does such an one live? ‘Nay, that you must tell me.’ Well then, I fancy that he will live amid revelries and harlotries, and love will be the lord and master of the house. Many desires require much money, and so he spends all that he has and borrows more; and when he has nothing the young ravens are still in the nest in which they were hatched, crying for food. Love urges them on; and they must be gratified by force or fraud, or if not, they become painful and troublesome; and as the new pleasures succeed the old ones, so will the son take possession of the goods of his parents; if they show signs of refusing, he will defraud and deceive them; and if they openly resist, what then? ‘I can only say, that I should not much like to be in their place.’ But, O heavens, Adeimantus, to think that for some new-fangled and unnecessary love he will give up his old father and mother, best and dearest of friends, or enslave them to the fancies of the hour! Truly a tyrannical son is a blessing to his father and mother! When there is no more to be got out of them, he turns burglar or pickpocket, or robs a temple. Love overmasters the thoughts of his youth, and he becomes in sober reality the monster that he was sometimes in sleep. He waxes strong in all violence and lawlessness; and is ready for any deed of daring that will supply the wants of his rabble-rout. In a well-ordered State there are only a few such, and these in time of war go out and become the mercenaries of a tyrant. But in time of peace they stay at home and do mischief; they are the thieves, footpads, cut-purses, man-stealers of the community; or if they are able to speak, they turn false-witnesses and informers. ‘No small catalogue of crimes truly, even if the perpetrators are few.’ Yes, I said; but small and great are relative terms, and no crimes which are committed by them approach those of the tyrant, whom this class, growing strong and numerous, create out of themselves. If the people yield, well and good, but, if they resist, then, as before he beat his father and mother, so now he beats his fatherland and motherland, and places his mercenaries over them. Such men in their early days live with flatterers, and they themselves flatter others, in order to gain their ends; but they soon discard their followers when they have no longer any need of them; they are always either masters or servants,—the joys of friendship are unknown to them. And they are utterly treacherous and unjust, if the nature of justice be at all understood by us. They realize our dream; and he who is the most of a tyrant by nature, and leads the life of a tyrant for the longest time, will be the worst of them, and being the worst of them, will also be the most miserable.
And how does such a person live? 'No, you must tell me that.' Well then, I imagine he will live surrounded by parties and prostitutes, with love ruling as lord and master of the house. Many desires require much money, so he spends everything he has and borrows more. When he has nothing left, the young ravens are still in the nest where they hatched, crying for food. Love drives them on, and they must be satisfied by force or fraud. If not, they become painful and troublesome. As new pleasures replace the old ones, the son will take possession of his parents' goods. If they show signs of refusing, he will cheat and deceive them. If they openly resist, what then? 'I can only say that I wouldn't want to be in their place.' But, O heavens, Adeimantus, to think that for some newfangled and unnecessary love he will abandon his old father and mother, the best and dearest of friends, or enslave them to the whims of the moment! Truly a tyrannical son is a blessing to his father and mother! When there is nothing more to be gotten from them, he turns burglar or pickpocket, or robs a temple. Love overpowers the thoughts of his youth, and he becomes in reality the monster that he was sometimes in sleep. He grows strong in all violence and lawlessness and is ready for any daring deed that will supply the wants of his mob. In a well-ordered State there are only a few such people, and in wartime they go out and become mercenaries of a tyrant. But in peacetime they stay at home and cause trouble. They are the thieves, muggers, pickpockets, and kidnappers of the community. Or if they can speak well, they become false witnesses and informers. 'No small list of crimes truly, even if the perpetrators are few.' Yes, I said, but small and great are relative terms, and no crimes committed by them approach those of the tyrant, whom this class creates from themselves when they grow strong and numerous. If the people yield, well and good, but if they resist, then just as he once beat his father and mother, now he beats his fatherland and motherland, and places his mercenaries over them. Such men in their early days live with flatterers, and they themselves flatter others to gain their ends. But they soon discard their followers when they no longer need them. They are always either masters or servants. The joys of friendship are unknown to them. They are utterly treacherous and unjust, if we understand the nature of justice at all. They realize our dream. He who is the most tyrannical by nature, and leads the life of a tyrant for the longest time, will be the worst of them. Being the worst of them, he will also be the most miserable.
Like man, like State,—the tyrannical man will answer to tyranny, which is the extreme opposite of the royal State; for one is the best and the other the worst. But which is the happier? Great and terrible as the tyrant may appear enthroned amid his satellites, let us not be afraid to go in and ask; and the answer is, that the monarchical is the happiest, and the tyrannical the most miserable of States. And may we not ask the same question about the men themselves, requesting some one to look into them who is able to penetrate the inner nature of man, and will not be panic-struck by the vain pomp of tyranny? I will suppose that he is one who has lived with him, and has seen him in family life, or perhaps in the hour of trouble and danger.
Just as there are different types of people, there are different types of states. The tyrannical person matches tyranny, which is the complete opposite of a royal state. One is the best form of government, and the other is the worst. But which one brings more happiness? A tyrant may look great and terrifying sitting on his throne surrounded by his followers. But let's not be afraid to look closer and ask the hard question. The answer is that a monarchy brings the most happiness, while tyranny creates the most misery. Can't we ask the same question about the people themselves? We need someone who can see into a person's true nature. This person won't be fooled by the empty show of tyrannical power. I imagine someone who has actually lived with the tyrant and seen him at home with his family. Maybe they've even seen him during times of trouble and danger.
Assuming that we ourselves are the impartial judge for whom we seek, let us begin by comparing the individual and State, and ask first of all, whether the State is likely to be free or enslaved—Will there not be a little freedom and a great deal of slavery? And the freedom is of the bad, and the slavery of the good; and this applies to the man as well as to the State; for his soul is full of meanness and slavery, and the better part is enslaved to the worse. He cannot do what he would, and his mind is full of confusion; he is the very reverse of a freeman. The State will be poor and full of misery and sorrow; and the man’s soul will also be poor and full of sorrows, and he will be the most miserable of men. No, not the most miserable, for there is yet a more miserable. ‘Who is that?’ The tyrannical man who has the misfortune also to become a public tyrant. ‘There I suspect that you are right.’ Say rather, ‘I am sure;’ conjecture is out of place in an enquiry of this nature. He is like a wealthy owner of slaves, only he has more of them than any private individual. You will say, ‘The owners of slaves are not generally in any fear of them.’ But why? Because the whole city is in a league which protects the individual. Suppose however that one of these owners and his household is carried off by a god into a wilderness, where there are no freemen to help him—will he not be in an agony of terror?—will he not be compelled to flatter his slaves and to promise them many things sore against his will? And suppose the same god who carried him off were to surround him with neighbours who declare that no man ought to have slaves, and that the owners of them should be punished with death. ‘Still worse and worse! He will be in the midst of his enemies.’ And is not our tyrant such a captive soul, who is tormented by a swarm of passions which he cannot indulge; living indoors always like a woman, and jealous of those who can go out and see the world?
Let's imagine we are the impartial judges we're looking for. We can start by comparing the individual person and the State. First, let's ask whether the State is likely to be free or enslaved. Won't there be a little freedom and a great deal of slavery? The freedom belongs to the bad people, and the slavery to the good ones. This applies to individuals as well as to the State. A person's soul is full of meanness and slavery, and the better part is enslaved to the worse part. He cannot do what he wants, and his mind is full of confusion. He is the complete opposite of a free person. The State will be poor and full of misery and sorrow. The man's soul will also be poor and full of sorrows, and he will be the most miserable of men. No, not the most miserable, because there is someone even more miserable. 'Who is that?' The tyrannical man who has the misfortune to also become a public tyrant. 'I suspect you are right about that.' Say rather, 'I am sure.' Guesswork has no place in this kind of inquiry. He is like a wealthy slave owner, except he has more slaves than any private individual. You might say, 'Slave owners generally aren't afraid of their slaves.' But why not? Because the whole city forms a league that protects each individual owner. But suppose one of these owners and his household were carried off by a god into a wilderness, where there are no free people to help him. Wouldn't he be in an agony of terror? Wouldn't he be forced to flatter his slaves and promise them many things against his will? And suppose the same god who carried him off surrounded him with neighbors who declare that no one should own slaves, and that slave owners should be punished with death. 'Even worse! He would be surrounded by his enemies.' Isn't our tyrant just such a captive soul, tormented by a swarm of passions he cannot satisfy? He lives indoors always like a woman, jealous of those who can go out and see the world.
Having so many evils, will not the most miserable of men be still more miserable in a public station? Master of others when he is not master of himself; like a sick man who is compelled to be an athlete; the meanest of slaves and the most abject of flatterers; wanting all things, and never able to satisfy his desires; always in fear and distraction, like the State of which he is the representative. His jealous, hateful, faithless temper grows worse with command; he is more and more faithless, envious, unrighteous,—the most wretched of men, a misery to himself and to others. And so let us have a final trial and proclamation; need we hire a herald, or shall I proclaim the result? ‘Made the proclamation yourself.’ The son of Ariston (the best) is of opinion that the best and justest of men is also the happiest, and that this is he who is the most royal master of himself; and that the unjust man is he who is the greatest tyrant of himself and of his State. And I add further—‘seen or unseen by gods or men.’
With so many problems, won't the most miserable person become even more miserable when given public power? He tries to master others when he can't even master himself. He's like a sick man forced to compete as an athlete. He becomes the lowest of slaves and the most shameless of flatterers. He wants everything but can never satisfy his desires. He lives in constant fear and confusion, just like the state he represents. His jealous, hateful, and untrustworthy nature gets worse with power. He becomes more faithless, envious, and corrupt. He's the most wretched of men, bringing misery to himself and everyone around him. So let's have a final test and announcement. Do we need to hire a herald, or should I make the proclamation myself? "Make the proclamation yourself." The son of Ariston (the best) believes that the best and most just person is also the happiest. This is the person who has the most royal mastery over himself. The unjust person is the one who becomes the greatest tyrant over himself and his state. And I add this: "whether seen or unseen by gods or men."
This is our first proof. The second is derived from the three kinds of pleasure, which answer to the three elements of the soul—reason, passion, desire; under which last is comprehended avarice as well as sensual appetite, while passion includes ambition, party-feeling, love of reputation. Reason, again, is solely directed to the attainment of truth, and careless of money and reputation. In accordance with the difference of men’s natures, one of these three principles is in the ascendant, and they have their several pleasures corresponding to them. Interrogate now the three natures, and each one will be found praising his own pleasures and depreciating those of others. The money-maker will contrast the vanity of knowledge with the solid advantages of wealth. The ambitious man will despise knowledge which brings no honour; whereas the philosopher will regard only the fruition of truth, and will call other pleasures necessary rather than good. Now, how shall we decide between them? Is there any better criterion than experience and knowledge? And which of the three has the truest knowledge and the widest experience? The experience of youth makes the philosopher acquainted with the two kinds of desire, but the avaricious and the ambitious man never taste the pleasures of truth and wisdom. Honour he has equally with them; they are ‘judged of him,’ but he is ‘not judged of them,’ for they never attain to the knowledge of true being. And his instrument is reason, whereas their standard is only wealth and honour; and if by reason we are to judge, his good will be the truest. And so we arrive at the result that the pleasure of the rational part of the soul, and a life passed in such pleasure is the pleasantest. He who has a right to judge judges thus. Next comes the life of ambition, and, in the third place, that of money-making.
This is our first proof. The second comes from the three kinds of pleasure that match the three parts of the soul: reason, passion, and desire. Desire includes both greed and physical appetites. Passion covers ambition, political feelings, and love of reputation. Reason focuses only on finding truth and doesn't care about money or fame. People have different natures, so one of these three drives dominates in each person. They each have their own pleasures that go with their dominant drive. Ask each type of person what they prefer, and you'll find they praise their own pleasures while putting down the others. The money-maker will say knowledge is worthless compared to the real benefits of wealth. The ambitious person will dismiss knowledge that brings no honor. The philosopher will value only the joy of discovering truth and will call other pleasures necessary rather than truly good. How do we decide between them? Is there any better test than experience and knowledge? Which of the three has the most accurate knowledge and the broadest experience? Growing up gives the philosopher experience with both desire and ambition, but the greedy and ambitious person never tastes the pleasures of truth and wisdom. The philosopher shares their experience of honor, since others judge him too. But he understands them while they don't understand him, because they never reach knowledge of what truly exists. His tool is reason, while their measure is only wealth and honor. If we judge by reason, his good will be the truest. So we reach the conclusion that the pleasure of the rational part of the soul is best, and a life spent in such pleasure is the most pleasant. The person qualified to judge has made this judgment. The life of ambition comes second, and the money-making life comes third.
Twice has the just man overthrown the unjust—once more, as in an Olympian contest, first offering up a prayer to the saviour Zeus, let him try a fall. A wise man whispers to me that the pleasures of the wise are true and pure; all others are a shadow only. Let us examine this: Is not pleasure opposed to pain, and is there not a mean state which is neither? When a man is sick, nothing is more pleasant to him than health. But this he never found out while he was well. In pain he desires only to cease from pain; on the other hand, when he is in an ecstasy of pleasure, rest is painful to him. Thus rest or cessation is both pleasure and pain. But can that which is neither become both? Again, pleasure and pain are motions, and the absence of them is rest; but if so, how can the absence of either of them be the other? Thus we are led to infer that the contradiction is an appearance only, and witchery of the senses. And these are not the only pleasures, for there are others which have no preceding pains. Pure pleasure then is not the absence of pain, nor pure pain the absence of pleasure; although most of the pleasures which reach the mind through the body are reliefs of pain, and have not only their reactions when they depart, but their anticipations before they come. They can be best described in a simile. There is in nature an upper, lower, and middle region, and he who passes from the lower to the middle imagines that he is going up and is already in the upper world; and if he were taken back again would think, and truly think, that he was descending. All this arises out of his ignorance of the true upper, middle, and lower regions. And a like confusion happens with pleasure and pain, and with many other things. The man who compares grey with black, calls grey white; and the man who compares absence of pain with pain, calls the absence of pain pleasure. Again, hunger and thirst are inanitions of the body, ignorance and folly of the soul; and food is the satisfaction of the one, knowledge of the other. Now which is the purer satisfaction—that of eating and drinking, or that of knowledge? Consider the matter thus: The satisfaction of that which has more existence is truer than of that which has less. The invariable and immortal has a more real existence than the variable and mortal, and has a corresponding measure of knowledge and truth. The soul, again, has more existence and truth and knowledge than the body, and is therefore more really satisfied and has a more natural pleasure. Those who feast only on earthly food, are always going at random up to the middle and down again; but they never pass into the true upper world, or have a taste of true pleasure. They are like fatted beasts, full of gluttony and sensuality, and ready to kill one another by reason of their insatiable lust; for they are not filled with true being, and their vessel is leaky (Gorgias). Their pleasures are mere shadows of pleasure, mixed with pain, coloured and intensified by contrast, and therefore intensely desired; and men go fighting about them, as Stesichorus says that the Greeks fought about the shadow of Helen at Troy, because they know not the truth.
Twice the just man has defeated the unjust. Once more, like in an Olympic contest, let him first pray to Zeus the savior, then try again. A wise man tells me that the pleasures of the wise are true and pure. All others are just shadows. Let us examine this: Isn't pleasure the opposite of pain? And isn't there a middle state that is neither? When a man is sick, nothing pleases him more than health. But he never realized this while he was well. In pain he only wants the pain to stop. On the other hand, when he feels intense pleasure, rest becomes painful to him. So rest or stopping is both pleasure and pain. But can something that is neither become both? Also, pleasure and pain are movements, and their absence is rest. If so, how can the absence of either one be the other? This leads us to conclude that the contradiction is only an appearance, a trick of the senses. And these are not the only pleasures, for there are others that have no preceding pains. Pure pleasure then is not the absence of pain, nor is pure pain the absence of pleasure. Yet most pleasures that reach the mind through the body are reliefs from pain. They not only react when they leave, but we anticipate them before they come. They can best be described with a comparison. There is in nature an upper, lower, and middle region. He who passes from the lower to the middle imagines he is going up and is already in the upper world. If he were taken back again, he would think, and truly think, that he was descending. All this comes from his ignorance of the true upper, middle, and lower regions. A similar confusion happens with pleasure and pain, and with many other things. The man who compares grey with black calls grey white. The man who compares absence of pain with pain calls the absence of pain pleasure. Again, hunger and thirst are emptiness of the body, ignorance and folly of the soul. Food satisfies the one, knowledge satisfies the other. Now which is the purer satisfaction—that of eating and drinking, or that of knowledge? Consider it this way: The satisfaction of that which has more existence is truer than of that which has less. The unchanging and immortal has a more real existence than the changing and mortal, and has a corresponding measure of knowledge and truth. The soul, again, has more existence and truth and knowledge than the body. Therefore it is more truly satisfied and has a more natural pleasure. Those who feast only on earthly food are always moving randomly up to the middle and down again. But they never pass into the true upper world, or taste true pleasure. They are like fattened beasts, full of gluttony and lust, ready to kill one another because of their insatiable desires. They are not filled with true being, and their vessel leaks (Gorgias). Their pleasures are mere shadows of pleasure, mixed with pain, colored and intensified by contrast, and therefore intensely desired. Men fight about them, as Stesichorus says that the Greeks fought about the shadow of Helen at Troy, because they do not know the truth.
The same may be said of the passionate element:—the desires of the ambitious soul, as well as of the covetous, have an inferior satisfaction. Only when under the guidance of reason do either of the other principles do their own business or attain the pleasure which is natural to them. When not attaining, they compel the other parts of the soul to pursue a shadow of pleasure which is not theirs. And the more distant they are from philosophy and reason, the more distant they will be from law and order, and the more illusive will be their pleasures. The desires of love and tyranny are the farthest from law, and those of the king are nearest to it. There is one genuine pleasure, and two spurious ones: the tyrant goes beyond even the latter; he has run away altogether from law and reason. Nor can the measure of his inferiority be told, except in a figure. The tyrant is the third removed from the oligarch, and has therefore, not a shadow of his pleasure, but the shadow of a shadow only. The oligarch, again, is thrice removed from the king, and thus we get the formula 3 x 3, which is the number of a surface, representing the shadow which is the tyrant’s pleasure, and if you like to cube this ‘number of the beast,’ you will find that the measure of the difference amounts to 729; the king is 729 times more happy than the tyrant. And this extraordinary number is NEARLY equal to the number of days and nights in a year (365 x 2 = 730); and is therefore concerned with human life. This is the interval between a good and bad man in happiness only: what must be the difference between them in comeliness of life and virtue!
The same applies to our passionate desires. The ambitions of power-hungry people and the greed of the covetous both lead to inferior satisfaction. These desires only do their proper work and find their natural pleasure when guided by reason. Without this guidance, they force other parts of the soul to chase false pleasures that don't belong to them. The farther these desires stray from philosophy and reason, the farther they drift from law and order. Their pleasures become more and more illusory. The desires that drive love and tyranny are the farthest from law. The desires of a king are closest to it. There is one genuine pleasure and two fake ones. The tyrant goes beyond even the fake pleasures. He has completely abandoned law and reason. We can only measure his inferiority through a mathematical comparison. The tyrant stands third in line from the oligarch. He experiences not even a shadow of the oligarch's pleasure, but only the shadow of a shadow. The oligarch, in turn, is three times removed from the king. This gives us the formula 3 x 3, which equals 9. This represents the surface area of the shadow that is the tyrant's pleasure. If you want to cube this "number of the beast," you get 729. This means the king is 729 times happier than the tyrant. This remarkable number nearly equals the days and nights in a year (365 x 2 = 730). It therefore connects to human life itself. This is the gap in happiness alone between a good man and a bad man. Imagine how much greater the difference must be in the beauty of their lives and their virtue!
Perhaps you may remember some one saying at the beginning of our discussion that the unjust man was profited if he had the reputation of justice. Now that we know the nature of justice and injustice, let us make an image of the soul, which will personify his words. First of all, fashion a multitudinous beast, having a ring of heads of all manner of animals, tame and wild, and able to produce and change them at pleasure. Suppose now another form of a lion, and another of a man; the second smaller than the first, the third than the second; join them together and cover them with a human skin, in which they are completely concealed. When this has been done, let us tell the supporter of injustice that he is feeding up the beasts and starving the man. The maintainer of justice, on the other hand, is trying to strengthen the man; he is nourishing the gentle principle within him, and making an alliance with the lion heart, in order that he may be able to keep down the many-headed hydra, and bring all into unity with each other and with themselves. Thus in every point of view, whether in relation to pleasure, honour, or advantage, the just man is right, and the unjust wrong.
You might remember someone saying at the start of our discussion that an unjust person benefits if they have a reputation for being just. Now that we understand what justice and injustice really are, let's create a picture of the soul that shows what this means. First, imagine a creature with many heads. It has the heads of all kinds of animals, both tame and wild, and it can create new heads or change them whenever it wants. Now picture a lion alongside this beast. Next to the lion, imagine a human being. The lion is smaller than the many-headed beast, and the human is smaller than the lion. Join all three together and cover them with human skin so they're completely hidden inside. Once you've pictured this, we can tell the person who supports injustice that he's feeding the beasts while starving the human. The person who supports justice, however, is trying to make the human stronger. He's nourishing the gentle part within and making friends with the lion's courage. This way, he can control the many-headed monster and bring all the parts into harmony with each other and themselves. From every angle, whether we're talking about pleasure, honor, or practical benefit, the just person is right and the unjust person is wrong.
But now, let us reason with the unjust, who is not intentionally in error. Is not the noble that which subjects the beast to the man, or rather to the God in man; the ignoble, that which subjects the man to the beast? And if so, who would receive gold on condition that he was to degrade the noblest part of himself under the worst?—who would sell his son or daughter into the hands of brutal and evil men, for any amount of money? And will he sell his own fairer and diviner part without any compunction to the most godless and foul? Would he not be worse than Eriphyle, who sold her husband’s life for a necklace? And intemperance is the letting loose of the multiform monster, and pride and sullenness are the growth and increase of the lion and serpent element, while luxury and effeminacy are caused by a too great relaxation of spirit. Flattery and meanness again arise when the spirited element is subjected to avarice, and the lion is habituated to become a monkey. The real disgrace of handicraft arts is, that those who are engaged in them have to flatter, instead of mastering their desires; therefore we say that they should be placed under the control of the better principle in another because they have none in themselves; not, as Thrasymachus imagined, to the injury of the subjects, but for their good. And our intention in educating the young, is to give them self-control; the law desires to nurse up in them a higher principle, and when they have acquired this, they may go their ways.
But now, let us reason with the unjust person who is not intentionally wrong. What is noble? It is what makes the beast serve the man, or rather, what makes the beast serve the God within man. What is ignoble? It is what makes the man serve the beast. If this is true, who would accept gold on the condition that he must degrade the noblest part of himself to serve the worst? Who would sell his son or daughter to brutal and evil men for any amount of money? Then why would he sell his own fairer and more divine part without any guilt to the most godless and foul? He would be worse than Eriphyle, who sold her husband's life for a necklace. Intemperance lets loose the many-formed monster. Pride and sullenness make the lion and serpent elements grow stronger. Luxury and weakness come from too much relaxation of spirit. Flattery and meanness arise when the spirited element serves greed, and the lion learns to become a monkey. The real disgrace of manual trades is that those who work in them must flatter others instead of mastering their own desires. We say they should be placed under the control of the better principle in another person because they have none in themselves. This is not meant to harm the subjects, as Thrasymachus imagined, but for their good. Our purpose in educating the young is to give them self-control. The law wants to nurture a higher principle in them. When they have gained this, they may go their own ways.
‘What, then, shall a man profit, if he gain the whole world’ and become more and more wicked? Or what shall he profit by escaping discovery, if the concealment of evil prevents the cure? If he had been punished, the brute within him would have been silenced, and the gentler element liberated; and he would have united temperance, justice, and wisdom in his soul—a union better far than any combination of bodily gifts. The man of understanding will honour knowledge above all; in the next place he will keep under his body, not only for the sake of health and strength, but in order to attain the most perfect harmony of body and soul. In the acquisition of riches, too, he will aim at order and harmony; he will not desire to heap up wealth without measure, but he will fear that the increase of wealth will disturb the constitution of his own soul. For the same reason he will only accept such honours as will make him a better man; any others he will decline. ‘In that case,’ said he, ‘he will never be a politician.’ Yes, but he will, in his own city; though probably not in his native country, unless by some divine accident. ‘You mean that he will be a citizen of the ideal city, which has no place upon earth.’ But in heaven, I replied, there is a pattern of such a city, and he who wishes may order his life after that image. Whether such a state is or ever will be matters not; he will act according to that pattern and no other...
'What good does it do a person to gain the whole world' and become more and more wicked? What good comes from escaping discovery if hiding evil prevents healing? If he had been punished, the beast within him would have been silenced. The gentler part would have been freed. He would have united self-control, justice, and wisdom in his soul. This union is far better than any combination of physical gifts. The wise person will honor knowledge above all else. Next, he will control his body, not just for health and strength, but to achieve perfect harmony between body and soul. When acquiring wealth, he will also aim for order and harmony. He won't desire to pile up riches without limit. He will fear that increasing wealth will disturb his soul's balance. For the same reason, he will only accept honors that make him a better person. Any others he will refuse. 'In that case,' said he, 'he will never be a politician.' Yes, but he will be one in his own city. Probably not in his native country, unless by some divine accident. 'You mean that he will be a citizen of the ideal city, which has no place on earth.' But in heaven, I replied, there is a pattern of such a city. Anyone who wishes may order his life after that image. Whether such a state exists or ever will exist doesn't matter. He will act according to that pattern and no other.
The most noticeable points in the 9th Book of the Republic are:—(1) the account of pleasure; (2) the number of the interval which divides the king from the tyrant; (3) the pattern which is in heaven.
The most important points in the 9th Book of the Republic are: (1) the discussion of pleasure, (2) the number that measures the gap between the king and the tyrant, and (3) the pattern that exists in heaven.
1. Plato’s account of pleasure is remarkable for moderation, and in this respect contrasts with the later Platonists and the views which are attributed to them by Aristotle. He is not, like the Cynics, opposed to all pleasure, but rather desires that the several parts of the soul shall have their natural satisfaction; he even agrees with the Epicureans in describing pleasure as something more than the absence of pain. This is proved by the circumstance that there are pleasures which have no antecedent pains (as he also remarks in the Philebus), such as the pleasures of smell, and also the pleasures of hope and anticipation. In the previous book he had made the distinction between necessary and unnecessary pleasure, which is repeated by Aristotle, and he now observes that there are a further class of ‘wild beast’ pleasures, corresponding to Aristotle’s (Greek). He dwells upon the relative and unreal character of sensual pleasures and the illusion which arises out of the contrast of pleasure and pain, pointing out the superiority of the pleasures of reason, which are at rest, over the fleeting pleasures of sense and emotion. The pre-eminence of royal pleasure is shown by the fact that reason is able to form a judgment of the lower pleasures, while the two lower parts of the soul are incapable of judging the pleasures of reason. Thus, in his treatment of pleasure, as in many other subjects, the philosophy of Plato is ‘sawn up into quantities’ by Aristotle; the analysis which was originally made by him became in the next generation the foundation of further technical distinctions. Both in Plato and Aristotle we note the illusion under which the ancients fell of regarding the transience of pleasure as a proof of its unreality, and of confounding the permanence of the intellectual pleasures with the unchangeableness of the knowledge from which they are derived. Neither do we like to admit that the pleasures of knowledge, though more elevating, are not more lasting than other pleasures, and are almost equally dependent on the accidents of our bodily state (Introduction to Philebus).
Plato's view of pleasure is notably balanced and moderate. This sets him apart from later Platonists and the views Aristotle attributes to them. Unlike the Cynics, Plato doesn't oppose all pleasure. Instead, he wants each part of the soul to find its natural satisfaction. He even agrees with the Epicureans that pleasure is more than just the absence of pain. This is proven by the fact that some pleasures have no preceding pain, as he notes in the Philebus. Examples include the pleasures of smell and the pleasures of hope and anticipation. In an earlier book, he distinguished between necessary and unnecessary pleasures. Aristotle later repeated this distinction. Plato now adds a third category of "wild beast" pleasures, which matches Aristotle's concept. Plato emphasizes how relative and unreal sensual pleasures are. He points out the illusion that comes from contrasting pleasure and pain. He shows that the pleasures of reason are superior because they are at rest, unlike the fleeting pleasures of sense and emotion. Royal pleasure is supreme because reason can judge the lower pleasures, while the two lower parts of the soul cannot judge the pleasures of reason. In his treatment of pleasure, as with many other topics, Plato's philosophy gets divided into categories by Aristotle. The analysis Plato originally made became the foundation for more technical distinctions in the next generation. Both Plato and Aristotle fell into the ancient mistake of thinking that because pleasure is temporary, it must be unreal. They confused the permanence of intellectual pleasures with the unchanging nature of the knowledge they come from. We also don't like to admit that the pleasures of knowledge, though more elevating, are not more lasting than other pleasures. They depend almost equally on the accidents of our physical condition.
2. The number of the interval which separates the king from the tyrant, and royal from tyrannical pleasures, is 729, the cube of 9. Which Plato characteristically designates as a number concerned with human life, because NEARLY equivalent to the number of days and nights in the year. He is desirous of proclaiming that the interval between them is immeasurable, and invents a formula to give expression to his idea. Those who spoke of justice as a cube, of virtue as an art of measuring (Prot.), saw no inappropriateness in conceiving the soul under the figure of a line, or the pleasure of the tyrant as separated from the pleasure of the king by the numerical interval of 729. And in modern times we sometimes use metaphorically what Plato employed as a philosophical formula. ‘It is not easy to estimate the loss of the tyrant, except perhaps in this way,’ says Plato. So we might say, that although the life of a good man is not to be compared to that of a bad man, yet you may measure the difference between them by valuing one minute of the one at an hour of the other (‘One day in thy courts is better than a thousand’), or you might say that ‘there is an infinite difference.’ But this is not so much as saying, in homely phrase, ‘They are a thousand miles asunder.’ And accordingly Plato finds the natural vehicle of his thoughts in a progression of numbers; this arithmetical formula he draws out with the utmost seriousness, and both here and in the number of generation seems to find an additional proof of the truth of his speculation in forming the number into a geometrical figure; just as persons in our own day are apt to fancy that a statement is verified when it has been only thrown into an abstract form. In speaking of the number 729 as proper to human life, he probably intended to intimate that one year of the tyrannical = 12 hours of the royal life.
The number that separates the king from the tyrant, and royal from tyrannical pleasures, is 729, which is the cube of 9. Plato calls this a number concerned with human life because it's nearly equal to the number of days and nights in a year. He wants to show that the gap between them is immeasurable, so he invents a formula to express his idea. Those who spoke of justice as a cube and virtue as an art of measuring saw nothing wrong with picturing the soul as a line, or the tyrant's pleasure as separated from the king's pleasure by the numerical gap of 729. In modern times we sometimes use metaphorically what Plato used as a philosophical formula. "It is not easy to estimate the loss of the tyrant, except perhaps in this way," says Plato. We might say that although a good man's life cannot be compared to a bad man's life, you can measure the difference by valuing one minute of the good life as equal to an hour of the bad life ("One day in thy courts is better than a thousand"). Or you might say that "there is an infinite difference." But this is no different from saying, in simple terms, "They are a thousand miles apart." Plato naturally expresses his thoughts through a progression of numbers. He develops this mathematical formula with complete seriousness. Both here and in the number of generation, he seems to find additional proof of his theory's truth by forming the number into a geometric figure. This is just like people today who think a statement is proven when it has simply been put into an abstract form. When speaking of the number 729 as proper to human life, he probably meant to suggest that one year of the tyrannical life equals 12 hours of the royal life.
The simple observation that the comparison of two similar solids is effected by the comparison of the cubes of their sides, is the mathematical groundwork of this fanciful expression. There is some difficulty in explaining the steps by which the number 729 is obtained; the oligarch is removed in the third degree from the royal and aristocratical, and the tyrant in the third degree from the oligarchical; but we have to arrange the terms as the sides of a square and to count the oligarch twice over, thus reckoning them not as = 5 but as = 9. The square of 9 is passed lightly over as only a step towards the cube.
The simple observation that comparing two similar solids requires comparing the cubes of their sides forms the mathematical foundation of this imaginative expression. There is some difficulty in explaining the steps by which the number 729 is obtained. The oligarch is removed in the third degree from the royal and aristocratical, and the tyrant in the third degree from the oligarchical. But we have to arrange the terms as the sides of a square and count the oligarch twice over, reckoning them not as 5 but as 9. The square of 9 is passed over lightly as only a step towards the cube.
3. Towards the close of the Republic, Plato seems to be more and more convinced of the ideal character of his own speculations. At the end of the 9th Book the pattern which is in heaven takes the place of the city of philosophers on earth. The vision which has received form and substance at his hands, is now discovered to be at a distance. And yet this distant kingdom is also the rule of man’s life. (‘Say not lo! here, or lo! there, for the kingdom of God is within you.’) Thus a note is struck which prepares for the revelation of a future life in the following Book. But the future life is present still; the ideal of politics is to be realized in the individual.
3. Near the end of the Republic, Plato becomes increasingly convinced that his ideas are purely theoretical. By the end of Book 9, the heavenly pattern replaces the earthly city of philosophers. The vision he had carefully developed now seems distant and unreachable. Yet this far-off kingdom still serves as a guide for human life. ("Say not lo! here, or lo! there, for the kingdom of God is within you.") This idea prepares us for the revelation of a future life in the next Book. But the future life exists in the present too. The political ideal must be realized within each individual person.
BOOK X. Many things pleased me in the order of our State, but there was nothing which I liked better than the regulation about poetry. The division of the soul throws a new light on our exclusion of imitation. I do not mind telling you in confidence that all poetry is an outrage on the understanding, unless the hearers have that balm of knowledge which heals error. I have loved Homer ever since I was a boy, and even now he appears to me to be the great master of tragic poetry. But much as I love the man, I love truth more, and therefore I must speak out: and first of all, will you explain what is imitation, for really I do not understand? ‘How likely then that I should understand!’ That might very well be, for the duller often sees better than the keener eye. ‘True, but in your presence I can hardly venture to say what I think.’ Then suppose that we begin in our old fashion, with the doctrine of universals. Let us assume the existence of beds and tables. There is one idea of a bed, or of a table, which the maker of each had in his mind when making them; he did not make the ideas of beds and tables, but he made beds and tables according to the ideas. And is there not a maker of the works of all workmen, who makes not only vessels but plants and animals, himself, the earth and heaven, and things in heaven and under the earth? He makes the Gods also. ‘He must be a wizard indeed!’ But do you not see that there is a sense in which you could do the same? You have only to take a mirror, and catch the reflection of the sun, and the earth, or anything else—there now you have made them. ‘Yes, but only in appearance.’ Exactly so; and the painter is such a creator as you are with the mirror, and he is even more unreal than the carpenter; although neither the carpenter nor any other artist can be supposed to make the absolute bed. ‘Not if philosophers may be believed.’ Nor need we wonder that his bed has but an imperfect relation to the truth. Reflect:—Here are three beds; one in nature, which is made by God; another, which is made by the carpenter; and the third, by the painter. God only made one, nor could he have made more than one; for if there had been two, there would always have been a third—more absolute and abstract than either, under which they would have been included. We may therefore conceive God to be the natural maker of the bed, and in a lower sense the carpenter is also the maker; but the painter is rather the imitator of what the other two make; he has to do with a creation which is thrice removed from reality. And the tragic poet is an imitator, and, like every other imitator, is thrice removed from the king and from the truth. The painter imitates not the original bed, but the bed made by the carpenter. And this, without being really different, appears to be different, and has many points of view, of which only one is caught by the painter, who represents everything because he represents a piece of everything, and that piece an image. And he can paint any other artist, although he knows nothing of their arts; and this with sufficient skill to deceive children or simple people. Suppose now that somebody came to us and told us, how he had met a man who knew all that everybody knows, and better than anybody:—should we not infer him to be a simpleton who, having no discernment of truth and falsehood, had met with a wizard or enchanter, whom he fancied to be all-wise? And when we hear persons saying that Homer and the tragedians know all the arts and all the virtues, must we not infer that they are under a similar delusion? they do not see that the poets are imitators, and that their creations are only imitations. ‘Very true.’ But if a person could create as well as imitate, he would rather leave some permanent work and not an imitation only; he would rather be the receiver than the giver of praise? ‘Yes, for then he would have more honour and advantage.’
BOOK X. Many things pleased me about how our State was organized, but nothing impressed me more than our rules about poetry. Understanding how the soul is divided sheds new light on why we exclude imitation. I don't mind telling you privately that all poetry is an attack on understanding, unless listeners have the healing knowledge that corrects error. I have loved Homer since I was a boy, and even now he seems to me the great master of tragic poetry. But as much as I love the man, I love truth more. So I must speak plainly. First, will you explain what imitation is? I really don't understand it. 'How likely then that I should understand!' That might very well be true, since the duller person often sees better than the one with keener sight. 'True, but in your presence I can hardly dare to say what I think.' Then let's begin in our usual way, with the doctrine of universals. Let's assume that beds and tables exist. There is one idea of a bed, or of a table, which the maker had in mind when creating them. He didn't make the ideas of beds and tables, but he made beds and tables according to those ideas. Isn't there a maker of all workers' creations, who makes not only vessels but plants and animals, himself, the earth and heaven, and things in heaven and under the earth? He makes the Gods too. 'He must be quite a wizard!' But don't you see that there's a sense in which you could do the same? You only need to take a mirror and catch the reflection of the sun, the earth, or anything else. There, now you have made them. 'Yes, but only in appearance.' Exactly. The painter is such a creator as you are with the mirror, and he is even more unreal than the carpenter. Neither the carpenter nor any other artist can be supposed to make the absolute bed. 'Not if philosophers may be believed.' We needn't wonder that his bed has only an imperfect relation to truth. Think about this. Here are three beds: one in nature, which God made; another, which the carpenter made; and the third, by the painter. God only made one, nor could he have made more than one. If there had been two, there would always have been a third, more absolute and abstract than either, under which they would have been included. We may think of God as the natural maker of the bed. In a lower sense the carpenter is also the maker. But the painter is rather the imitator of what the other two make. He deals with a creation that is three times removed from reality. The tragic poet is an imitator, and like every other imitator, is three times removed from the king and from truth. The painter imitates not the original bed, but the bed made by the carpenter. This bed, without being really different, appears to be different and has many points of view. Only one is caught by the painter, who represents everything because he represents a piece of everything, and that piece is an image. He can paint any other artist, although he knows nothing of their arts. He does this with enough skill to deceive children or simple people. Suppose now that somebody came to us and said he had met a man who knew all that everybody knows, and better than anybody. Shouldn't we conclude that he was a fool who, having no ability to judge truth from falsehood, had met with a wizard or enchanter whom he imagined to be all-wise? When we hear people saying that Homer and the tragedians know all the arts and all the virtues, mustn't we conclude that they are under a similar delusion? They don't see that the poets are imitators, and that their creations are only imitations. 'Very true.' But if a person could create as well as imitate, he would rather leave some permanent work and not just an imitation. He would rather be the receiver than the giver of praise. 'Yes, for then he would have more honor and advantage.'
Let us now interrogate Homer and the poets. Friend Homer, say I to him, I am not going to ask you about medicine, or any art to which your poems incidentally refer, but about their main subjects—war, military tactics, politics. If you are only twice and not thrice removed from the truth—not an imitator or an image-maker, please to inform us what good you have ever done to mankind? Is there any city which professes to have received laws from you, as Sicily and Italy have from Charondas, Sparta from Lycurgus, Athens from Solon? Or was any war ever carried on by your counsels? or is any invention attributed to you, as there is to Thales and Anacharsis? Or is there any Homeric way of life, such as the Pythagorean was, in which you instructed men, and which is called after you? ‘No, indeed; and Creophylus (Flesh-child) was even more unfortunate in his breeding than he was in his name, if, as tradition says, Homer in his lifetime was allowed by him and his other friends to starve.’ Yes, but could this ever have happened if Homer had really been the educator of Hellas? Would he not have had many devoted followers? If Protagoras and Prodicus can persuade their contemporaries that no one can manage house or State without them, is it likely that Homer and Hesiod would have been allowed to go about as beggars—I mean if they had really been able to do the world any good?—would not men have compelled them to stay where they were, or have followed them about in order to get education? But they did not; and therefore we may infer that Homer and all the poets are only imitators, who do but imitate the appearances of things. For as a painter by a knowledge of figure and colour can paint a cobbler without any practice in cobbling, so the poet can delineate any art in the colours of language, and give harmony and rhythm to the cobbler and also to the general; and you know how mere narration, when deprived of the ornaments of metre, is like a face which has lost the beauty of youth and never had any other. Once more, the imitator has no knowledge of reality, but only of appearance. The painter paints, and the artificer makes a bridle and reins, but neither understands the use of them—the knowledge of this is confined to the horseman; and so of other things. Thus we have three arts: one of use, another of invention, a third of imitation; and the user furnishes the rule to the two others. The flute-player will know the good and bad flute, and the maker will put faith in him; but the imitator will neither know nor have faith—neither science nor true opinion can be ascribed to him. Imitation, then, is devoid of knowledge, being only a kind of play or sport, and the tragic and epic poets are imitators in the highest degree.
Let us now question Homer and the poets. Friend Homer, I say to him, I am not going to ask you about medicine, or any art that your poems mention in passing, but about their main subjects—war, military tactics, politics. If you are only twice and not three times removed from the truth—not an imitator or an image-maker, please tell us what good you have ever done for mankind? Is there any city that claims to have received laws from you, as Sicily and Italy have from Charondas, Sparta from Lycurgus, Athens from Solon? Or was any war ever fought following your advice? Or is any invention credited to you, as there is to Thales and Anacharsis? Or is there any Homeric way of life, such as the Pythagorean was, in which you taught men, and which is named after you? No, indeed. And Creophylus (Flesh-child) was even more unfortunate in his upbringing than he was in his name, if, as tradition says, Homer in his lifetime was allowed by him and his other friends to starve. Yes, but could this ever have happened if Homer had really been the educator of Hellas? Would he not have had many devoted followers? If Protagoras and Prodicus can persuade their contemporaries that no one can manage house or State without them, is it likely that Homer and Hesiod would have been allowed to go about as beggars—I mean if they had really been able to do the world any good? Would not men have forced them to stay where they were, or have followed them around to get education? But they did not. Therefore we may conclude that Homer and all the poets are only imitators, who do nothing but imitate the appearances of things. For as a painter with knowledge of figure and color can paint a cobbler without any practice in cobbling, so the poet can portray any art in the colors of language, and give harmony and rhythm to the cobbler and also to the general. And you know how mere storytelling, when stripped of the ornaments of meter, is like a face that has lost the beauty of youth and never had any other. Once more, the imitator has no knowledge of reality, but only of appearance. The painter paints, and the craftsman makes a bridle and reins, but neither understands their use—the knowledge of this belongs only to the horseman. And so it is with other things. Thus we have three arts: one of use, another of invention, a third of imitation. The user provides the standard for the other two. The flute-player will know the good and bad flute, and the maker will trust in him. But the imitator will neither know nor have trust—neither science nor true opinion can be given to him. Imitation, then, lacks knowledge, being only a kind of play or sport, and the tragic and epic poets are imitators in the highest degree.
And now let us enquire, what is the faculty in man which answers to imitation. Allow me to explain my meaning: Objects are differently seen when in the water and when out of the water, when near and when at a distance; and the painter or juggler makes use of this variation to impose upon us. And the art of measuring and weighing and calculating comes in to save our bewildered minds from the power of appearance; for, as we were saying, two contrary opinions of the same about the same and at the same time, cannot both of them be true. But which of them is true is determined by the art of calculation; and this is allied to the better faculty in the soul, as the arts of imitation are to the worse. And the same holds of the ear as well as of the eye, of poetry as well as painting. The imitation is of actions voluntary or involuntary, in which there is an expectation of a good or bad result, and present experience of pleasure and pain. But is a man in harmony with himself when he is the subject of these conflicting influences? Is there not rather a contradiction in him? Let me further ask, whether he is more likely to control sorrow when he is alone or when he is in company. ‘In the latter case.’ Feeling would lead him to indulge his sorrow, but reason and law control him and enjoin patience; since he cannot know whether his affliction is good or evil, and no human thing is of any great consequence, while sorrow is certainly a hindrance to good counsel. For when we stumble, we should not, like children, make an uproar; we should take the measures which reason prescribes, not raising a lament, but finding a cure. And the better part of us is ready to follow reason, while the irrational principle is full of sorrow and distraction at the recollection of our troubles. Unfortunately, however, this latter furnishes the chief materials of the imitative arts. Whereas reason is ever in repose and cannot easily be displayed, especially to a mixed multitude who have no experience of her. Thus the poet is like the painter in two ways: first he paints an inferior degree of truth, and secondly, he is concerned with an inferior part of the soul. He indulges the feelings, while he enfeebles the reason; and we refuse to allow him to have authority over the mind of man; for he has no measure of greater and less, and is a maker of images and very far gone from truth.
Now let's examine what faculty in humans corresponds to imitation. Let me explain what I mean: Objects look different when they're in water versus out of water, when they're near versus far away. Painters and magicians use these visual tricks to deceive us. The arts of measuring, weighing, and calculating help save our confused minds from the power of appearances. As we said before, two opposite opinions about the same thing at the same time cannot both be true. But which one is true gets determined by the art of calculation. This art connects to the better faculty in the soul, while imitative arts connect to the worse faculty. The same principle applies to hearing as well as sight, to poetry as well as painting. Imitation deals with voluntary or involuntary actions where people expect good or bad results and experience pleasure and pain. But is a person in harmony with himself when he faces these conflicting influences? Isn't there actually a contradiction within him? Let me ask another question: Is he more likely to control his sorrow when alone or when with others? In the latter case. His feelings would lead him to indulge his sorrow, but reason and law control him and demand patience. He cannot know whether his suffering is good or evil, and no human concern is of great importance, while sorrow certainly hinders good judgment. When we stumble, we shouldn't make an uproar like children. We should take the measures that reason prescribes, not raising a lament but finding a cure. The better part of us is ready to follow reason, while the irrational principle is full of sorrow and distraction when recalling our troubles. Unfortunately, this latter part provides the main materials for imitative arts. Reason, on the other hand, stays calm and cannot easily be displayed, especially to a mixed crowd who has no experience with it. The poet resembles the painter in two ways: first, he paints an inferior degree of truth, and second, he deals with an inferior part of the soul. He indulges the feelings while weakening reason. We refuse to let him have authority over the human mind because he has no measure of greater and less. He is a maker of images and very far removed from truth.
But we have not yet mentioned the heaviest count in the indictment—the power which poetry has of injuriously exciting the feelings. When we hear some passage in which a hero laments his sufferings at tedious length, you know that we sympathize with him and praise the poet; and yet in our own sorrows such an exhibition of feeling is regarded as effeminate and unmanly (Ion). Now, ought a man to feel pleasure in seeing another do what he hates and abominates in himself? Is he not giving way to a sentiment which in his own case he would control?—he is off his guard because the sorrow is another’s; and he thinks that he may indulge his feelings without disgrace, and will be the gainer by the pleasure. But the inevitable consequence is that he who begins by weeping at the sorrows of others, will end by weeping at his own. The same is true of comedy,—you may often laugh at buffoonery which you would be ashamed to utter, and the love of coarse merriment on the stage will at last turn you into a buffoon at home. Poetry feeds and waters the passions and desires; she lets them rule instead of ruling them. And therefore, when we hear the encomiasts of Homer affirming that he is the educator of Hellas, and that all life should be regulated by his precepts, we may allow the excellence of their intentions, and agree with them in thinking Homer a great poet and tragedian. But we shall continue to prohibit all poetry which goes beyond hymns to the Gods and praises of famous men. Not pleasure and pain, but law and reason shall rule in our State.
But we haven't mentioned the most serious charge against poetry yet. Poetry has the power to harmfully stir up our emotions. When we hear a passage where a hero goes on and on lamenting his troubles, we sympathize with him and praise the poet. Yet when we face our own sorrows, we consider such displays of emotion weak and unmanly (Ion). Should a man take pleasure in watching someone else do what he hates and despises in himself? Isn't he giving in to a feeling that he would normally control in his own life? He drops his guard because the sorrow belongs to someone else. He thinks he can indulge his emotions without shame and gain pleasure from it. But the inevitable result is this: the person who starts by weeping at others' sorrows will end up weeping at his own. The same applies to comedy. You might laugh at crude jokes that you'd be ashamed to tell yourself. Your love of coarse humor on stage will eventually turn you into a fool at home. Poetry feeds and waters our passions and desires. It lets them rule us instead of us ruling them. So when we hear Homer's admirers claiming that he educates all of Hellas and that life should follow his teachings, we can respect their good intentions. We agree that Homer is a great poet and tragedian. But we will continue to ban all poetry except hymns to the Gods and praises of famous men. In our State, law and reason will rule, not pleasure and pain.
These are our grounds for expelling poetry; but lest she should charge us with discourtesy, let us also make an apology to her. We will remind her that there is an ancient quarrel between poetry and philosophy, of which there are many traces in the writings of the poets, such as the saying of ‘the she-dog, yelping at her mistress,’ and ‘the philosophers who are ready to circumvent Zeus,’ and ‘the philosophers who are paupers.’ Nevertheless we bear her no ill-will, and will gladly allow her to return upon condition that she makes a defence of herself in verse; and her supporters who are not poets may speak in prose. We confess her charms; but if she cannot show that she is useful as well as delightful, like rational lovers, we must renounce our love, though endeared to us by early associations. Having come to years of discretion, we know that poetry is not truth, and that a man should be careful how he introduces her to that state or constitution which he himself is; for there is a mighty issue at stake—no less than the good or evil of a human soul. And it is not worth while to forsake justice and virtue for the attractions of poetry, any more than for the sake of honour or wealth. ‘I agree with you.’
These are our reasons for banishing poetry from our ideal state. But we don't want to seem rude to her, so let us apologize. We should remind her that there has always been a conflict between poetry and philosophy. You can see this in many poets' writings, like the phrase about "the she-dog, yelping at her mistress" and "the philosophers who are ready to circumvent Zeus" and "the philosophers who are paupers." Still, we don't wish her any harm. We'll gladly let her return if she can defend herself in verse. Her supporters who aren't poets can speak in prose on her behalf. We admit she has great charm. But if she can't prove that she's useful as well as delightful, then like sensible lovers, we must give up our love for her, even though we've cherished her since childhood. Now that we've reached maturity, we know that poetry isn't truth. A person should be careful about how he lets poetry into the state or government he's creating. The stakes are enormous—nothing less than whether a human soul becomes good or evil. It's not worth abandoning justice and virtue for poetry's appeal, any more than we'd do it for honor or wealth. "I agree with you."
And yet the rewards of virtue are greater far than I have described. ‘And can we conceive things greater still?’ Not, perhaps, in this brief span of life: but should an immortal being care about anything short of eternity? ‘I do not understand what you mean?’ Do you not know that the soul is immortal? ‘Surely you are not prepared to prove that?’ Indeed I am. ‘Then let me hear this argument, of which you make so light.’
The rewards of virtue are far greater than I've described. "Can we imagine anything greater still?" Perhaps not in this short life. But should an immortal being care about anything less than eternity? "I don't understand what you mean." Don't you know that the soul is immortal? "Surely you're not prepared to prove that?" I certainly am. "Then let me hear this argument that you treat so lightly."
You would admit that everything has an element of good and of evil. In all things there is an inherent corruption; and if this cannot destroy them, nothing else will. The soul too has her own corrupting principles, which are injustice, intemperance, cowardice, and the like. But none of these destroy the soul in the same sense that disease destroys the body. The soul may be full of all iniquities, but is not, by reason of them, brought any nearer to death. Nothing which was not destroyed from within ever perished by external affection of evil. The body, which is one thing, cannot be destroyed by food, which is another, unless the badness of the food is communicated to the body. Neither can the soul, which is one thing, be corrupted by the body, which is another, unless she herself is infected. And as no bodily evil can infect the soul, neither can any bodily evil, whether disease or violence, or any other destroy the soul, unless it can be shown to render her unholy and unjust. But no one will ever prove that the souls of men become more unjust when they die. If a person has the audacity to say the contrary, the answer is—Then why do criminals require the hand of the executioner, and not die of themselves? ‘Truly,’ he said, ‘injustice would not be very terrible if it brought a cessation of evil; but I rather believe that the injustice which murders others may tend to quicken and stimulate the life of the unjust.’ You are quite right. If sin which is her own natural and inherent evil cannot destroy the soul, hardly will anything else destroy her. But the soul which cannot be destroyed either by internal or external evil must be immortal and everlasting. And if this be true, souls will always exist in the same number. They cannot diminish, because they cannot be destroyed; nor yet increase, for the increase of the immortal must come from something mortal, and so all would end in immortality. Neither is the soul variable and diverse; for that which is immortal must be of the fairest and simplest composition. If we would conceive her truly, and so behold justice and injustice in their own nature, she must be viewed by the light of reason pure as at birth, or as she is reflected in philosophy when holding converse with the divine and immortal and eternal. In her present condition we see her only like the sea-god Glaucus, bruised and maimed in the sea which is the world, and covered with shells and stones which are incrusted upon her from the entertainments of earth.
You would admit that everything has both good and evil elements. All things contain an inherent corruption. If this corruption cannot destroy them, nothing else will. The soul also has its own corrupting principles: injustice, lack of self-control, cowardice, and similar flaws. But none of these destroy the soul the way disease destroys the body. The soul may be full of wickedness, but this doesn't bring it any closer to death. Nothing that wasn't destroyed from within ever died from external evil influences. The body cannot be destroyed by food unless the food's badness spreads to the body itself. Similarly, the soul cannot be corrupted by the body unless the soul itself becomes infected. Since no bodily evil can infect the soul, no bodily evil can destroy it either. This includes disease, violence, or anything else, unless it can make the soul unholy and unjust. But no one will ever prove that people's souls become more unjust when they die. If someone dares to claim otherwise, here's the answer: Why do criminals need an executioner instead of dying naturally from their crimes? "True," he said, "injustice wouldn't be very terrible if it ended evil. But I believe that injustice, which murders others, actually quickens and stimulates the life of the unjust person." You're absolutely right. If sin, which is the soul's own natural evil, cannot destroy it, then hardly anything else can destroy it either. But if the soul cannot be destroyed by internal or external evil, it must be immortal and everlasting. If this is true, souls will always exist in the same number. They cannot decrease because they cannot be destroyed. They cannot increase either, because immortal things would have to come from mortal things, and then everything would end up immortal. The soul is also not changeable or diverse, because immortal things must have the fairest and simplest composition. If we want to understand the soul truly and see justice and injustice in their pure forms, we must view it through pure reason. We should see it as it was at birth, or as philosophy reflects it when communing with the divine, immortal, and eternal. In its present condition, we see the soul only like the sea-god Glaucus. He was bruised and damaged in the sea of the world, covered with shells and stones that stuck to him from earthly pleasures.
Thus far, as the argument required, we have said nothing of the rewards and honours which the poets attribute to justice; we have contented ourselves with showing that justice in herself is best for the soul in herself, even if a man should put on a Gyges’ ring and have the helmet of Hades too. And now you shall repay me what you borrowed; and I will enumerate the rewards of justice in life and after death. I granted, for the sake of argument, as you will remember, that evil might perhaps escape the knowledge of Gods and men, although this was really impossible. And since I have shown that justice has reality, you must grant me also that she has the palm of appearance. In the first place, the just man is known to the Gods, and he is therefore the friend of the Gods, and he will receive at their hands every good, always excepting such evil as is the necessary consequence of former sins. All things end in good to him, either in life or after death, even what appears to be evil; for the Gods have a care of him who desires to be in their likeness. And what shall we say of men? Is not honesty the best policy? The clever rogue makes a great start at first, but breaks down before he reaches the goal, and slinks away in dishonour; whereas the true runner perseveres to the end, and receives the prize. And you must allow me to repeat all the blessings which you attributed to the fortunate unjust—they bear rule in the city, they marry and give in marriage to whom they will; and the evils which you attributed to the unfortunate just, do really fall in the end on the unjust, although, as you implied, their sufferings are better veiled in silence.
So far, we've said nothing about the rewards and honors that poets give to justice. We needed to focus on the argument first. We've shown that justice itself is best for the soul, even if someone had Gyges' ring and the helmet of Hades too. Now you must repay what you borrowed from me. I will list the rewards of justice in life and after death. You'll remember that I granted something for the sake of argument. I said that evil might escape the notice of gods and men, though this was really impossible. Since I've shown that justice is real, you must also grant that it has the advantage of appearance. First, the just man is known to the gods. He is their friend and receives every good thing from them. The only exception is evil that comes as a necessary result of past sins. Everything ends well for him, either in life or after death, even what appears to be evil. The gods care for anyone who wants to be like them. What should we say about men? Isn't honesty the best policy? The clever rogue gets off to a great start but breaks down before reaching the goal. He slinks away in dishonor. The true runner keeps going to the end and wins the prize. You must let me repeat all the blessings you gave to the fortunate unjust. They rule in the city. They marry and arrange marriages as they please. The evils you gave to the unfortunate just really do fall on the unjust in the end. As you suggested, their sufferings are better kept quiet.
But all the blessings of this present life are as nothing when compared with those which await good men after death. ‘I should like to hear about them.’ Come, then, and I will tell you the story of Er, the son of Armenius, a valiant man. He was supposed to have died in battle, but ten days afterwards his body was found untouched by corruption and sent home for burial. On the twelfth day he was placed on the funeral pyre and there he came to life again, and told what he had seen in the world below. He said that his soul went with a great company to a place, in which there were two chasms near together in the earth beneath, and two corresponding chasms in the heaven above. And there were judges sitting in the intermediate space, bidding the just ascend by the heavenly way on the right hand, having the seal of their judgment set upon them before, while the unjust, having the seal behind, were bidden to descend by the way on the left hand. Him they told to look and listen, as he was to be their messenger to men from the world below. And he beheld and saw the souls departing after judgment at either chasm; some who came from earth, were worn and travel-stained; others, who came from heaven, were clean and bright. They seemed glad to meet and rest awhile in the meadow; here they discoursed with one another of what they had seen in the other world. Those who came from earth wept at the remembrance of their sorrows, but the spirits from above spoke of glorious sights and heavenly bliss. He said that for every evil deed they were punished tenfold—now the journey was of a thousand years’ duration, because the life of man was reckoned as a hundred years—and the rewards of virtue were in the same proportion. He added something hardly worth repeating about infants dying almost as soon as they were born. Of parricides and other murderers he had tortures still more terrible to narrate. He was present when one of the spirits asked—Where is Ardiaeus the Great? (This Ardiaeus was a cruel tyrant, who had murdered his father, and his elder brother, a thousand years before.) Another spirit answered, ‘He comes not hither, and will never come. And I myself,’ he added, ‘actually saw this terrible sight. At the entrance of the chasm, as we were about to reascend, Ardiaeus appeared, and some other sinners—most of whom had been tyrants, but not all—and just as they fancied that they were returning to life, the chasm gave a roar, and then wild, fiery-looking men who knew the meaning of the sound, seized him and several others, and bound them hand and foot and threw them down, and dragged them along at the side of the road, lacerating them and carding them like wool, and explaining to the passers-by, that they were going to be cast into hell.’ The greatest terror of the pilgrims ascending was lest they should hear the voice, and when there was silence one by one they passed up with joy. To these sufferings there were corresponding delights.
But all the blessings of this present life are nothing compared to what awaits good people after death. "I'd like to hear about them." Come then, and I'll tell you the story of Er, the son of Armenius, a brave man. He was thought to have died in battle, but ten days later his body was found untouched by decay and sent home for burial. On the twelfth day he was placed on the funeral pyre, and there he came back to life. He told what he had seen in the world below. He said his soul traveled with a great company to a place where there were two chasms close together in the earth beneath, and two matching chasms in the heaven above. Judges sat in the space between them. They told the just to climb up the heavenly path on the right hand, placing the seal of their judgment on their fronts. The unjust, with the seal behind them, were told to go down the path on the left hand. They told Er to watch and listen, as he would be their messenger to people from the world below. He watched and saw souls leaving after judgment at either chasm. Some who came from earth were worn and travel-stained. Others who came from heaven were clean and bright. They seemed glad to meet and rest for a while in the meadow. Here they talked with each other about what they had seen in the other world. Those who came from earth wept remembering their sorrows, but the spirits from above spoke of glorious sights and heavenly bliss. He said that for every evil deed they were punished ten times over. The journey lasted a thousand years, because human life was counted as a hundred years. The rewards of virtue were in the same proportion. He added something hardly worth repeating about infants dying almost as soon as they were born. About parricides and other murderers he had even more terrible tortures to describe. He was present when one of the spirits asked, "Where is Ardiaeus the Great?" This Ardiaeus was a cruel tyrant who had murdered his father and his elder brother a thousand years before. Another spirit answered, "He doesn't come here, and never will. I myself," he added, "actually saw this terrible sight. At the entrance of the chasm, as we were about to climb back up, Ardiaeus appeared with some other sinners. Most had been tyrants, but not all. Just as they thought they were returning to life, the chasm gave a roar. Then wild, fiery-looking men who knew the meaning of the sound seized him and several others. They bound them hand and foot and threw them down. They dragged them along at the side of the road, tearing their flesh and combing them like wool. They explained to the passersby that these souls were going to be cast into hell." The greatest terror of the pilgrims climbing up was that they might hear that voice. When there was silence, they passed up one by one with joy. To these sufferings there were matching delights.
On the eighth day the souls of the pilgrims resumed their journey, and in four days came to a spot whence they looked down upon a line of light, in colour like a rainbow, only brighter and clearer. One day more brought them to the place, and they saw that this was the column of light which binds together the whole universe. The ends of the column were fastened to heaven, and from them hung the distaff of Necessity, on which all the heavenly bodies turned—the hook and spindle were of adamant, and the whorl of a mixed substance. The whorl was in form like a number of boxes fitting into one another with their edges turned upwards, making together a single whorl which was pierced by the spindle. The outermost had the rim broadest, and the inner whorls were smaller and smaller, and had their rims narrower. The largest (the fixed stars) was spangled—the seventh (the sun) was brightest—the eighth (the moon) shone by the light of the seventh—the second and fifth (Saturn and Mercury) were most like one another and yellower than the eighth—the third (Jupiter) had the whitest light—the fourth (Mars) was red—the sixth (Venus) was in whiteness second. The whole had one motion, but while this was revolving in one direction the seven inner circles were moving in the opposite, with various degrees of swiftness and slowness. The spindle turned on the knees of Necessity, and a Siren stood hymning upon each circle, while Lachesis, Clotho, and Atropos, the daughters of Necessity, sat on thrones at equal intervals, singing of past, present, and future, responsive to the music of the Sirens; Clotho from time to time guiding the outer circle with a touch of her right hand; Atropos with her left hand touching and guiding the inner circles; Lachesis in turn putting forth her hand from time to time to guide both of them. On their arrival the pilgrims went to Lachesis, and there was an interpreter who arranged them, and taking from her knees lots, and samples of lives, got up into a pulpit and said: ‘Mortal souls, hear the words of Lachesis, the daughter of Necessity. A new period of mortal life has begun, and you may choose what divinity you please; the responsibility of choosing is with you—God is blameless.’ After speaking thus, he cast the lots among them and each one took up the lot which fell near him. He then placed on the ground before them the samples of lives, many more than the souls present; and there were all sorts of lives, of men and of animals. There were tyrannies ending in misery and exile, and lives of men and women famous for their different qualities; and also mixed lives, made up of wealth and poverty, sickness and health. Here, Glaucon, is the great risk of human life, and therefore the whole of education should be directed to the acquisition of such a knowledge as will teach a man to refuse the evil and choose the good. He should know all the combinations which occur in life—of beauty with poverty or with wealth,—of knowledge with external goods,—and at last choose with reference to the nature of the soul, regarding that only as the better life which makes men better, and leaving the rest. And a man must take with him an iron sense of truth and right into the world below, that there too he may remain undazzled by wealth or the allurements of evil, and be determined to avoid the extremes and choose the mean. For this, as the messenger reported the interpreter to have said, is the true happiness of man; and any one, as he proclaimed, may, if he choose with understanding, have a good lot, even though he come last. ‘Let not the first be careless in his choice, nor the last despair.’ He spoke; and when he had spoken, he who had drawn the first lot chose a tyranny: he did not see that he was fated to devour his own children—and when he discovered his mistake, he wept and beat his breast, blaming chance and the Gods and anybody rather than himself. He was one of those who had come from heaven, and in his previous life had been a citizen of a well-ordered State, but he had only habit and no philosophy. Like many another, he made a bad choice, because he had no experience of life; whereas those who came from earth and had seen trouble were not in such a hurry to choose. But if a man had followed philosophy while upon earth, and had been moderately fortunate in his lot, he might not only be happy here, but his pilgrimage both from and to this world would be smooth and heavenly. Nothing was more curious than the spectacle of the choice, at once sad and laughable and wonderful; most of the souls only seeking to avoid their own condition in a previous life. He saw the soul of Orpheus changing into a swan because he would not be born of a woman; there was Thamyras becoming a nightingale; musical birds, like the swan, choosing to be men; the twentieth soul, which was that of Ajax, preferring the life of a lion to that of a man, in remembrance of the injustice which was done to him in the judgment of the arms; and Agamemnon, from a like enmity to human nature, passing into an eagle. About the middle was the soul of Atalanta choosing the honours of an athlete, and next to her Epeus taking the nature of a workwoman; among the last was Thersites, who was changing himself into a monkey. Thither, the last of all, came Odysseus, and sought the lot of a private man, which lay neglected and despised, and when he found it he went away rejoicing, and said that if he had been first instead of last, his choice would have been the same. Men, too, were seen passing into animals, and wild and tame animals changing into one another.
On the eighth day, the souls of the pilgrims continued their journey. In four days they reached a spot where they could look down and see a line of light. It looked like a rainbow, but brighter and clearer. One more day brought them to the place itself. They saw that this was the column of light that binds together the whole universe. The ends of the column were fastened to heaven. From them hung the distaff of Necessity, on which all the heavenly bodies turned. The hook and spindle were made of adamant, and the whorl was made of mixed substances. The whorl looked like a number of boxes fitting into one another with their edges turned upwards. Together they made a single whorl that was pierced by the spindle. The outermost had the broadest rim. The inner whorls were smaller and smaller, with narrower rims. The largest (the fixed stars) was spangled. The seventh (the sun) was brightest. The eighth (the moon) shone by the light of the seventh. The second and fifth (Saturn and Mercury) were most like one another and yellower than the eighth. The third (Jupiter) had the whitest light. The fourth (Mars) was red. The sixth (Venus) was second in whiteness. The whole thing had one motion, but while this was revolving in one direction, the seven inner circles were moving in the opposite direction. They moved with various degrees of speed. The spindle turned on the knees of Necessity. A Siren stood on each circle, singing hymns. Lachesis, Clotho, and Atropos, the daughters of Necessity, sat on thrones at equal intervals. They sang of past, present, and future, responding to the music of the Sirens. Clotho guided the outer circle from time to time with a touch of her right hand. Atropos touched and guided the inner circles with her left hand. Lachesis put forth her hand from time to time to guide both of them. When the pilgrims arrived, they went to Lachesis. There was an interpreter who arranged them. He took lots and samples of lives from her knees, got up into a pulpit, and said: "Mortal souls, hear the words of Lachesis, the daughter of Necessity. A new period of mortal life has begun. You may choose what divinity you please. The responsibility of choosing is with you. God is blameless." After speaking, he cast the lots among them. Each one took up the lot that fell near him. He then placed the samples of lives on the ground before them. There were many more than the souls present. There were all sorts of lives, of men and of animals. There were tyrannies ending in misery and exile. There were lives of men and women famous for their different qualities. There were also mixed lives, made up of wealth and poverty, sickness and health. Here, Glaucon, is the great risk of human life. Therefore, all of education should be directed to gaining the knowledge that will teach a man to refuse the evil and choose the good. He should know all the combinations that occur in life. Beauty with poverty or with wealth. Knowledge with external goods. At last he should choose with reference to the nature of the soul. He should regard only that life as better which makes men better, and leave the rest. A man must take with him an iron sense of truth and right into the world below. There too he may remain undazzled by wealth or the allurements of evil. He must be determined to avoid the extremes and choose the mean. For this, as the messenger reported the interpreter to have said, is the true happiness of man. Anyone, as he proclaimed, may have a good lot if he chooses with understanding, even though he comes last. "Let not the first be careless in his choice, nor the last despair." He spoke. When he had spoken, the one who had drawn the first lot chose a tyranny. He did not see that he was fated to devour his own children. When he discovered his mistake, he wept and beat his breast. He blamed chance and the Gods and anybody rather than himself. He was one of those who had come from heaven. In his previous life he had been a citizen of a well-ordered State, but he had only habit and no philosophy. Like many another, he made a bad choice because he had no experience of life. Those who came from earth and had seen trouble were not in such a hurry to choose. But if a man had followed philosophy while upon earth and had been moderately fortunate in his lot, he might not only be happy here. His pilgrimage both from and to this world would be smooth and heavenly. Nothing was more curious than the spectacle of the choice. It was at once sad and laughable and wonderful. Most of the souls only sought to avoid their own condition in a previous life. He saw the soul of Orpheus changing into a swan because he would not be born of a woman. There was Thamyras becoming a nightingale. Musical birds, like the swan, chose to be men. The twentieth soul, which was that of Ajax, preferred the life of a lion to that of a man. He remembered the injustice that was done to him in the judgment of the arms. Agamemnon, from a like enmity to human nature, passed into an eagle. About the middle was the soul of Atalanta choosing the honors of an athlete. Next to her Epeus took the nature of a workwoman. Among the last was Thersites, who was changing himself into a monkey. There, the last of all, came Odysseus. He sought the lot of a private man, which lay neglected and despised. When he found it he went away rejoicing. He said that if he had been first instead of last, his choice would have been the same. Men, too, were seen passing into animals. Wild and tame animals changed into one another.
When all the souls had chosen they went to Lachesis, who sent with each of them their genius or attendant to fulfil their lot. He first of all brought them under the hand of Clotho, and drew them within the revolution of the spindle impelled by her hand; from her they were carried to Atropos, who made the threads irreversible; whence, without turning round, they passed beneath the throne of Necessity; and when they had all passed, they moved on in scorching heat to the plain of Forgetfulness and rested at evening by the river Unmindful, whose water could not be retained in any vessel; of this they had all to drink a certain quantity—some of them drank more than was required, and he who drank forgot all things. Er himself was prevented from drinking. When they had gone to rest, about the middle of the night there were thunderstorms and earthquakes, and suddenly they were all driven divers ways, shooting like stars to their birth. Concerning his return to the body, he only knew that awaking suddenly in the morning he found himself lying on the pyre.
When all the souls had chosen, they went to Lachesis. She sent each of them their genius or attendant to fulfill their destiny. First, she brought them under the hand of Clotho and drew them into the revolution of the spindle that Clotho's hand drove. From there they were carried to Atropos, who made the threads irreversible. Without turning around, they passed beneath the throne of Necessity. After they had all passed through, they moved on in scorching heat to the plain of Forgetfulness. At evening they rested by the river Unmindful, whose water could not be held in any vessel. All of them had to drink a certain amount of this water. Some drank more than required, and whoever drank forgot everything. Er himself was prevented from drinking. After they had gone to rest, around midnight there were thunderstorms and earthquakes. Suddenly they were all driven in different directions, shooting like stars to their birth. About his return to the body, he only knew that he awoke suddenly in the morning and found himself lying on the pyre.
Thus, Glaucon, the tale has been saved, and will be our salvation, if we believe that the soul is immortal, and hold fast to the heavenly way of Justice and Knowledge. So shall we pass undefiled over the river of Forgetfulness, and be dear to ourselves and to the Gods, and have a crown of reward and happiness both in this world and also in the millennial pilgrimage of the other.
So, Glaucon, the story has been saved and will save us too, if we believe the soul lives forever. We must hold tight to the heavenly path of Justice and Knowledge. This way we can cross the river of Forgetfulness without being corrupted. We will be dear to ourselves and to the Gods. We will earn a crown of reward and happiness both in this world and in the thousand-year journey of the next.
The Tenth Book of the Republic of Plato falls into two divisions: first, resuming an old thread which has been interrupted, Socrates assails the poets, who, now that the nature of the soul has been analyzed, are seen to be very far gone from the truth; and secondly, having shown the reality of the happiness of the just, he demands that appearance shall be restored to him, and then proceeds to prove the immortality of the soul. The argument, as in the Phaedo and Gorgias, is supplemented by the vision of a future life.
The Tenth Book of Plato's Republic has two main parts. First, Socrates returns to an earlier topic he had set aside. He attacks the poets, who now seem very far from the truth since we understand the nature of the soul better. Second, he shows that just people are truly happy. Then he asks that we restore appearances to him. After this, he goes on to prove that the soul is immortal. As in the Phaedo and Gorgias, the argument ends with a vision of life after death.
Why Plato, who was himself a poet, and whose dialogues are poems and dramas, should have been hostile to the poets as a class, and especially to the dramatic poets; why he should not have seen that truth may be embodied in verse as well as in prose, and that there are some indefinable lights and shadows of human life which can only be expressed in poetry—some elements of imagination which always entwine with reason; why he should have supposed epic verse to be inseparably associated with the impurities of the old Hellenic mythology; why he should try Homer and Hesiod by the unfair and prosaic test of utility,—are questions which have always been debated amongst students of Plato. Though unable to give a complete answer to them, we may show—first, that his views arose naturally out of the circumstances of his age; and secondly, we may elicit the truth as well as the error which is contained in them.
Why did Plato attack poets as a group, especially dramatic poets? This seems strange since Plato was a poet himself, and his dialogues read like poems and dramas. Why didn't he see that truth can be expressed in verse just as well as in prose? Some subtle aspects of human life can only be captured in poetry. Imagination always blends with reason in these works. Why did Plato assume that epic poetry was inevitably tied to the corrupt elements of old Greek mythology? Why did he judge Homer and Hesiod by the unfair and unpoetic standard of usefulness? Students of Plato have always debated these questions. We can't give a complete answer to them. But we can show two things. First, his views grew naturally from the conditions of his time. Second, we can identify both the truth and the error in his position.
He is the enemy of the poets because poetry was declining in his own lifetime, and a theatrocracy, as he says in the Laws, had taken the place of an intellectual aristocracy. Euripides exhibited the last phase of the tragic drama, and in him Plato saw the friend and apologist of tyrants, and the Sophist of tragedy. The old comedy was almost extinct; the new had not yet arisen. Dramatic and lyric poetry, like every other branch of Greek literature, was falling under the power of rhetoric. There was no ‘second or third’ to Aeschylus and Sophocles in the generation which followed them. Aristophanes, in one of his later comedies (Frogs), speaks of ‘thousands of tragedy-making prattlers,’ whose attempts at poetry he compares to the chirping of swallows; ‘their garrulity went far beyond Euripides,’—‘they appeared once upon the stage, and there was an end of them.’ To a man of genius who had a real appreciation of the godlike Aeschylus and the noble and gentle Sophocles, though disagreeing with some parts of their ‘theology’ (Rep.), these ‘minor poets’ must have been contemptible and intolerable. There is no feeling stronger in the dialogues of Plato than a sense of the decline and decay both in literature and in politics which marked his own age. Nor can he have been expected to look with favour on the licence of Aristophanes, now at the end of his career, who had begun by satirizing Socrates in the Clouds, and in a similar spirit forty years afterwards had satirized the founders of ideal commonwealths in his Eccleziazusae, or Female Parliament (Laws).
Plato saw poets as enemies because poetry was declining during his lifetime. As he explains in the Laws, a theatrocracy had replaced the intellectual aristocracy. Euripides represented the final stage of tragic drama. Plato viewed him as a friend and defender of tyrants, and as the Sophist of tragedy. The old comedy was nearly dead. The new comedy had not yet emerged. Dramatic and lyric poetry, like every other branch of Greek literature, was falling under the influence of rhetoric. No one in the following generation could match Aeschylus and Sophocles as a "second or third" great playwright. In one of his later comedies (Frogs), Aristophanes speaks of "thousands of tragedy-making prattlers." He compares their poetry attempts to the chirping of swallows. "Their garrulity went far beyond Euripides." "They appeared once upon the stage, and there was an end of them." To a man of genius who truly appreciated the godlike Aeschylus and the noble and gentle Sophocles, these "minor poets" must have been contemptible and intolerable. This was true even though Plato disagreed with some parts of their "theology" (Rep.). No feeling comes through stronger in Plato's dialogues than his sense of decline and decay in both literature and politics during his own age. He could hardly be expected to look favorably on the license of Aristophanes, now at the end of his career. Aristophanes had begun by satirizing Socrates in the Clouds. Forty years later, he satirized the founders of ideal commonwealths in his Eccleziazusae, or Female Parliament (Laws).
There were other reasons for the antagonism of Plato to poetry. The profession of an actor was regarded by him as a degradation of human nature, for ‘one man in his life’ cannot ‘play many parts;’ the characters which the actor performs seem to destroy his own character, and to leave nothing which can be truly called himself. Neither can any man live his life and act it. The actor is the slave of his art, not the master of it. Taking this view Plato is more decided in his expulsion of the dramatic than of the epic poets, though he must have known that the Greek tragedians afforded noble lessons and examples of virtue and patriotism, to which nothing in Homer can be compared. But great dramatic or even great rhetorical power is hardly consistent with firmness or strength of mind, and dramatic talent is often incidentally associated with a weak or dissolute character.
Plato had other reasons for opposing poetry. He saw acting as degrading to human nature. He believed that "one man in his life" cannot "play many parts." The characters an actor performs seem to destroy his own character. They leave nothing that can truly be called himself. No one can both live his life and act it at the same time. The actor becomes a slave to his art, not its master. With this view, Plato was more determined to expel dramatic poets than epic ones. This was true even though he must have known that Greek tragedians offered noble lessons and examples of virtue and patriotism. Nothing in Homer could compare to these. But great dramatic or even great rhetorical power is hardly consistent with firmness or strength of mind. Dramatic talent is often connected with a weak or dissolute character.
In the Tenth Book Plato introduces a new series of objections. First, he says that the poet or painter is an imitator, and in the third degree removed from the truth. His creations are not tested by rule and measure; they are only appearances. In modern times we should say that art is not merely imitation, but rather the expression of the ideal in forms of sense. Even adopting the humble image of Plato, from which his argument derives a colour, we should maintain that the artist may ennoble the bed which he paints by the folds of the drapery, or by the feeling of home which he introduces; and there have been modern painters who have imparted such an ideal interest to a blacksmith’s or a carpenter’s shop. The eye or mind which feels as well as sees can give dignity and pathos to a ruined mill, or a straw-built shed (Rembrandt), to the hull of a vessel ‘going to its last home’ (Turner). Still more would this apply to the greatest works of art, which seem to be the visible embodiment of the divine. Had Plato been asked whether the Zeus or Athene of Pheidias was the imitation of an imitation only, would he not have been compelled to admit that something more was to be found in them than in the form of any mortal; and that the rule of proportion to which they conformed was ‘higher far than any geometry or arithmetic could express?’ (Statesman.)
In the Tenth Book, Plato introduces a new series of objections. First, he says that the poet or painter is an imitator. They are three degrees removed from the truth. Their creations are not tested by rule and measure. They are only appearances. In modern times we would say that art is not merely imitation. Rather, it expresses the ideal in forms of sense. Even if we accept Plato's humble image, which gives his argument its color, we should maintain that the artist may ennoble the bed he paints. He can do this through the folds of the drapery or by the feeling of home he introduces. Modern painters have given such ideal interest to a blacksmith's or carpenter's shop. The eye or mind that feels as well as sees can give dignity and pathos to a ruined mill or a straw-built shed (Rembrandt). It can do the same to the hull of a vessel "going to its last home" (Turner). This applies even more to the greatest works of art. They seem to be the visible embodiment of the divine. Had Plato been asked whether the Zeus or Athene of Pheidias was only the imitation of an imitation, would he not have been compelled to admit something more? Would he not have found in them something beyond the form of any mortal? The rule of proportion to which they conformed was "higher far than any geometry or arithmetic could express" (Statesman).
Again, Plato objects to the imitative arts that they express the emotional rather than the rational part of human nature. He does not admit Aristotle’s theory, that tragedy or other serious imitations are a purgation of the passions by pity and fear; to him they appear only to afford the opportunity of indulging them. Yet we must acknowledge that we may sometimes cure disordered emotions by giving expression to them; and that they often gain strength when pent up within our own breast. It is not every indulgence of the feelings which is to be condemned. For there may be a gratification of the higher as well as of the lower—thoughts which are too deep or too sad to be expressed by ourselves, may find an utterance in the words of poets. Every one would acknowledge that there have been times when they were consoled and elevated by beautiful music or by the sublimity of architecture or by the peacefulness of nature. Plato has himself admitted, in the earlier part of the Republic, that the arts might have the effect of harmonizing as well as of enervating the mind; but in the Tenth Book he regards them through a Stoic or Puritan medium. He asks only ‘What good have they done?’ and is not satisfied with the reply, that ‘They have given innocent pleasure to mankind.’
Plato also criticizes the imitative arts because they appeal to our emotions rather than our reason. He rejects Aristotle's theory that tragedy and other serious art forms purge our passions through pity and fear. Instead, Plato believes these arts simply give us a chance to indulge our emotions. But we should recognize that sometimes we can heal troubled emotions by expressing them. These feelings often grow stronger when we keep them bottled up inside. Not every emotional expression deserves condemnation. We can find satisfaction in higher feelings as well as lower ones. Thoughts that are too deep or too sad for us to express ourselves may find voice through poets' words. Everyone would agree there have been times when beautiful music consoled and uplifted them, or when sublime architecture or peaceful nature did the same. Plato himself admitted earlier in the Republic that the arts might harmonize the mind as well as weaken it. But in the Tenth Book, he views them through a Stoic or Puritan lens. He only asks "What good have they done?" He's not satisfied with the answer that "They have given innocent pleasure to mankind."
He tells us that he rejoices in the banishment of the poets, since he has found by the analysis of the soul that they are concerned with the inferior faculties. He means to say that the higher faculties have to do with universals, the lower with particulars of sense. The poets are on a level with their own age, but not on a level with Socrates and Plato; and he was well aware that Homer and Hesiod could not be made a rule of life by any process of legitimate interpretation; his ironical use of them is in fact a denial of their authority; he saw, too, that the poets were not critics—as he says in the Apology, ‘Any one was a better interpreter of their writings than they were themselves. He himself ceased to be a poet when he became a disciple of Socrates; though, as he tells us of Solon, ‘he might have been one of the greatest of them, if he had not been deterred by other pursuits’ (Tim.) Thus from many points of view there is an antagonism between Plato and the poets, which was foreshadowed to him in the old quarrel between philosophy and poetry. The poets, as he says in the Protagoras, were the Sophists of their day; and his dislike of the one class is reflected on the other. He regards them both as the enemies of reasoning and abstraction, though in the case of Euripides more with reference to his immoral sentiments about tyrants and the like. For Plato is the prophet who ‘came into the world to convince men’—first of the fallibility of sense and opinion, and secondly of the reality of abstract ideas. Whatever strangeness there may be in modern times in opposing philosophy to poetry, which to us seem to have so many elements in common, the strangeness will disappear if we conceive of poetry as allied to sense, and of philosophy as equivalent to thought and abstraction. Unfortunately the very word ‘idea,’ which to Plato is expressive of the most real of all things, is associated in our minds with an element of subjectiveness and unreality. We may note also how he differs from Aristotle who declares poetry to be truer than history, for the opposite reason, because it is concerned with universals, not like history, with particulars (Poet).
He tells us that he rejoices in banishing the poets. Through analyzing the soul, he discovered that poets deal with inferior faculties. He means that higher faculties handle universal concepts, while lower ones deal with particular sensory details. The poets are on the same level as their own age, but not on the level of Socrates and Plato. He was well aware that Homer and Hesiod could not become a rule of life through any legitimate interpretation. His ironic use of them actually denies their authority. He also saw that poets were not critics. As he says in the Apology, "Anyone was a better interpreter of their writings than they were themselves." He himself stopped being a poet when he became Socrates' disciple. Though, as he tells us of Solon, "he might have been one of the greatest of them, if he had not been deterred by other pursuits" (Tim.) From many points of view, there is conflict between Plato and the poets. This was foreshadowed in the old quarrel between philosophy and poetry. The poets, as he says in the Protagoras, were the Sophists of their day. His dislike of one class reflects on the other. He sees them both as enemies of reasoning and abstraction. In Euripides' case, this is more about his immoral sentiments regarding tyrants and similar topics. Plato is the prophet who "came into the world to convince men." First, he wanted to show the fallibility of sense and opinion. Second, he wanted to prove the reality of abstract ideas. It may seem strange in modern times to oppose philosophy to poetry. To us, they seem to have many elements in common. The strangeness will disappear if we think of poetry as allied to sense, and philosophy as equivalent to thought and abstraction. Unfortunately, the word "idea" itself causes problems. To Plato, it expresses the most real of all things. In our minds, it's associated with subjectiveness and unreality. We may also note how he differs from Aristotle. Aristotle declares poetry to be truer than history for the opposite reason. Poetry is concerned with universals, not like history, with particulars (Poet).
The things which are seen are opposed in Scripture to the things which are unseen—they are equally opposed in Plato to universals and ideas. To him all particulars appear to be floating about in a world of sense; they have a taint of error or even of evil. There is no difficulty in seeing that this is an illusion; for there is no more error or variation in an individual man, horse, bed, etc., than in the class man, horse, bed, etc.; nor is the truth which is displayed in individual instances less certain than that which is conveyed through the medium of ideas. But Plato, who is deeply impressed with the real importance of universals as instruments of thought, attributes to them an essential truth which is imaginary and unreal; for universals may be often false and particulars true. Had he attained to any clear conception of the individual, which is the synthesis of the universal and the particular; or had he been able to distinguish between opinion and sensation, which the ambiguity of the words (Greek) and the like, tended to confuse, he would not have denied truth to the particulars of sense.
In Scripture, the things we can see are contrasted with the things we cannot see. Plato makes a similar contrast between particulars and universals or ideas. To him, all particular things seem to drift around in a world of the senses. They carry a hint of error or even evil. It's easy to see that this view is mistaken. There is no more error or variation in an individual man, horse, or bed than in the general class of man, horse, or bed. The truth we see in individual examples is just as certain as the truth we get through ideas. But Plato was deeply impressed by how important universals are as tools for thinking. He gave them an essential truth that is imaginary and unreal. Universals can often be false while particulars are true. If Plato had reached a clear understanding of the individual (which combines the universal and the particular), things might have been different. Or if he had been able to tell the difference between opinion and sensation (which Greek words tended to blur together), he would not have denied truth to the particular things we experience through our senses.
But the poets are also the representatives of falsehood and feigning in all departments of life and knowledge, like the sophists and rhetoricians of the Gorgias and Phaedrus; they are the false priests, false prophets, lying spirits, enchanters of the world. There is another count put into the indictment against them by Plato, that they are the friends of the tyrant, and bask in the sunshine of his patronage. Despotism in all ages has had an apparatus of false ideas and false teachers at its service—in the history of Modern Europe as well as of Greece and Rome. For no government of men depends solely upon force; without some corruption of literature and morals—some appeal to the imagination of the masses—some pretence to the favour of heaven—some element of good giving power to evil, tyranny, even for a short time, cannot be maintained. The Greek tyrants were not insensible to the importance of awakening in their cause a Pseudo-Hellenic feeling; they were proud of successes at the Olympic games; they were not devoid of the love of literature and art. Plato is thinking in the first instance of Greek poets who had graced the courts of Dionysius or Archelaus: and the old spirit of freedom is roused within him at their prostitution of the Tragic Muse in the praises of tyranny. But his prophetic eye extends beyond them to the false teachers of other ages who are the creatures of the government under which they live. He compares the corruption of his contemporaries with the idea of a perfect society, and gathers up into one mass of evil the evils and errors of mankind; to him they are personified in the rhetoricians, sophists, poets, rulers who deceive and govern the world.
But the poets also represent lies and deception in all areas of life and knowledge, just like the sophists and rhetoricians in the Gorgias and Phaedrus. They are false priests, false prophets, lying spirits, and enchanters of the world. Plato adds another charge against them: they are friends of the tyrant and enjoy the warmth of his support. Throughout history, despotism has always had false ideas and false teachers serving it. This was true in modern Europe as well as in Greece and Rome. No government rules by force alone. Without some corruption of literature and morals, some appeal to people's imagination, some claim to heaven's favor, some element of good giving power to evil, tyranny cannot survive even briefly. The Greek tyrants understood the importance of stirring up fake patriotic feelings for their cause. They took pride in victories at the Olympic games. They genuinely loved literature and art. Plato is thinking first of Greek poets who had honored the courts of Dionysius or Archelaus. The old spirit of freedom stirs within him at their prostitution of the Tragic Muse in praise of tyranny. But his prophetic vision reaches beyond them to the false teachers of other ages who serve whatever government they live under. He compares the corruption of his contemporaries with his vision of a perfect society. He gathers all the evils and errors of mankind into one mass of evil. To him, they are embodied in the rhetoricians, sophists, poets, and rulers who deceive and govern the world.
A further objection which Plato makes to poetry and the imitative arts is that they excite the emotions. Here the modern reader will be disposed to introduce a distinction which appears to have escaped him. For the emotions are neither bad nor good in themselves, and are not most likely to be controlled by the attempt to eradicate them, but by the moderate indulgence of them. And the vocation of art is to present thought in the form of feeling, to enlist the feelings on the side of reason, to inspire even for a moment courage or resignation; perhaps to suggest a sense of infinity and eternity in a way which mere language is incapable of attaining. True, the same power which in the purer age of art embodies gods and heroes only, may be made to express the voluptuous image of a Corinthian courtezan. But this only shows that art, like other outward things, may be turned to good and also to evil, and is not more closely connected with the higher than with the lower part of the soul. All imitative art is subject to certain limitations, and therefore necessarily partakes of the nature of a compromise. Something of ideal truth is sacrificed for the sake of the representation, and something in the exactness of the representation is sacrificed to the ideal. Still, works of art have a permanent element; they idealize and detain the passing thought, and are the intermediates between sense and ideas.
Plato had another objection to poetry and the imitative arts. He believed they excite the emotions. Modern readers would likely make a distinction that seems to have escaped him. Emotions are neither bad nor good in themselves. They are not best controlled by trying to eliminate them, but by allowing them in moderation. Art's purpose is to present thought in the form of feeling. It enlists feelings on the side of reason and inspires courage or resignation, even if just for a moment. Art can suggest a sense of infinity and eternity in ways that mere language cannot achieve. It's true that the same power which creates gods and heroes in art's purer age can also express the sensual image of a Corinthian courtesan. But this only shows that art, like other external things, can be turned to both good and evil. Art is not more closely connected with the higher part of the soul than with the lower part. All imitative art has certain limitations and necessarily involves compromise. Some ideal truth is sacrificed for the sake of representation. Some exactness in representation is sacrificed to the ideal. Still, works of art have a permanent element. They idealize and capture passing thoughts. They serve as intermediates between the senses and ideas.
In the present stage of the human mind, poetry and other forms of fiction may certainly be regarded as a good. But we can also imagine the existence of an age in which a severer conception of truth has either banished or transformed them. At any rate we must admit that they hold a different place at different periods of the world’s history. In the infancy of mankind, poetry, with the exception of proverbs, is the whole of literature, and the only instrument of intellectual culture; in modern times she is the shadow or echo of her former self, and appears to have a precarious existence. Milton in his day doubted whether an epic poem was any longer possible. At the same time we must remember, that what Plato would have called the charms of poetry have been partly transferred to prose; he himself (Statesman) admits rhetoric to be the handmaiden of Politics, and proposes to find in the strain of law (Laws) a substitute for the old poets. Among ourselves the creative power seems often to be growing weaker, and scientific fact to be more engrossing and overpowering to the mind than formerly. The illusion of the feelings commonly called love, has hitherto been the inspiring influence of modern poetry and romance, and has exercised a humanizing if not a strengthening influence on the world. But may not the stimulus which love has given to fancy be some day exhausted? The modern English novel which is the most popular of all forms of reading is not more than a century or two old: will the tale of love a hundred years hence, after so many thousand variations of the same theme, be still received with unabated interest?
Right now, poetry and other forms of fiction are clearly valuable. But we can imagine a future where people demand stricter truth and either ban these art forms or completely change them. We must admit that literature holds different positions at different times in history. When humanity was young, poetry was almost all of literature, except for proverbs. It was the only tool for intellectual growth. In modern times, poetry has become a shadow of what it once was and seems to barely survive. Milton wondered in his time whether epic poems were even possible anymore. At the same time, we should remember that what Plato called poetry's charms have partly moved into prose. Plato himself admitted that rhetoric serves politics, and he suggested that legal writing could replace the old poets. Among us today, creative power often seems to be weakening. Scientific facts grip and overwhelm our minds more than they used to. The illusion of feelings we call love has been the driving force behind modern poetry and romance. Love has had a humanizing effect on the world, if not a strengthening one. But might the inspiration that love gives to imagination someday run out? The modern English novel, which is the most popular form of reading today, is only a century or two old. Will love stories still fascinate readers a hundred years from now, after thousands of variations on the same theme?
Art cannot claim to be on a level with philosophy or religion, and may often corrupt them. It is possible to conceive a mental state in which all artistic representations are regarded as a false and imperfect expression, either of the religious ideal or of the philosophical ideal. The fairest forms may be revolting in certain moods of mind, as is proved by the fact that the Mahometans, and many sects of Christians, have renounced the use of pictures and images. The beginning of a great religion, whether Christian or Gentile, has not been ‘wood or stone,’ but a spirit moving in the hearts of men. The disciples have met in a large upper room or in ‘holes and caves of the earth’; in the second or third generation, they have had mosques, temples, churches, monasteries. And the revival or reform of religions, like the first revelation of them, has come from within and has generally disregarded external ceremonies and accompaniments.
Art cannot claim to equal philosophy or religion, and it may often corrupt them. We can imagine a mental state where all artistic representations seem false and imperfect. They fail to capture either the religious ideal or the philosophical ideal. The most beautiful forms may seem revolting in certain moods, as proven by the fact that Muslims and many Christian sects have given up using pictures and images. The beginning of a great religion, whether Christian or pagan, has not been "wood or stone," but a spirit moving in people's hearts. The disciples have met in a large upper room or in "holes and caves of the earth." In the second or third generation, they have built mosques, temples, churches, and monasteries. The revival or reform of religions, like their first revelation, has come from within and has generally ignored external ceremonies and accompaniments.
But poetry and art may also be the expression of the highest truth and the purest sentiment. Plato himself seems to waver between two opposite views—when, as in the third Book, he insists that youth should be brought up amid wholesome imagery; and again in Book X, when he banishes the poets from his Republic. Admitting that the arts, which some of us almost deify, have fallen short of their higher aim, we must admit on the other hand that to banish imagination wholly would be suicidal as well as impossible. For nature too is a form of art; and a breath of the fresh air or a single glance at the varying landscape would in an instant revive and reillumine the extinguished spark of poetry in the human breast. In the lower stages of civilization imagination more than reason distinguishes man from the animals; and to banish art would be to banish thought, to banish language, to banish the expression of all truth. No religion is wholly devoid of external forms; even the Mahometan who renounces the use of pictures and images has a temple in which he worships the Most High, as solemn and beautiful as any Greek or Christian building. Feeling too and thought are not really opposed; for he who thinks must feel before he can execute. And the highest thoughts, when they become familiarized to us, are always tending to pass into the form of feeling.
But poetry and art can also express the highest truth and the purest feelings. Plato himself seems torn between two opposing views. In Book III, he insists that young people should grow up surrounded by wholesome imagery. But in Book X, he banishes poets from his Republic. We must admit that the arts, which some of us almost worship, have fallen short of their higher purpose. On the other hand, we must also admit that banishing imagination completely would be both suicidal and impossible. Nature itself is a form of art. A breath of fresh air or a single glance at the changing landscape would instantly revive and rekindle the dying spark of poetry in the human heart. In the early stages of civilization, imagination more than reason separates humans from animals. To banish art would mean banishing thought, banishing language, banishing the expression of all truth. No religion is completely without external forms. Even the Muslim who refuses to use pictures and images has a temple where he worships the Most High. It is as solemn and beautiful as any Greek or Christian building. Feeling and thought are not really opposed to each other. Anyone who thinks must feel before they can act. The highest thoughts, when they become familiar to us, always tend to transform into feelings.
Plato does not seriously intend to expel poets from life and society. But he feels strongly the unreality of their writings; he is protesting against the degeneracy of poetry in his own day as we might protest against the want of serious purpose in modern fiction, against the unseemliness or extravagance of some of our poets or novelists, against the time-serving of preachers or public writers, against the regardlessness of truth which to the eye of the philosopher seems to characterize the greater part of the world. For we too have reason to complain that our poets and novelists ‘paint inferior truth’ and ‘are concerned with the inferior part of the soul’; that the readers of them become what they read and are injuriously affected by them. And we look in vain for that healthy atmosphere of which Plato speaks,—‘the beauty which meets the sense like a breeze and imperceptibly draws the soul, even in childhood, into harmony with the beauty of reason.’
Plato doesn't seriously want to ban poets from life and society. But he strongly feels that their writings are unreal. He is protesting against the decline of poetry in his own time, just as we might protest against the lack of serious purpose in modern fiction. We might complain about the inappropriate or excessive behavior of some of our poets or novelists, against preachers or public writers who simply serve their times, against the disregard for truth that seems to characterize most of the world in the philosopher's eyes. We too have reason to complain that our poets and novelists "paint inferior truth" and "are concerned with the inferior part of the soul." The people who read them become what they read and are harmfully affected by them. We look in vain for that healthy atmosphere Plato describes: "the beauty which meets the sense like a breeze and imperceptibly draws the soul, even in childhood, into harmony with the beauty of reason."
For there might be a poetry which would be the hymn of divine perfection, the harmony of goodness and truth among men: a strain which should renew the youth of the world, and bring back the ages in which the poet was man’s only teacher and best friend,—which would find materials in the living present as well as in the romance of the past, and might subdue to the fairest forms of speech and verse the intractable materials of modern civilisation,—which might elicit the simple principles, or, as Plato would have called them, the essential forms, of truth and justice out of the variety of opinion and the complexity of modern society,—which would preserve all the good of each generation and leave the bad unsung,—which should be based not on vain longings or faint imaginings, but on a clear insight into the nature of man. Then the tale of love might begin again in poetry or prose, two in one, united in the pursuit of knowledge, or the service of God and man; and feelings of love might still be the incentive to great thoughts and heroic deeds as in the days of Dante or Petrarch; and many types of manly and womanly beauty might appear among us, rising above the ordinary level of humanity, and many lives which were like poems (Laws), be not only written, but lived by us. A few such strains have been heard among men in the tragedies of Aeschylus and Sophocles, whom Plato quotes, not, as Homer is quoted by him, in irony, but with deep and serious approval,—in the poetry of Milton and Wordsworth, and in passages of other English poets,—first and above all in the Hebrew prophets and psalmists. Shakespeare has taught us how great men should speak and act; he has drawn characters of a wonderful purity and depth; he has ennobled the human mind, but, like Homer (Rep.), he ‘has left no way of life.’ The next greatest poet of modern times, Goethe, is concerned with ‘a lower degree of truth’; he paints the world as a stage on which ‘all the men and women are merely players’; he cultivates life as an art, but he furnishes no ideals of truth and action. The poet may rebel against any attempt to set limits to his fancy; and he may argue truly that moralizing in verse is not poetry. Possibly, like Mephistopheles in Faust, he may retaliate on his adversaries. But the philosopher will still be justified in asking, ‘How may the heavenly gift of poesy be devoted to the good of mankind?’
There could be a poetry that serves as a hymn to divine perfection. It would celebrate the harmony of goodness and truth among people. This kind of poetry would renew the world's youth and bring back the ages when poets were humanity's only teachers and best friends. Such poetry would find materials in our living present as well as in the romance of the past. It could transform the difficult materials of modern civilization into the most beautiful forms of speech and verse. It might draw out the simple principles from the variety of opinions and complexity of modern society. Plato would have called these the essential forms of truth and justice. This poetry would preserve all the good of each generation and leave the bad unsung. It would be based not on empty longings or weak imaginings, but on a clear understanding of human nature. Then the tale of love might begin again in poetry or prose. Two people could unite as one in the pursuit of knowledge or in service to God and humanity. Feelings of love might still inspire great thoughts and heroic deeds, as they did in the days of Dante or Petrarch. Many types of manly and womanly beauty might appear among us, rising above the ordinary level of humanity. Many lives that were like poems could be not only written, but actually lived by us. A few such strains have been heard among people in the tragedies of Aeschylus and Sophocles. Plato quotes them not in irony, as he does Homer, but with deep and serious approval. We hear them in the poetry of Milton and Wordsworth, and in passages of other English poets. We hear them first and above all in the Hebrew prophets and psalmists. Shakespeare has taught us how great people should speak and act. He has drawn characters of wonderful purity and depth. He has ennobled the human mind, but like Homer, he "has left no way of life." The next greatest poet of modern times, Goethe, is concerned with "a lower degree of truth." He paints the world as a stage on which "all the men and women are merely players." He cultivates life as an art, but he provides no ideals of truth and action. The poet may rebel against any attempt to limit his imagination. He may argue truly that moralizing in verse is not poetry. Possibly, like Mephistopheles in Faust, he may strike back at his critics. But the philosopher will still be justified in asking, "How may the heavenly gift of poetry be devoted to the good of mankind?"
Returning to Plato, we may observe that a similar mixture of truth and error appears in other parts of the argument. He is aware of the absurdity of mankind framing their whole lives according to Homer; just as in the Phaedrus he intimates the absurdity of interpreting mythology upon rational principles; both these were the modern tendencies of his own age, which he deservedly ridicules. On the other hand, his argument that Homer, if he had been able to teach mankind anything worth knowing, would not have been allowed by them to go about begging as a rhapsodist, is both false and contrary to the spirit of Plato (Rep.). It may be compared with those other paradoxes of the Gorgias, that ‘No statesman was ever unjustly put to death by the city of which he was the head’; and that ‘No Sophist was ever defrauded by his pupils’ (Gorg.)...
Looking back at Plato, we can see a similar mix of truth and error in other parts of his argument. He recognizes how absurd it would be for people to base their entire lives on Homer's teachings. In the Phaedrus, he also points out the foolishness of trying to interpret mythology using rational principles. Both of these were popular trends in his time, and he was right to mock them. However, his argument that Homer would not have been allowed to wander around begging as a rhapsodist if he could actually teach people anything worthwhile is both false and goes against Plato's own spirit (Rep.). This argument is similar to other paradoxes in the Gorgias: "No statesman was ever unjustly put to death by the city he led" and "No Sophist was ever cheated by his students" (Gorg.)...
The argument for immortality seems to rest on the absolute dualism of soul and body. Admitting the existence of the soul, we know of no force which is able to put an end to her. Vice is her own proper evil; and if she cannot be destroyed by that, she cannot be destroyed by any other. Yet Plato has acknowledged that the soul may be so overgrown by the incrustations of earth as to lose her original form; and in the Timaeus he recognizes more strongly than in the Republic the influence which the body has over the mind, denying even the voluntariness of human actions, on the ground that they proceed from physical states (Tim.). In the Republic, as elsewhere, he wavers between the original soul which has to be restored, and the character which is developed by training and education...
The argument for immortality seems to rest on the complete separation of soul and body. If we accept that the soul exists, we know of no force that can destroy it. Vice is the soul's natural enemy. If vice cannot destroy the soul, then nothing else can either. Yet Plato has admitted that the soul may become so covered by earthly influences that it loses its original form. In the Timaeus, he recognizes more strongly than in the Republic how much the body influences the mind. He even denies that human actions are voluntary, arguing that they come from physical states instead. In the Republic, as elsewhere, he wavers between two ideas: the original soul that must be restored, and the character that develops through training and education.
The vision of another world is ascribed to Er, the son of Armenius, who is said by Clement of Alexandria to have been Zoroaster. The tale has certainly an oriental character, and may be compared with the pilgrimages of the soul in the Zend Avesta (Haug, Avesta). But no trace of acquaintance with Zoroaster is found elsewhere in Plato’s writings, and there is no reason for giving him the name of Er the Pamphylian. The philosophy of Heracleitus cannot be shown to be borrowed from Zoroaster, and still less the myths of Plato.
The vision of another world is credited to Er, the son of Armenius. Clement of Alexandria claimed that Er was actually Zoroaster. The story certainly has an oriental feel to it. It can be compared with the soul's journeys described in the Zend Avesta (Haug, Avesta). However, Plato's other writings show no sign that he knew about Zoroaster. There's no reason to give him the name of Er the Pamphylian. We can't prove that Heracleitus borrowed his philosophy from Zoroaster. Even less can we prove that Plato borrowed his myths from him.
The local arrangement of the vision is less distinct than that of the Phaedrus and Phaedo. Astronomy is mingled with symbolism and mythology; the great sphere of heaven is represented under the symbol of a cylinder or box, containing the seven orbits of the planets and the fixed stars; this is suspended from an axis or spindle which turns on the knees of Necessity; the revolutions of the seven orbits contained in the cylinder are guided by the fates, and their harmonious motion produces the music of the spheres. Through the innermost or eighth of these, which is the moon, is passed the spindle; but it is doubtful whether this is the continuation of the column of light, from which the pilgrims contemplate the heavens; the words of Plato imply that they are connected, but not the same. The column itself is clearly not of adamant. The spindle (which is of adamant) is fastened to the ends of the chains which extend to the middle of the column of light—this column is said to hold together the heaven; but whether it hangs from the spindle, or is at right angles to it, is not explained. The cylinder containing the orbits of the stars is almost as much a symbol as the figure of Necessity turning the spindle;—for the outermost rim is the sphere of the fixed stars, and nothing is said about the intervals of space which divide the paths of the stars in the heavens. The description is both a picture and an orrery, and therefore is necessarily inconsistent with itself. The column of light is not the Milky Way—which is neither straight, nor like a rainbow—but the imaginary axis of the earth. This is compared to the rainbow in respect not of form but of colour, and not to the undergirders of a trireme, but to the straight rope running from prow to stern in which the undergirders meet.
The visual arrangement in this passage is less clear than in the Phaedrus and Phaedo. Astronomy mixes with symbolism and mythology. The great sphere of heaven appears as a cylinder or box containing the seven orbits of the planets and fixed stars. This cylinder hangs from an axis or spindle that turns on the knees of Necessity. The fates guide the revolutions of the seven orbits inside the cylinder. Their harmonious motion creates the music of the spheres. The spindle passes through the innermost orbit, which is the eighth one and represents the moon. It's unclear whether this spindle continues from the column of light where the pilgrims view the heavens. Plato's words suggest they are connected but not the same thing. The column itself is clearly not made of adamant. The spindle, which is made of adamant, attaches to the ends of chains that extend to the middle of the column of light. This column supposedly holds the heaven together. But Plato doesn't explain whether it hangs from the spindle or sits at right angles to it. The cylinder containing the star orbits is almost as symbolic as the figure of Necessity turning the spindle. The outermost rim represents the sphere of fixed stars. Nothing is said about the spaces that separate the star paths in the heavens. The description works both as a picture and as an orrery, so it necessarily contradicts itself. The column of light is not the Milky Way, which is neither straight nor rainbow-like. Instead, it represents the imaginary axis of the earth. Plato compares it to the rainbow in terms of color, not shape. He also compares it not to the undergirders of a trireme, but to the straight rope running from bow to stern where the undergirders meet.
The orrery or picture of the heavens given in the Republic differs in its mode of representation from the circles of the same and of the other in the Timaeus. In both the fixed stars are distinguished from the planets, and they move in orbits without them, although in an opposite direction: in the Republic as in the Timaeus they are all moving round the axis of the world. But we are not certain that in the former they are moving round the earth. No distinct mention is made in the Republic of the circles of the same and other; although both in the Timaeus and in the Republic the motion of the fixed stars is supposed to coincide with the motion of the whole. The relative thickness of the rims is perhaps designed to express the relative distances of the planets. Plato probably intended to represent the earth, from which Er and his companions are viewing the heavens, as stationary in place; but whether or not herself revolving, unless this is implied in the revolution of the axis, is uncertain (Timaeus). The spectator may be supposed to look at the heavenly bodies, either from above or below. The earth is a sort of earth and heaven in one, like the heaven of the Phaedrus, on the back of which the spectator goes out to take a peep at the stars and is borne round in the revolution. There is no distinction between the equator and the ecliptic. But Plato is no doubt led to imagine that the planets have an opposite motion to that of the fixed stars, in order to account for their appearances in the heavens. In the description of the meadow, and the retribution of the good and evil after death, there are traces of Homer.
The orrery or picture of the heavens in the Republic uses a different way of showing things than the circles of the same and other in the Timaeus. In both works, the fixed stars are separate from the planets. They move in orbits without the planets, but in the opposite direction. In the Republic, just like in the Timaeus, they all move around the axis of the world. But we're not sure that in the Republic they move around the earth. The Republic doesn't clearly mention the circles of the same and other. Still, in both the Timaeus and the Republic, the motion of the fixed stars matches the motion of the whole system. The different thickness of the rims probably shows the relative distances of the planets. Plato likely meant to show the earth as staying in one place. This is where Er and his companions view the heavens from. But we don't know if the earth itself revolves, unless this is part of the axis revolution. This uncertainty also appears in the Timaeus. The viewer can look at the heavenly bodies from above or below. The earth is like a combination of earth and heaven. It's similar to the heaven in the Phaedrus. There, the viewer goes out on the back to peek at the stars and gets carried around in the revolution. There's no difference between the equator and the ecliptic. But Plato clearly imagines that the planets move opposite to the fixed stars. He does this to explain how they appear in the heavens. In the description of the meadow and the punishment of good and evil after death, we can see traces of Homer.
The description of the axis as a spindle, and of the heavenly bodies as forming a whole, partly arises out of the attempt to connect the motions of the heavenly bodies with the mythological image of the web, or weaving of the Fates. The giving of the lots, the weaving of them, and the making of them irreversible, which are ascribed to the three Fates—Lachesis, Clotho, Atropos, are obviously derived from their names. The element of chance in human life is indicated by the order of the lots. But chance, however adverse, may be overcome by the wisdom of man, if he knows how to choose aright; there is a worse enemy to man than chance; this enemy is himself. He who was moderately fortunate in the number of the lot—even the very last comer—might have a good life if he chose with wisdom. And as Plato does not like to make an assertion which is unproven, he more than confirms this statement a few sentences afterwards by the example of Odysseus, who chose last. But the virtue which is founded on habit is not sufficient to enable a man to choose; he must add to virtue knowledge, if he is to act rightly when placed in new circumstances. The routine of good actions and good habits is an inferior sort of goodness; and, as Coleridge says, ‘Common sense is intolerable which is not based on metaphysics,’ so Plato would have said, ‘Habit is worthless which is not based upon philosophy.’
The description of the axis as a spindle and the heavenly bodies as forming a whole comes partly from trying to connect the movements of celestial bodies with the mythological image of the web or weaving of the Fates. The giving of lots, the weaving of them, and making them irreversible are all assigned to the three Fates—Lachesis, Clotho, Atropos. These roles clearly come from their names. The element of chance in human life is shown by the order of the lots. But chance, no matter how bad, can be overcome by human wisdom if a person knows how to choose correctly. There is a worse enemy to man than chance: himself. Someone who was moderately fortunate in the number of their lot—even the very last person to choose—could have a good life if they chose wisely. Since Plato doesn't like to make unproven claims, he confirms this statement a few sentences later with the example of Odysseus, who chose last. But virtue based on habit alone isn't enough to help someone choose well. A person must add knowledge to virtue to act correctly when facing new situations. The routine of good actions and good habits is a lesser kind of goodness. As Coleridge says, "Common sense is intolerable which is not based on metaphysics." Similarly, Plato would have said, "Habit is worthless which is not based upon philosophy."
The freedom of the will to refuse the evil and to choose the good is distinctly asserted. ‘Virtue is free, and as a man honours or dishonours her he will have more or less of her.’ The life of man is ‘rounded’ by necessity; there are circumstances prior to birth which affect him (Pol.). But within the walls of necessity there is an open space in which he is his own master, and can study for himself the effects which the variously compounded gifts of nature or fortune have upon the soul, and act accordingly. All men cannot have the first choice in everything. But the lot of all men is good enough, if they choose wisely and will live diligently.
The freedom of the will to refuse evil and choose good is clearly stated. 'Virtue is free, and as a man honors or dishonors her he will have more or less of her.' A person's life is shaped by necessity. There are circumstances before birth that affect him (Pol.). But within the boundaries of necessity there is an open space where he is his own master. He can study for himself the effects that the various gifts of nature or fortune have on the soul, and act accordingly. Not everyone can have the first choice in everything. But everyone's situation is good enough, if they choose wisely and live diligently.
The verisimilitude which is given to the pilgrimage of a thousand years, by the intimation that Ardiaeus had lived a thousand years before; the coincidence of Er coming to life on the twelfth day after he was supposed to have been dead with the seven days which the pilgrims passed in the meadow, and the four days during which they journeyed to the column of light; the precision with which the soul is mentioned who chose the twentieth lot; the passing remarks that there was no definite character among the souls, and that the souls which had chosen ill blamed any one rather than themselves; or that some of the souls drank more than was necessary of the waters of Forgetfulness, while Er himself was hindered from drinking; the desire of Odysseus to rest at last, unlike the conception of him in Dante and Tennyson; the feigned ignorance of how Er returned to the body, when the other souls went shooting like stars to their birth,—add greatly to the probability of the narrative. They are such touches of nature as the art of Defoe might have introduced when he wished to win credibility for marvels and apparitions.
The story of the thousand-year pilgrimage feels remarkably believable because of several carefully crafted details. Ardiaeus had lived a thousand years before, which makes the timeline feel real. Er comes back to life on the twelfth day after his supposed death. This matches perfectly with the seven days the pilgrims spent in the meadow plus the four days they traveled to the column of light. The author mentions with exact precision the soul who chose the twentieth lot. He makes passing remarks that there was no definite character among the souls. He notes that the souls who had chosen poorly blamed anyone but themselves. Some souls drank more than necessary from the waters of Forgetfulness, while Er himself was prevented from drinking. Odysseus desires to rest at last, which differs from how Dante and Tennyson portrayed him. The author pretends not to know how Er returned to his body when the other souls went shooting like stars to their birth. All these details add greatly to the story's believability. They are the kind of natural touches that Defoe might have used when he wanted readers to believe in marvels and supernatural events.
There still remain to be considered some points which have been intentionally reserved to the end: (1) the Janus-like character of the Republic, which presents two faces—one an Hellenic state, the other a kingdom of philosophers. Connected with the latter of the two aspects are (2) the paradoxes of the Republic, as they have been termed by Morgenstern: (a) the community of property; (b) of families; (c) the rule of philosophers; (d) the analogy of the individual and the State, which, like some other analogies in the Republic, is carried too far. We may then proceed to consider (3) the subject of education as conceived by Plato, bringing together in a general view the education of youth and the education of after-life; (4) we may note further some essential differences between ancient and modern politics which are suggested by the Republic; (5) we may compare the Politicus and the Laws; (6) we may observe the influence exercised by Plato on his imitators; and (7) take occasion to consider the nature and value of political, and (8) of religious ideals.
Several important points have been intentionally saved for the end. First, the Republic has a Janus-like character that presents two faces. One face shows a Hellenic state, while the other reveals a kingdom of philosophers. Connected to this second aspect are what Morgenstern called the paradoxes of the Republic. These include the community of property, the community of families, the rule of philosophers, and the analogy between the individual and the State. This last analogy, like some others in the Republic, is pushed too far. We can then consider Plato's concept of education. This brings together both the education of youth and lifelong learning. We should also note some essential differences between ancient and modern politics that the Republic suggests. We can compare the Politicus and the Laws. We can observe Plato's influence on those who imitated him. Finally, we can consider the nature and value of political ideals and religious ideals.
1. Plato expressly says that he is intending to found an Hellenic State (Book V). Many of his regulations are characteristically Spartan; such as the prohibition of gold and silver, the common meals of the men, the military training of the youth, the gymnastic exercises of the women. The life of Sparta was the life of a camp (Laws), enforced even more rigidly in time of peace than in war; the citizens of Sparta, like Plato’s, were forbidden to trade—they were to be soldiers and not shopkeepers. Nowhere else in Greece was the individual so completely subjected to the State; the time when he was to marry, the education of his children, the clothes which he was to wear, the food which he was to eat, were all prescribed by law. Some of the best enactments in the Republic, such as the reverence to be paid to parents and elders, and some of the worst, such as the exposure of deformed children, are borrowed from the practice of Sparta. The encouragement of friendships between men and youths, or of men with one another, as affording incentives to bravery, is also Spartan; in Sparta too a nearer approach was made than in any other Greek State to equality of the sexes, and to community of property; and while there was probably less of licentiousness in the sense of immorality, the tie of marriage was regarded more lightly than in the rest of Greece. The ‘suprema lex’ was the preservation of the family, and the interest of the State. The coarse strength of a military government was not favourable to purity and refinement; and the excessive strictness of some regulations seems to have produced a reaction. Of all Hellenes the Spartans were most accessible to bribery; several of the greatest of them might be described in the words of Plato as having a ‘fierce secret longing after gold and silver.’ Though not in the strict sense communists, the principle of communism was maintained among them in their division of lands, in their common meals, in their slaves, and in the free use of one another’s goods. Marriage was a public institution: and the women were educated by the State, and sang and danced in public with the men.
Plato clearly states that he intends to create a Greek state (Book V). Many of his rules are distinctly Spartan. These include banning gold and silver, having men eat meals together, training young people for military service, and requiring women to do gymnastic exercises. Life in Sparta was like living in a military camp (Laws). This discipline was enforced even more strictly during peacetime than during war. Sparta's citizens, like Plato's, were forbidden to trade. They were meant to be soldiers, not merchants. Nowhere else in Greece was the individual so completely controlled by the state. The law decided when a person should marry, how their children should be educated, what clothes they should wear, and what food they should eat. Some of the best laws in the Republic come from Spartan practice, such as showing respect to parents and elders. Some of the worst laws also come from Sparta, such as abandoning deformed children. The encouragement of friendships between men and young men, or between men themselves, was also Spartan. These relationships were meant to inspire bravery. Sparta came closer than any other Greek state to equality between the sexes and shared ownership of property. There was probably less sexual immorality in the usual sense. However, marriage ties were treated more casually than in the rest of Greece. The highest law was preserving the family and serving the state's interests. The rough strength of military rule did not encourage purity and refinement. The extreme strictness of some rules seems to have caused a backlash. Of all Greeks, the Spartans were most easily bribed. Several of their greatest leaders could be described in Plato's words as having a "fierce secret longing after gold and silver." Though not communists in the strict sense, they maintained communist principles. They divided land equally, ate meals together, shared slaves, and freely used each other's possessions. Marriage was a public institution. The state educated women, who sang and danced in public with the men.
Many traditions were preserved at Sparta of the severity with which the magistrates had maintained the primitive rule of music and poetry; as in the Republic of Plato, the new-fangled poet was to be expelled. Hymns to the Gods, which are the only kind of music admitted into the ideal State, were the only kind which was permitted at Sparta. The Spartans, though an unpoetical race, were nevertheless lovers of poetry; they had been stirred by the Elegiac strains of Tyrtaeus, they had crowded around Hippias to hear his recitals of Homer; but in this they resembled the citizens of the timocratic rather than of the ideal State. The council of elder men also corresponds to the Spartan gerousia; and the freedom with which they are permitted to judge about matters of detail agrees with what we are told of that institution. Once more, the military rule of not spoiling the dead or offering arms at the temples; the moderation in the pursuit of enemies; the importance attached to the physical well-being of the citizens; the use of warfare for the sake of defence rather than of aggression—are features probably suggested by the spirit and practice of Sparta.
Many traditions were preserved at Sparta showing how strictly the magistrates had maintained the original rules about music and poetry. Like in Plato's Republic, any newfangled poet was to be expelled. Hymns to the Gods were the only kind of music allowed in the ideal State, and they were the only kind permitted at Sparta. The Spartans were not a poetical race, but they still loved poetry. They had been moved by the elegiac verses of Tyrtaeus. They had crowded around Hippias to hear his recitals of Homer. In this way, they resembled the citizens of the timocratic state rather than the ideal State. The council of elder men also matches the Spartan gerousia. The freedom they were given to judge matters of detail agrees with what we know about that institution. The military rule against spoiling the dead or offering arms at temples also reflects Spartan practice. So does the moderation in pursuing enemies, the importance placed on citizens' physical well-being, and the use of warfare for defense rather than aggression. These features were probably suggested by the spirit and practice of Sparta.
To the Spartan type the ideal State reverts in the first decline; and the character of the individual timocrat is borrowed from the Spartan citizen. The love of Lacedaemon not only affected Plato and Xenophon, but was shared by many undistinguished Athenians; there they seemed to find a principle which was wanting in their own democracy. The (Greek) of the Spartans attracted them, that is to say, not the goodness of their laws, but the spirit of order and loyalty which prevailed. Fascinated by the idea, citizens of Athens would imitate the Lacedaemonians in their dress and manners; they were known to the contemporaries of Plato as ‘the persons who had their ears bruised,’ like the Roundheads of the Commonwealth. The love of another church or country when seen at a distance only, the longing for an imaginary simplicity in civilized times, the fond desire of a past which never has been, or of a future which never will be,—these are aspirations of the human mind which are often felt among ourselves. Such feelings meet with a response in the Republic of Plato.
When Plato's ideal State first begins to decline, it becomes like Sparta. The individual timocrat takes his character from the Spartan citizen. Many Athenians loved Lacedaemon, not just Plato and Xenophon. Even ordinary citizens admired it. They seemed to find a principle there that their own democracy lacked. What attracted them to the Spartans was not the goodness of their laws, but the spirit of order and loyalty that ruled there. Fascinated by this idea, Athenian citizens would copy the Lacedaemonians in dress and manners. Plato's contemporaries knew them as "the persons who had their ears bruised," like the Roundheads of the Commonwealth. People often love another church or country when they see it only from a distance. They long for an imaginary simplicity in civilized times. They fondly desire a past that never existed, or a future that never will be. These are human aspirations we often feel today. Such feelings find their answer in Plato's Republic.
But there are other features of the Platonic Republic, as, for example, the literary and philosophical education, and the grace and beauty of life, which are the reverse of Spartan. Plato wishes to give his citizens a taste of Athenian freedom as well as of Lacedaemonian discipline. His individual genius is purely Athenian, although in theory he is a lover of Sparta; and he is something more than either—he has also a true Hellenic feeling. He is desirous of humanizing the wars of Hellenes against one another; he acknowledges that the Delphian God is the grand hereditary interpreter of all Hellas. The spirit of harmony and the Dorian mode are to prevail, and the whole State is to have an external beauty which is the reflex of the harmony within. But he has not yet found out the truth which he afterwards enunciated in the Laws—that he was a better legislator who made men to be of one mind, than he who trained them for war. The citizens, as in other Hellenic States, democratic as well as aristocratic, are really an upper class; for, although no mention is made of slaves, the lower classes are allowed to fade away into the distance, and are represented in the individual by the passions. Plato has no idea either of a social State in which all classes are harmonized, or of a federation of Hellas or the world in which different nations or States have a place. His city is equipped for war rather than for peace, and this would seem to be justified by the ordinary condition of Hellenic States. The myth of the earth-born men is an embodiment of the orthodox tradition of Hellas, and the allusion to the four ages of the world is also sanctioned by the authority of Hesiod and the poets. Thus we see that the Republic is partly founded on the ideal of the old Greek polis, partly on the actual circumstances of Hellas in that age. Plato, like the old painters, retains the traditional form, and like them he has also a vision of a city in the clouds.
But Plato's Republic has other features that are completely different from Sparta. For example, it emphasizes literary and philosophical education, along with grace and beauty in life. Plato wants to give his citizens a taste of Athenian freedom as well as Lacedaemonian discipline. His individual genius is purely Athenian, even though he claims to love Sparta in theory. He is something more than either—he also has a true Hellenic feeling. He wants to make wars between Greek states more humane. He acknowledges that the Delphian God is the great hereditary interpreter of all Hellas. The spirit of harmony and the Dorian mode should prevail. The whole State should have an external beauty that reflects the harmony within. But he hasn't yet discovered the truth he later stated in the Laws—that a better legislator makes men think alike rather than training them for war. The citizens, as in other Greek States both democratic and aristocratic, are really an upper class. Although no mention is made of slaves, the lower classes are allowed to fade into the distance. In the individual, they are represented by the passions. Plato has no idea of a social State where all classes work together in harmony. He also doesn't envision a federation of Hellas or the world where different nations or States have a place. His city is equipped for war rather than peace. This seems justified by the normal condition of Greek States at the time. The myth of the earth-born men embodies the orthodox tradition of Hellas. The reference to the four ages of the world is also supported by the authority of Hesiod and the poets. We can see that the Republic is partly based on the ideal of the old Greek polis and partly on the actual circumstances of Hellas in that age. Plato, like the old painters, keeps the traditional form. Like them, he also has a vision of a city in the clouds.
There is yet another thread which is interwoven in the texture of the work; for the Republic is not only a Dorian State, but a Pythagorean league. The ‘way of life’ which was connected with the name of Pythagoras, like the Catholic monastic orders, showed the power which the mind of an individual might exercise over his contemporaries, and may have naturally suggested to Plato the possibility of reviving such ‘mediaeval institutions.’ The Pythagoreans, like Plato, enforced a rule of life and a moral and intellectual training. The influence ascribed to music, which to us seems exaggerated, is also a Pythagorean feature; it is not to be regarded as representing the real influence of music in the Greek world. More nearly than any other government of Hellas, the Pythagorean league of three hundred was an aristocracy of virtue. For once in the history of mankind the philosophy of order or (Greek), expressing and consequently enlisting on its side the combined endeavours of the better part of the people, obtained the management of public affairs and held possession of it for a considerable time (until about B.C. 500). Probably only in States prepared by Dorian institutions would such a league have been possible. The rulers, like Plato’s (Greek), were required to submit to a severe training in order to prepare the way for the education of the other members of the community. Long after the dissolution of the Order, eminent Pythagoreans, such as Archytas of Tarentum, retained their political influence over the cities of Magna Graecia. There was much here that was suggestive to the kindred spirit of Plato, who had doubtless meditated deeply on the ‘way of life of Pythagoras’ (Rep.) and his followers. Slight traces of Pythagoreanism are to be found in the mystical number of the State, in the number which expresses the interval between the king and the tyrant, in the doctrine of transmigration, in the music of the spheres, as well as in the great though secondary importance ascribed to mathematics in education.
There is another thread woven into the fabric of this work. The Republic is not only a Dorian State, but also a Pythagorean league. The 'way of life' connected with Pythagoras's name showed the power one person's mind could have over their contemporaries. Like the Catholic monastic orders, it may have naturally suggested to Plato the possibility of reviving such 'medieval institutions.' The Pythagoreans, like Plato, enforced a rule of life and provided moral and intellectual training. The influence they gave to music seems exaggerated to us, but it was a Pythagorean feature. We shouldn't see this as representing music's real influence in the Greek world. More than any other government in Greece, the Pythagorean league of three hundred was an aristocracy of virtue. For once in human history, the philosophy of order gained control of public affairs. It expressed and enlisted the combined efforts of the better part of the people, and held power for a considerable time (until about 500 B.C.). Such a league would probably only have been possible in states prepared by Dorian institutions. The rulers, like Plato's guardians, had to submit to severe training. This prepared the way for educating other members of the community. Long after the Order dissolved, prominent Pythagoreans like Archytas of Tarentum kept their political influence over the cities of Magna Graecia. There was much here that inspired Plato's kindred spirit. He had doubtless thought deeply about the 'way of life of Pythagoras' and his followers. Small traces of Pythagoreanism appear in the mystical number of the State. They show up in the number expressing the interval between the king and the tyrant, in the doctrine of transmigration, in the music of the spheres, and in the great though secondary importance given to mathematics in education.
But as in his philosophy, so also in the form of his State, he goes far beyond the old Pythagoreans. He attempts a task really impossible, which is to unite the past of Greek history with the future of philosophy, analogous to that other impossibility, which has often been the dream of Christendom, the attempt to unite the past history of Europe with the kingdom of Christ. Nothing actually existing in the world at all resembles Plato’s ideal State; nor does he himself imagine that such a State is possible. This he repeats again and again; e.g. in the Republic, or in the Laws where, casting a glance back on the Republic, he admits that the perfect state of communism and philosophy was impossible in his own age, though still to be retained as a pattern. The same doubt is implied in the earnestness with which he argues in the Republic that ideals are none the worse because they cannot be realized in fact, and in the chorus of laughter, which like a breaking wave will, as he anticipates, greet the mention of his proposals; though like other writers of fiction, he uses all his art to give reality to his inventions. When asked how the ideal polity can come into being, he answers ironically, ‘When one son of a king becomes a philosopher’; he designates the fiction of the earth-born men as ‘a noble lie’; and when the structure is finally complete, he fairly tells you that his Republic is a vision only, which in some sense may have reality, but not in the vulgar one of a reign of philosophers upon earth. It has been said that Plato flies as well as walks, but this falls short of the truth; for he flies and walks at the same time, and is in the air and on firm ground in successive instants.
But just as in his philosophy, Plato also goes far beyond the old Pythagoreans in the form of his State. He attempts a task that is really impossible. He tries to unite the past of Greek history with the future of philosophy. This is similar to another impossibility that has often been the dream of Christendom: the attempt to unite the past history of Europe with the kingdom of Christ. Nothing actually existing in the world at all resembles Plato's ideal State. He doesn't even imagine that such a State is possible. He repeats this again and again, for example in the Republic, or in the Laws. In the Laws, he casts a glance back on the Republic and admits that the perfect state of communism and philosophy was impossible in his own age. Still, it should be retained as a pattern. The same doubt is implied in the earnestness with which he argues in the Republic that ideals are none the worse because they cannot be realized in fact. He also mentions the chorus of laughter that will greet his proposals like a breaking wave, as he anticipates. Though like other writers of fiction, he uses all his art to give reality to his inventions. When asked how the ideal polity can come into being, he answers ironically, "When one son of a king becomes a philosopher." He designates the fiction of the earth-born men as "a noble lie." When the structure is finally complete, he fairly tells you that his Republic is a vision only. In some sense it may have reality, but not in the vulgar one of a reign of philosophers upon earth. It has been said that Plato flies as well as walks, but this falls short of the truth. He flies and walks at the same time. He is in the air and on firm ground in successive instants.
Niebuhr has asked a trifling question, which may be briefly noticed in this place—Was Plato a good citizen? If by this is meant, Was he loyal to Athenian institutions?—he can hardly be said to be the friend of democracy: but neither is he the friend of any other existing form of government; all of them he regarded as ‘states of faction’ (Laws); none attained to his ideal of a voluntary rule over voluntary subjects, which seems indeed more nearly to describe democracy than any other; and the worst of them is tyranny. The truth is, that the question has hardly any meaning when applied to a great philosopher whose writings are not meant for a particular age and country, but for all time and all mankind. The decline of Athenian politics was probably the motive which led Plato to frame an ideal State, and the Republic may be regarded as reflecting the departing glory of Hellas. As well might we complain of St. Augustine, whose great work ‘The City of God’ originated in a similar motive, for not being loyal to the Roman Empire. Even a nearer parallel might be afforded by the first Christians, who cannot fairly be charged with being bad citizens because, though ‘subject to the higher powers,’ they were looking forward to a city which is in heaven.
Niebuhr has asked a minor question that we can address briefly here. Was Plato a good citizen? If this means was he loyal to Athenian institutions, he can hardly be called a friend of democracy. But he wasn't a friend of any other existing form of government either. He saw all of them as "states of faction" (Laws). None reached his ideal of voluntary rule over voluntary subjects. This ideal actually seems to describe democracy better than any other system. The worst form of government, in his view, was tyranny. The truth is that this question has little meaning when applied to a great philosopher. His writings weren't meant for one particular age and country, but for all time and all mankind. The decline of Athenian politics probably motivated Plato to create an ideal State. The Republic can be seen as reflecting the fading glory of Hellas. We might as well complain about St. Augustine for not being loyal to the Roman Empire. His great work "The City of God" came from a similar motive. An even closer parallel might be the first Christians. They can't fairly be called bad citizens just because they looked forward to a heavenly city, even though they remained "subject to the higher powers."
2. The idea of the perfect State is full of paradox when judged of according to the ordinary notions of mankind. The paradoxes of one age have been said to become the commonplaces of the next; but the paradoxes of Plato are at least as paradoxical to us as they were to his contemporaries. The modern world has either sneered at them as absurd, or denounced them as unnatural and immoral; men have been pleased to find in Aristotle’s criticisms of them the anticipation of their own good sense. The wealthy and cultivated classes have disliked and also dreaded them; they have pointed with satisfaction to the failure of efforts to realize them in practice. Yet since they are the thoughts of one of the greatest of human intelligences, and of one who had done most to elevate morality and religion, they seem to deserve a better treatment at our hands. We may have to address the public, as Plato does poetry, and assure them that we mean no harm to existing institutions. There are serious errors which have a side of truth and which therefore may fairly demand a careful consideration: there are truths mixed with error of which we may indeed say, ‘The half is better than the whole.’ Yet ‘the half’ may be an important contribution to the study of human nature.
The idea of the perfect State is full of paradox when judged by ordinary human thinking. People say that one age's paradoxes become the next age's common sense. But Plato's paradoxes are at least as puzzling to us as they were to his contemporaries. The modern world has either mocked them as absurd or condemned them as unnatural and immoral. People have been pleased to find in Aristotle's criticisms the confirmation of their own good sense. The wealthy and educated classes have disliked and feared these ideas. They have pointed with satisfaction to the failure of efforts to put them into practice. Yet these are the thoughts of one of the greatest human minds, and of someone who did most to elevate morality and religion. They seem to deserve better treatment from us. We may have to address the public, as Plato does poetry, and assure them that we mean no harm to existing institutions. There are serious errors that have a side of truth and therefore may fairly demand careful consideration. There are truths mixed with error of which we may say, "The half is better than the whole." Yet "the half" may be an important contribution to the study of human nature.
(a) The first paradox is the community of goods, which is mentioned slightly at the end of the third Book, and seemingly, as Aristotle observes, is confined to the guardians; at least no mention is made of the other classes. But the omission is not of any real significance, and probably arises out of the plan of the work, which prevents the writer from entering into details.
The first paradox is the community of goods. This idea is mentioned briefly at the end of the third Book. As Aristotle observes, it seems to apply only to the guardians. At least no mention is made of the other classes. But this omission isn't really significant. It probably comes from the plan of the work, which prevents the writer from going into details.
Aristotle censures the community of property much in the spirit of modern political economy, as tending to repress industry, and as doing away with the spirit of benevolence. Modern writers almost refuse to consider the subject, which is supposed to have been long ago settled by the common opinion of mankind. But it must be remembered that the sacredness of property is a notion far more fixed in modern than in ancient times. The world has grown older, and is therefore more conservative. Primitive society offered many examples of land held in common, either by a tribe or by a township, and such may probably have been the original form of landed tenure. Ancient legislators had invented various modes of dividing and preserving the divisions of land among the citizens; according to Aristotle there were nations who held the land in common and divided the produce, and there were others who divided the land and stored the produce in common. The evils of debt and the inequality of property were far greater in ancient than in modern times, and the accidents to which property was subject from war, or revolution, or taxation, or other legislative interference, were also greater. All these circumstances gave property a less fixed and sacred character. The early Christians are believed to have held their property in common, and the principle is sanctioned by the words of Christ himself, and has been maintained as a counsel of perfection in almost all ages of the Church. Nor have there been wanting instances of modern enthusiasts who have made a religion of communism; in every age of religious excitement notions like Wycliffe’s ‘inheritance of grace’ have tended to prevail. A like spirit, but fiercer and more violent, has appeared in politics. ‘The preparation of the Gospel of peace’ soon becomes the red flag of Republicanism.
Aristotle criticized shared property in much the same way modern economists do. He argued it would discourage hard work and destroy the spirit of generosity. Modern writers barely consider this topic anymore. They assume it was settled long ago by common agreement. But we must remember that the sacredness of property is much stronger today than in ancient times. The world has grown older and more conservative. Early societies offered many examples of shared land ownership, whether by tribes or townships. This was probably the original form of land ownership. Ancient lawmakers invented various ways to divide and preserve land divisions among citizens. According to Aristotle, some nations held land in common and divided the harvest. Others divided the land but stored the harvest together. The problems of debt and unequal property were far worse in ancient times than today. Property also faced greater risks from war, revolution, taxation, or other government interference. All these factors made property seem less permanent and sacred. Early Christians are believed to have shared their property. This principle is supported by Christ's own words and has been maintained as an ideal throughout Church history. There have also been modern enthusiasts who made a religion of communism. In every age of religious excitement, ideas like Wycliffe's "inheritance of grace" have tended to spread. A similar spirit, but fiercer and more violent, has appeared in politics. "The preparation of the Gospel of peace" soon becomes the red flag of Republicanism.
We can hardly judge what effect Plato’s views would have upon his own contemporaries; they would perhaps have seemed to them only an exaggeration of the Spartan commonwealth. Even modern writers would acknowledge that the right of private property is based on expediency, and may be interfered with in a variety of ways for the public good. Any other mode of vesting property which was found to be more advantageous, would in time acquire the same basis of right; ‘the most useful,’ in Plato’s words, ‘would be the most sacred.’ The lawyers and ecclesiastics of former ages would have spoken of property as a sacred institution. But they only meant by such language to oppose the greatest amount of resistance to any invasion of the rights of individuals and of the Church.
We can barely judge how Plato's views would have affected his own contemporaries. They might have seen his ideas as simply an extreme version of the Spartan system of government. Even modern writers would agree that private property rights are based on practical benefits. These rights can be limited in various ways for the public good. Any other property system that proved more beneficial would eventually gain the same moral authority. As Plato put it, "the most useful would be the most sacred." Lawyers and church officials in earlier times would have called property a sacred institution. But they only used such language to create the strongest possible resistance to any attack on individual rights and Church rights.
When we consider the question, without any fear of immediate application to practice, in the spirit of Plato’s Republic, are we quite sure that the received notions of property are the best? Is the distribution of wealth which is customary in civilized countries the most favourable that can be conceived for the education and development of the mass of mankind? Can ‘the spectator of all time and all existence’ be quite convinced that one or two thousand years hence, great changes will not have taken place in the rights of property, or even that the very notion of property, beyond what is necessary for personal maintenance, may not have disappeared? This was a distinction familiar to Aristotle, though likely to be laughed at among ourselves. Such a change would not be greater than some other changes through which the world has passed in the transition from ancient to modern society, for example, the emancipation of the serfs in Russia, or the abolition of slavery in America and the West Indies; and not so great as the difference which separates the Eastern village community from the Western world. To accomplish such a revolution in the course of a few centuries, would imply a rate of progress not more rapid than has actually taken place during the last fifty or sixty years. The kingdom of Japan underwent more change in five or six years than Europe in five or six hundred. Many opinions and beliefs which have been cherished among ourselves quite as strongly as the sacredness of property have passed away; and the most untenable propositions respecting the right of bequests or entail have been maintained with as much fervour as the most moderate. Some one will be heard to ask whether a state of society can be final in which the interests of thousands are perilled on the life or character of a single person. And many will indulge the hope that our present condition may, after all, be only transitional, and may conduct to a higher, in which property, besides ministering to the enjoyment of the few, may also furnish the means of the highest culture to all, and will be a greater benefit to the public generally, and also more under the control of public authority. There may come a time when the saying, ‘Have I not a right to do what I will with my own?’ will appear to be a barbarous relic of individualism;—when the possession of a part may be a greater blessing to each and all than the possession of the whole is now to any one.
When we think about this question in the spirit of Plato's Republic, without worrying about immediate practical effects, are we really sure that our current ideas about property are the best? Is the way wealth gets distributed in civilized countries the most favorable system we can imagine for educating and developing most of humanity? Can someone who sees all of time and existence be completely convinced that in one or two thousand years, major changes won't have happened to property rights? Or that the very idea of property, beyond what's needed for personal survival, might not have disappeared entirely? This was a distinction familiar to Aristotle, though people today would probably laugh at it. Such a change wouldn't be bigger than other changes the world has already gone through in moving from ancient to modern society. Think about the freeing of serfs in Russia, or the end of slavery in America and the West Indies. It wouldn't be as big as the difference between Eastern village communities and the Western world. To accomplish such a revolution over a few centuries would require a rate of progress no faster than what has actually happened in the last fifty or sixty years. The kingdom of Japan changed more in five or six years than Europe did in five or six hundred. Many opinions and beliefs that we've held just as strongly as the sacredness of property have already disappeared. The most unreasonable ideas about inheritance rights or entail have been defended with as much passion as the most moderate ones. Someone will ask whether a society can be final when the interests of thousands depend on the life or character of a single person. Many will hope that our present condition might just be temporary and might lead to something higher. In this better system, property wouldn't just serve the enjoyment of the few. It would also provide the means for the highest culture for everyone. It would benefit the public more generally and be more under public control. There may come a time when saying "Don't I have the right to do what I want with my own property?" will seem like a barbarous leftover from individualism. A time when everyone owning a part might be a greater blessing to each and all than anyone owning the whole is now to any one person.
Such reflections appear visionary to the eye of the practical statesman, but they are within the range of possibility to the philosopher. He can imagine that in some distant age or clime, and through the influence of some individual, the notion of common property may or might have sunk as deep into the heart of a race, and have become as fixed to them, as private property is to ourselves. He knows that this latter institution is not more than four or five thousand years old: may not the end revert to the beginning? In our own age even Utopias affect the spirit of legislation, and an abstract idea may exercise a great influence on practical politics.
These ideas might seem unrealistic to practical politicians, but philosophers see them as possible. A philosopher can imagine that in some distant time or place, through one person's influence, the idea of shared property might take deep root in a society. It could become as natural to them as private property is to us. Philosophers know that private property has only existed for four or five thousand years. Could we eventually return to the beginning? Even in our time, Utopian ideas influence how we make laws. An abstract concept can have real power in politics.
The objections that would be generally urged against Plato’s community of property, are the old ones of Aristotle, that motives for exertion would be taken away, and that disputes would arise when each was dependent upon all. Every man would produce as little and consume as much as he liked. The experience of civilized nations has hitherto been adverse to Socialism. The effort is too great for human nature; men try to live in common, but the personal feeling is always breaking in. On the other hand it may be doubted whether our present notions of property are not conventional, for they differ in different countries and in different states of society. We boast of an individualism which is not freedom, but rather an artificial result of the industrial state of modern Europe. The individual is nominally free, but he is also powerless in a world bound hand and foot in the chains of economic necessity. Even if we cannot expect the mass of mankind to become disinterested, at any rate we observe in them a power of organization which fifty years ago would never have been suspected. The same forces which have revolutionized the political system of Europe, may effect a similar change in the social and industrial relations of mankind. And if we suppose the influence of some good as well as neutral motives working in the community, there will be no absurdity in expecting that the mass of mankind having power, and becoming enlightened about the higher possibilities of human life, when they learn how much more is attainable for all than is at present the possession of a favoured few, may pursue the common interest with an intelligence and persistency which mankind have hitherto never seen.
The usual objections to Plato's community of property are the old ones from Aristotle. He argued that people would lose motivation to work hard, and disputes would arise when everyone depended on everyone else. Every person would produce as little as possible and consume as much as they wanted. The experience of civilized nations has so far been against Socialism. The effort is too great for human nature. People try to live together, but personal feelings always interfere. On the other hand, we might question whether our current ideas about property are just social conventions. They differ from country to country and across different societies. We boast of an individualism that isn't really freedom. It's more like an artificial result of modern Europe's industrial state. The individual is supposedly free, but he's also powerless in a world tied up by economic necessity. Even if we can't expect most people to become selfless, we can see they have organizational abilities that no one would have suspected fifty years ago. The same forces that have changed Europe's political system might bring similar changes to social and industrial relationships. If we imagine some good motives as well as neutral ones working in the community, it's not absurd to expect something more. The mass of people, having power and becoming enlightened about life's higher possibilities, might learn how much more everyone could achieve than what only a favored few now possess. They might pursue the common good with an intelligence and determination that humanity has never seen before.
Now that the world has once been set in motion, and is no longer held fast under the tyranny of custom and ignorance; now that criticism has pierced the veil of tradition and the past no longer overpowers the present,—the progress of civilization may be expected to be far greater and swifter than heretofore. Even at our present rate of speed the point at which we may arrive in two or three generations is beyond the power of imagination to foresee. There are forces in the world which work, not in an arithmetical, but in a geometrical ratio of increase. Education, to use the expression of Plato, moves like a wheel with an ever-multiplying rapidity. Nor can we say how great may be its influence, when it becomes universal,—when it has been inherited by many generations,—when it is freed from the trammels of superstition and rightly adapted to the wants and capacities of different classes of men and women. Neither do we know how much more the co-operation of minds or of hands may be capable of accomplishing, whether in labour or in study. The resources of the natural sciences are not half-developed as yet; the soil of the earth, instead of growing more barren, may become many times more fertile than hitherto; the uses of machinery far greater, and also more minute than at present. New secrets of physiology may be revealed, deeply affecting human nature in its innermost recesses. The standard of health may be raised and the lives of men prolonged by sanitary and medical knowledge. There may be peace, there may be leisure, there may be innocent refreshments of many kinds. The ever-increasing power of locomotion may join the extremes of earth. There may be mysterious workings of the human mind, such as occur only at great crises of history. The East and the West may meet together, and all nations may contribute their thoughts and their experience to the common stock of humanity. Many other elements enter into a speculation of this kind. But it is better to make an end of them. For such reflections appear to the majority far-fetched, and to men of science, commonplace.
Now that the world has been set in motion, it's no longer trapped under the rule of custom and ignorance. Criticism has broken through the veil of tradition. The past no longer overpowers the present. Because of this, we can expect civilization to progress much faster and further than ever before. Even at our current pace, we can't imagine where we might be in two or three generations. Some forces in the world don't grow by simple addition but multiply exponentially. Education, as Plato put it, moves like a wheel spinning faster and faster. We can't say how powerful its influence might become when it reaches everyone. When many generations have inherited it. When it's freed from superstition and properly adapted to the needs and abilities of different groups of men and women. We also don't know how much more people might accomplish when they work together, whether in labor or study. The natural sciences have barely tapped their potential. The earth's soil, instead of becoming less fertile, might become many times more productive than it is now. Machinery could become far more powerful and precise than today. New secrets of human biology may be revealed that deeply affect human nature at its core. Medical and health knowledge might raise our standard of health and extend human life. There may be peace, leisure, and many kinds of innocent entertainment. The ever-growing power of transportation may connect the farthest corners of the earth. There may be mysterious workings of the human mind that only happen during great turning points in history. East and West may come together. All nations may contribute their thoughts and experiences to humanity's shared knowledge. Many other factors could shape such predictions. But it's better to stop here. Most people find such thoughts far-fetched, while scientists consider them obvious.
(b) Neither to the mind of Plato nor of Aristotle did the doctrine of community of property present at all the same difficulty, or appear to be the same violation of the common Hellenic sentiment, as the community of wives and children. This paradox he prefaces by another proposal, that the occupations of men and women shall be the same, and that to this end they shall have a common training and education. Male and female animals have the same pursuits—why not also the two sexes of man?
Neither Plato nor Aristotle found the idea of shared property as troubling as the concept of shared wives and children. They didn't see it as violating common Greek values in the same way. Before introducing this controversial idea, Plato makes another bold proposal. He suggests that men and women should have the same jobs and receive the same training and education. Male and female animals pursue the same activities, so why shouldn't both sexes of humans do the same?
But have we not here fallen into a contradiction? for we were saying that different natures should have different pursuits. How then can men and women have the same? And is not the proposal inconsistent with our notion of the division of labour?—These objections are no sooner raised than answered; for, according to Plato, there is no organic difference between men and women, but only the accidental one that men beget and women bear children. Following the analogy of the other animals, he contends that all natural gifts are scattered about indifferently among both sexes, though there may be a superiority of degree on the part of the men. The objection on the score of decency to their taking part in the same gymnastic exercises, is met by Plato’s assertion that the existing feeling is a matter of habit.
But haven't we created a contradiction here? We said that different natures should pursue different activities. So how can men and women do the same things? Doesn't this proposal conflict with our idea about dividing up work? These objections answer themselves as soon as they're raised. According to Plato, there's no fundamental difference between men and women. The only real difference is that men father children while women bear them. He uses other animals as an example and argues that natural talents are spread equally between both sexes. Men might have a slight advantage in degree, but that's all. What about the objection that it's indecent for men and women to exercise together? Plato responds that our current feelings about this are simply a matter of habit.
That Plato should have emancipated himself from the ideas of his own country and from the example of the East, shows a wonderful independence of mind. He is conscious that women are half the human race, in some respects the more important half (Laws); and for the sake both of men and women he desires to raise the woman to a higher level of existence. He brings, not sentiment, but philosophy to bear upon a question which both in ancient and modern times has been chiefly regarded in the light of custom or feeling. The Greeks had noble conceptions of womanhood in the goddesses Athene and Artemis, and in the heroines Antigone and Andromache. But these ideals had no counterpart in actual life. The Athenian woman was in no way the equal of her husband; she was not the entertainer of his guests or the mistress of his house, but only his housekeeper and the mother of his children. She took no part in military or political matters; nor is there any instance in the later ages of Greece of a woman becoming famous in literature. ‘Hers is the greatest glory who has the least renown among men,’ is the historian’s conception of feminine excellence. A very different ideal of womanhood is held up by Plato to the world; she is to be the companion of the man, and to share with him in the toils of war and in the cares of government. She is to be similarly trained both in bodily and mental exercises. She is to lose as far as possible the incidents of maternity and the characteristics of the female sex.
Plato broke free from the ideas of his own country and the influence of the East. This shows remarkable independence of mind. He understood that women make up half the human race. In some ways, they are the more important half, as he wrote in his Laws. For the sake of both men and women, he wanted to raise women to a higher level of existence. He brought philosophy, not just sentiment, to a question that has been viewed mainly through custom or feeling in both ancient and modern times. The Greeks had noble ideas about womanhood in their goddesses Athene and Artemis, and in heroines like Antigone and Andromache. But these ideals had no match in real life. The Athenian woman was not equal to her husband in any way. She was not the one who entertained his guests or ran his household. She was only his housekeeper and the mother of his children. She took no part in military or political matters. In later Greek history, no woman became famous in literature. "Her greatest glory is to have the least fame among men" was how historians saw feminine excellence. Plato held up a very different ideal of womanhood to the world. She should be man's companion and share with him the work of war and the duties of government. She should receive similar training in both physical and mental exercises. She should lose, as much as possible, the burdens of motherhood and the typical traits of the female sex.
The modern antagonist of the equality of the sexes would argue that the differences between men and women are not confined to the single point urged by Plato; that sensibility, gentleness, grace, are the qualities of women, while energy, strength, higher intelligence, are to be looked for in men. And the criticism is just: the differences affect the whole nature, and are not, as Plato supposes, confined to a single point. But neither can we say how far these differences are due to education and the opinions of mankind, or physically inherited from the habits and opinions of former generations. Women have been always taught, not exactly that they are slaves, but that they are in an inferior position, which is also supposed to have compensating advantages; and to this position they have conformed. It is also true that the physical form may easily change in the course of generations through the mode of life; and the weakness or delicacy, which was once a matter of opinion, may become a physical fact. The characteristics of sex vary greatly in different countries and ranks of society, and at different ages in the same individuals. Plato may have been right in denying that there was any ultimate difference in the sexes of man other than that which exists in animals, because all other differences may be conceived to disappear in other states of society, or under different circumstances of life and training.
Today's critics of gender equality would argue that the differences between men and women go far beyond the single point that Plato made. They claim that women naturally have sensitivity, gentleness, and grace, while men possess energy, strength, and higher intelligence. This criticism has merit. The differences do affect our entire nature, not just one aspect as Plato suggested. But we cannot say how much of these differences come from education and social attitudes, or how much is physically inherited from past generations' habits and beliefs. Women have always been taught that they hold an inferior position, though supposedly one with compensating advantages. They have adapted to fit this role. It's also true that physical traits can easily change over generations through lifestyle. Weakness or delicacy that was once just an opinion can become a physical reality. The characteristics of each sex vary greatly across different countries, social classes, and ages in the same people. Plato may have been right to deny any fundamental difference between the sexes beyond what exists in animals. All other differences might disappear under different social conditions or with different life circumstances and training.
The first wave having been passed, we proceed to the second—community of wives and children. ‘Is it possible? Is it desirable?’ For as Glaucon intimates, and as we far more strongly insist, ‘Great doubts may be entertained about both these points.’ Any free discussion of the question is impossible, and mankind are perhaps right in not allowing the ultimate bases of social life to be examined. Few of us can safely enquire into the things which nature hides, any more than we can dissect our own bodies. Still, the manner in which Plato arrived at his conclusions should be considered. For here, as Mr. Grote has remarked, is a wonderful thing, that one of the wisest and best of men should have entertained ideas of morality which are wholly at variance with our own. And if we would do Plato justice, we must examine carefully the character of his proposals. First, we may observe that the relations of the sexes supposed by him are the reverse of licentious: he seems rather to aim at an impossible strictness. Secondly, he conceives the family to be the natural enemy of the state; and he entertains the serious hope that an universal brotherhood may take the place of private interests—an aspiration which, although not justified by experience, has possessed many noble minds. On the other hand, there is no sentiment or imagination in the connections which men and women are supposed by him to form; human beings return to the level of the animals, neither exalting to heaven, nor yet abusing the natural instincts. All that world of poetry and fancy which the passion of love has called forth in modern literature and romance would have been banished by Plato. The arrangements of marriage in the Republic are directed to one object—the improvement of the race. In successive generations a great development both of bodily and mental qualities might be possible. The analogy of animals tends to show that mankind can within certain limits receive a change of nature. And as in animals we should commonly choose the best for breeding, and destroy the others, so there must be a selection made of the human beings whose lives are worthy to be preserved.
We've passed the first wave, so now we move to the second: shared wives and children. Is this possible? Is it desirable? As Glaucon suggests, and as we strongly insist, serious doubts exist about both points. Any free discussion of this question is impossible. Perhaps people are right not to allow examination of the basic foundations of social life. Few of us can safely investigate the things that nature hides, just as we cannot dissect our own bodies. Still, we should consider how Plato reached his conclusions. As Mr. Grote has noted, it's remarkable that one of the wisest and best men should have held moral ideas completely opposed to our own. To be fair to Plato, we must carefully examine his proposals. First, we can see that the sexual relations he imagines are the opposite of loose or immoral. He seems to aim for an impossible strictness instead. Second, he sees the family as the natural enemy of the state. He seriously hopes that universal brotherhood might replace private interests. This aspiration has inspired many noble minds, though experience doesn't support it. On the other hand, the connections between men and women in his system have no sentiment or imagination. Human beings return to the level of animals, neither rising to heaven nor abusing natural instincts. All that world of poetry and imagination that love has created in modern literature and romance would have been banned by Plato. The marriage arrangements in the Republic aim at one goal: improving the human race. Over successive generations, great development of both physical and mental qualities might be possible. The example of animals shows that humans can change their nature within certain limits. Just as we would normally choose the best animals for breeding and destroy the others, there must be a selection of human beings whose lives are worth preserving.
We start back horrified from this Platonic ideal, in the belief, first, that the higher feelings of humanity are far too strong to be crushed out; secondly, that if the plan could be carried into execution we should be poorly recompensed by improvements in the breed for the loss of the best things in life. The greatest regard for the weakest and meanest of human beings—the infant, the criminal, the insane, the idiot, truly seems to us one of the noblest results of Christianity. We have learned, though as yet imperfectly, that the individual man has an endless value in the sight of God, and that we honour Him when we honour the darkened and disfigured image of Him (Laws). This is the lesson which Christ taught in a parable when He said, ‘Their angels do always behold the face of My Father which is in heaven.’ Such lessons are only partially realized in any age; they were foreign to the age of Plato, as they have very different degrees of strength in different countries or ages of the Christian world. To the Greek the family was a religious and customary institution binding the members together by a tie inferior in strength to that of friendship, and having a less solemn and sacred sound than that of country. The relationship which existed on the lower level of custom, Plato imagined that he was raising to the higher level of nature and reason; while from the modern and Christian point of view we regard him as sanctioning murder and destroying the first principles of morality.
We recoil in horror from this Platonic ideal for two reasons. First, we believe humanity's higher feelings are too strong to be crushed. Second, even if this plan could work, any improvements to the human breed wouldn't make up for losing the best things in life. Our greatest care for the weakest and most humble people—infants, criminals, the mentally ill, those with disabilities—seems to us one of Christianity's noblest achievements. We have learned, though still imperfectly, that each individual has endless value in God's sight. We honor Him when we honor even the darkened and damaged reflection of Him in others (Laws). Christ taught this lesson in a parable when He said, "Their angels do always behold the face of My Father which is in heaven." These lessons are only partially understood in any age. They were foreign to Plato's time, just as they have varying degrees of strength in different countries and eras of the Christian world. To the Greeks, family was a religious and customary institution that bound members together. But this bond was weaker than friendship and carried less weight than loyalty to country. Plato thought he was raising relationships from the lower level of custom to the higher level of nature and reason. From our modern Christian perspective, however, we see him as approving murder and destroying the basic principles of morality.
The great error in these and similar speculations is that the difference between man and the animals is forgotten in them. The human being is regarded with the eye of a dog- or bird-fancier, or at best of a slave-owner; the higher or human qualities are left out. The breeder of animals aims chiefly at size or speed or strength; in a few cases at courage or temper; most often the fitness of the animal for food is the great desideratum. But mankind are not bred to be eaten, nor yet for their superiority in fighting or in running or in drawing carts. Neither does the improvement of the human race consist merely in the increase of the bones and flesh, but in the growth and enlightenment of the mind. Hence there must be ‘a marriage of true minds’ as well as of bodies, of imagination and reason as well as of lusts and instincts. Men and women without feeling or imagination are justly called brutes; yet Plato takes away these qualities and puts nothing in their place, not even the desire of a noble offspring, since parents are not to know their own children. The most important transaction of social life, he who is the idealist philosopher converts into the most brutal. For the pair are to have no relation to one another, except at the hymeneal festival; their children are not theirs, but the state’s; nor is any tie of affection to unite them. Yet here the analogy of the animals might have saved Plato from a gigantic error, if he had ‘not lost sight of his own illustration.’ For the ‘nobler sort of birds and beasts’ nourish and protect their offspring and are faithful to one another.
The great error in these and similar theories is that they forget the difference between humans and animals. They look at people the way a dog breeder or bird fancier would, or at best like a slave owner. They leave out the higher, distinctly human qualities. Animal breeders focus mainly on size, speed, or strength. Sometimes they care about courage or temperament. Most often they want animals that are good for food. But humans aren't bred to be eaten. They're not bred for fighting ability, running speed, or pulling carts either. Improving the human race doesn't just mean bigger bones and more muscle. It means growing and enlightening the mind. This is why there must be "a marriage of true minds" as well as bodies. We need imagination and reason, not just desires and instincts. Men and women without feeling or imagination are rightly called brutes. Yet Plato takes away these qualities and puts nothing in their place. He doesn't even give them the desire for noble children, since parents won't know their own kids. Plato takes the most important part of social life and turns it into something brutal. The couples have no relationship except at the wedding ceremony. Their children belong to the state, not to them. No bonds of love unite the families. Here, Plato's own animal comparison could have saved him from this huge mistake, if he hadn't "lost sight of his own illustration." Even the "nobler sort of birds and beasts" care for and protect their young. They stay faithful to each other.
An eminent physiologist thinks it worth while ‘to try and place life on a physical basis.’ But should not life rest on the moral rather than upon the physical? The higher comes first, then the lower, first the human and rational, afterwards the animal. Yet they are not absolutely divided; and in times of sickness or moments of self-indulgence they seem to be only different aspects of a common human nature which includes them both. Neither is the moral the limit of the physical, but the expansion and enlargement of it,—the highest form which the physical is capable of receiving. As Plato would say, the body does not take care of the body, and still less of the mind, but the mind takes care of both. In all human action not that which is common to man and the animals is the characteristic element, but that which distinguishes him from them. Even if we admit the physical basis, and resolve all virtue into health of body ‘la facon que notre sang circule,’ still on merely physical grounds we must come back to ideas. Mind and reason and duty and conscience, under these or other names, are always reappearing. There cannot be health of body without health of mind; nor health of mind without the sense of duty and the love of truth (Charm).
A famous physiologist thinks it's worthwhile to "try and place life on a physical basis." But shouldn't life rest on moral foundations rather than physical ones? The higher comes first, then the lower. First the human and rational, then the animal. Yet they aren't completely separate. During illness or moments of self-indulgence, they seem like different aspects of our shared human nature that includes both. The moral isn't the limit of the physical either. It's the expansion and enlargement of it. It's the highest form the physical can achieve. As Plato would say, the body doesn't take care of the body, and certainly not the mind. But the mind takes care of both. In all human action, what makes us human isn't what we share with animals. It's what distinguishes us from them. Even if we accept the physical basis and reduce all virtue to bodily health, we must still return to ideas on purely physical grounds. Mind and reason and duty and conscience keep reappearing under these or other names. There can't be health of body without health of mind. And there can't be health of mind without a sense of duty and love of truth (Charm).
That the greatest of ancient philosophers should in his regulations about marriage have fallen into the error of separating body and mind, does indeed appear surprising. Yet the wonder is not so much that Plato should have entertained ideas of morality which to our own age are revolting, but that he should have contradicted himself to an extent which is hardly credible, falling in an instant from the heaven of idealism into the crudest animalism. Rejoicing in the newly found gift of reflection, he appears to have thought out a subject about which he had better have followed the enlightened feeling of his own age. The general sentiment of Hellas was opposed to his monstrous fancy. The old poets, and in later time the tragedians, showed no want of respect for the family, on which much of their religion was based. But the example of Sparta, and perhaps in some degree the tendency to defy public opinion, seems to have misled him. He will make one family out of all the families of the state. He will select the finest specimens of men and women and breed from these only.
It's surprising that the greatest ancient philosopher made such a serious error about marriage. In his rules, Plato separated body and mind completely. The real wonder isn't that Plato held moral ideas that disgust us today. It's that he contradicted himself so badly it's almost unbelievable. He fell instantly from the heights of idealism into the crudest animal thinking. Excited by his new gift for deep thinking, Plato seems to have reasoned through a topic where he should have trusted his own age's enlightened feelings. Most Greeks opposed his monstrous idea. The old poets and later tragedians showed great respect for the family. Much of their religion was built on family values. But Sparta's example misled him, and perhaps his tendency to defy public opinion did too. He wanted to make one big family out of all the state's families. He planned to select the finest men and women and breed only from them.
Yet because the illusion is always returning (for the animal part of human nature will from time to time assert itself in the disguise of philosophy as well as of poetry), and also because any departure from established morality, even where this is not intended, is apt to be unsettling, it may be worth while to draw out a little more at length the objections to the Platonic marriage. In the first place, history shows that wherever polygamy has been largely allowed the race has deteriorated. One man to one woman is the law of God and nature. Nearly all the civilized peoples of the world at some period before the age of written records, have become monogamists; and the step when once taken has never been retraced. The exceptions occurring among Brahmins or Mahometans or the ancient Persians, are of that sort which may be said to prove the rule. The connexions formed between superior and inferior races hardly ever produce a noble offspring, because they are licentious; and because the children in such cases usually despise the mother and are neglected by the father who is ashamed of them. Barbarous nations when they are introduced by Europeans to vice die out; polygamist peoples either import and adopt children from other countries, or dwindle in numbers, or both. Dynasties and aristocracies which have disregarded the laws of nature have decreased in numbers and degenerated in stature; ‘mariages de convenance’ leave their enfeebling stamp on the offspring of them (King Lear). The marriage of near relations, or the marrying in and in of the same family tends constantly to weakness or idiocy in the children, sometimes assuming the form as they grow older of passionate licentiousness. The common prostitute rarely has any offspring. By such unmistakable evidence is the authority of morality asserted in the relations of the sexes: and so many more elements enter into this ‘mystery’ than are dreamed of by Plato and some other philosophers.
Yet the illusion keeps coming back. The animal part of human nature will always reassert itself, disguised as philosophy or poetry. Any departure from established morality can be unsettling, even when that's not the intention. So it may be worth examining the objections to Platonic marriage in more detail. First, history shows that wherever polygamy has been widely allowed, the race has deteriorated. One man to one woman is the law of God and nature. Nearly all civilized peoples became monogamists at some point before written records began. Once they took this step, they never went back. The exceptions among Brahmins, Mahometans, or ancient Persians are the kind that prove the rule. Connections between superior and inferior races hardly ever produce noble offspring because they are licentious. The children in such cases usually despise the mother and are neglected by the father, who is ashamed of them. When Europeans introduce barbarous nations to vice, those nations die out. Polygamist peoples either import and adopt children from other countries, or their numbers dwindle, or both. Dynasties and aristocracies that have ignored the laws of nature have decreased in numbers and degenerated in stature. Marriages of convenience leave their weakening mark on the children (King Lear). Marriage between close relations, or marrying within the same family, constantly leads to weakness or idiocy in the children. Sometimes this takes the form of passionate licentiousness as they grow older. The common prostitute rarely has any offspring. Such unmistakable evidence asserts the authority of morality in sexual relations. Many more elements enter into this mystery than Plato and some other philosophers ever dreamed of.
Recent enquirers have indeed arrived at the conclusion that among primitive tribes there existed a community of wives as of property, and that the captive taken by the spear was the only wife or slave whom any man was permitted to call his own. The partial existence of such customs among some of the lower races of man, and the survival of peculiar ceremonies in the marriages of some civilized nations, are thought to furnish a proof of similar institutions having been once universal. There can be no question that the study of anthropology has considerably changed our views respecting the first appearance of man upon the earth. We know more about the aborigines of the world than formerly, but our increasing knowledge shows above all things how little we know. With all the helps which written monuments afford, we do but faintly realize the condition of man two thousand or three thousand years ago. Of what his condition was when removed to a distance 200,000 or 300,000 years, when the majority of mankind were lower and nearer the animals than any tribe now existing upon the earth, we cannot even entertain conjecture. Plato (Laws) and Aristotle (Metaph.) may have been more right than we imagine in supposing that some forms of civilisation were discovered and lost several times over. If we cannot argue that all barbarism is a degraded civilization, neither can we set any limits to the depth of degradation to which the human race may sink through war, disease, or isolation. And if we are to draw inferences about the origin of marriage from the practice of barbarous nations, we should also consider the remoter analogy of the animals. Many birds and animals, especially the carnivorous, have only one mate, and the love and care of offspring which seems to be natural is inconsistent with the primitive theory of marriage. If we go back to an imaginary state in which men were almost animals and the companions of them, we have as much right to argue from what is animal to what is human as from the barbarous to the civilized man. The record of animal life on the globe is fragmentary,—the connecting links are wanting and cannot be supplied; the record of social life is still more fragmentary and precarious. Even if we admit that our first ancestors had no such institution as marriage, still the stages by which men passed from outer barbarism to the comparative civilization of China, Assyria, and Greece, or even of the ancient Germans, are wholly unknown to us.
Recent researchers have concluded that primitive tribes shared wives just as they shared property. The only wife or slave a man could truly call his own was one he captured with his spear. Some lower races still practice parts of these customs today. Certain civilized nations still perform unusual marriage ceremonies. These facts are thought to prove that such institutions were once universal. The study of anthropology has greatly changed our views about when humans first appeared on earth. We know more about the world's native peoples than we used to. But our growing knowledge mainly shows us how little we actually know. Even with all the help that written records provide, we can barely understand what human life was like two or three thousand years ago. We cannot even guess what conditions were like 200,000 or 300,000 years ago. Back then, most of humanity lived closer to animals than any tribe that exists today. Plato (Laws) and Aristotle (Metaph.) may have been more correct than we think. They suggested that some forms of civilization were discovered and lost several times over. We cannot argue that all barbarism comes from degraded civilization. But we also cannot set limits on how deeply the human race might sink through war, disease, or isolation. If we want to understand marriage's origins by studying barbarous nations, we should also consider the more distant example of animals. Many birds and animals, especially meat-eaters, have only one mate. The love and care for offspring that seems natural contradicts the primitive theory of marriage. If we imagine a time when humans were almost animals and lived alongside them, we have as much right to argue from animal behavior to human behavior as from barbarous to civilized behavior. The record of animal life on earth is incomplete. The connecting links are missing and cannot be found. The record of social life is even more incomplete and uncertain. Even if we accept that our first ancestors had no institution like marriage, we still don't know the stages by which humans moved from complete barbarism to the relative civilization of China, Assyria, and Greece, or even of the ancient Germans. These stages remain completely unknown to us.
Such speculations are apt to be unsettling, because they seem to show that an institution which was thought to be a revelation from heaven, is only the growth of history and experience. We ask what is the origin of marriage, and we are told that like the right of property, after many wars and contests, it has gradually arisen out of the selfishness of barbarians. We stand face to face with human nature in its primitive nakedness. We are compelled to accept, not the highest, but the lowest account of the origin of human society. But on the other hand we may truly say that every step in human progress has been in the same direction, and that in the course of ages the idea of marriage and of the family has been more and more defined and consecrated. The civilized East is immeasurably in advance of any savage tribes; the Greeks and Romans have improved upon the East; the Christian nations have been stricter in their views of the marriage relation than any of the ancients. In this as in so many other things, instead of looking back with regret to the past, we should look forward with hope to the future. We must consecrate that which we believe to be the most holy, and that ‘which is the most holy will be the most useful.’ There is more reason for maintaining the sacredness of the marriage tie, when we see the benefit of it, than when we only felt a vague religious horror about the violation of it. But in all times of transition, when established beliefs are being undermined, there is a danger that in the passage from the old to the new we may insensibly let go the moral principle, finding an excuse for listening to the voice of passion in the uncertainty of knowledge, or the fluctuations of opinion. And there are many persons in our own day who, enlightened by the study of anthropology, and fascinated by what is new and strange, some using the language of fear, others of hope, are inclined to believe that a time will come when through the self-assertion of women, or the rebellious spirit of children, by the analysis of human relations, or by the force of outward circumstances, the ties of family life may be broken or greatly relaxed. They point to societies in America and elsewhere which tend to show that the destruction of the family need not necessarily involve the overthrow of all morality. Wherever we may think of such speculations, we can hardly deny that they have been more rife in this generation than in any other; and whither they are tending, who can predict?
These ideas can be disturbing because they suggest that marriage, which we thought came from divine revelation, actually developed through history and human experience. When we ask about the origins of marriage, we're told it gradually emerged from the selfishness of primitive people, just like property rights did after many wars and conflicts. We come face to face with human nature in its most basic form. We're forced to accept not the highest explanation for human society's origins, but the lowest one. On the other hand, we can honestly say that every step of human progress has moved in the same direction. Over the centuries, the idea of marriage and family has become more clearly defined and sacred. The civilized East is far ahead of any savage tribes. The Greeks and Romans improved on the East. Christian nations have held stricter views about marriage than any ancient peoples. In this and many other areas, instead of looking back with regret, we should look forward with hope. We must make sacred what we believe is most holy, and "what is most holy will be most useful." There's more reason to maintain the sacredness of marriage when we see its benefits than when we only felt a vague religious fear about violating it. But during times of change, when established beliefs are being challenged, there's a danger. In moving from old to new ideas, we might unconsciously abandon moral principles. We might find excuses to listen to passion because knowledge is uncertain or opinions keep changing. Many people today, educated by studying human cultures and fascinated by new and strange ideas, believe a time will come when family ties may be broken or greatly weakened. Some speak with fear, others with hope. They think this might happen through women asserting themselves, children rebelling, analyzing human relationships, or outside circumstances. They point to communities in America and elsewhere that seem to show destroying the family doesn't necessarily destroy all morality. Whatever we think of these ideas, we can hardly deny they've been more common in our generation than any other. Where they're leading, who can predict?
To the doubts and queries raised by these ‘social reformers’ respecting the relation of the sexes and the moral nature of man, there is a sufficient answer, if any is needed. The difference about them and us is really one of fact. They are speaking of man as they wish or fancy him to be, but we are speaking of him as he is. They isolate the animal part of his nature; we regard him as a creature having many sides, or aspects, moving between good and evil, striving to rise above himself and to become ‘a little lower than the angels.’ We also, to use a Platonic formula, are not ignorant of the dissatisfactions and incompatibilities of family life, of the meannesses of trade, of the flatteries of one class of society by another, of the impediments which the family throws in the way of lofty aims and aspirations. But we are conscious that there are evils and dangers in the background greater still, which are not appreciated, because they are either concealed or suppressed. What a condition of man would that be, in which human passions were controlled by no authority, divine or human, in which there was no shame or decency, no higher affection overcoming or sanctifying the natural instincts, but simply a rule of health! Is it for this that we are asked to throw away the civilization which is the growth of ages?
These 'social reformers' have raised doubts and questions about relationships between men and women and human morality. There's a simple answer to their concerns, if one is even needed. The real difference between them and us comes down to facts. They're talking about humanity as they wish it could be or imagine it to be. We're talking about humanity as it actually is. They focus only on the animal side of human nature. We see people as complex creatures with many different aspects, caught between good and evil, struggling to rise above themselves and become 'a little lower than the angels.' We also understand, to use a Platonic idea, the problems and conflicts of family life. We know about the petty concerns of business, the way one social class flatters another, and how family obligations can get in the way of noble goals and dreams. But we're aware that there are even greater evils and dangers lurking in the background. These aren't fully understood because they're either hidden or ignored. What kind of condition would humanity be in if human passions had no authority controlling them, whether divine or human? What if there were no shame or decency, no higher love to overcome or make sacred our natural instincts? What if there were simply a rule of health and nothing more? Is this really what we're being asked to give up civilization for? The civilization that has grown over countless ages?
For strength and health are not the only qualities to be desired; there are the more important considerations of mind and character and soul. We know how human nature may be degraded; we do not know how by artificial means any improvement in the breed can be effected. The problem is a complex one, for if we go back only four steps (and these at least enter into the composition of a child), there are commonly thirty progenitors to be taken into account. Many curious facts, rarely admitting of proof, are told us respecting the inheritance of disease or character from a remote ancestor. We can trace the physical resemblances of parents and children in the same family—
Strength and health aren't the only qualities we should want. The more important considerations are mind, character, and soul. We know how human nature can be degraded. We don't know how artificial means can improve the breed. The problem is complex. If we go back only four steps (and these at least enter into the composition of a child), there are commonly thirty ancestors to consider. Many curious facts are told about inheriting disease or character from a distant ancestor. These facts rarely admit proof. We can trace the physical resemblances of parents and children in the same family—
‘Sic oculos, sic ille manus, sic ora ferebat’;
"Such were his eyes, such his hands, such his face."
but scarcely less often the differences which distinguish children both from their parents and from one another. We are told of similar mental peculiarities running in families, and again of a tendency, as in the animals, to revert to a common or original stock. But we have a difficulty in distinguishing what is a true inheritance of genius or other qualities, and what is mere imitation or the result of similar circumstances. Great men and great women have rarely had great fathers and mothers. Nothing that we know of in the circumstances of their birth or lineage will explain their appearance. Of the English poets of the last and two preceding centuries scarcely a descendant remains,—none have ever been distinguished. So deeply has nature hidden her secret, and so ridiculous is the fancy which has been entertained by some that we might in time by suitable marriage arrangements or, as Plato would have said, ‘by an ingenious system of lots,’ produce a Shakespeare or a Milton. Even supposing that we could breed men having the tenacity of bulldogs, or, like the Spartans, ‘lacking the wit to run away in battle,’ would the world be any the better? Many of the noblest specimens of the human race have been among the weakest physically. Tyrtaeus or Aesop, or our own Newton, would have been exposed at Sparta; and some of the fairest and strongest men and women have been among the wickedest and worst. Not by the Platonic device of uniting the strong and fair with the strong and fair, regardless of sentiment and morality, nor yet by his other device of combining dissimilar natures (Statesman), have mankind gradually passed from the brutality and licentiousness of primitive marriage to marriage Christian and civilized.
We often notice the differences that set children apart from their parents and from each other. We hear about similar mental traits running in families. We also see a tendency, like in animals, to return to a common or original type. But we struggle to tell what is true inheritance of genius or other qualities from what is simple imitation or the result of similar circumstances. Great men and great women have rarely had great fathers and mothers. Nothing we know about their birth or family background explains their appearance. Of the English poets from the last three centuries, scarcely any descendants remain. None have ever been distinguished. Nature has hidden her secret so deeply that it's ridiculous to think we might someday produce a Shakespeare or a Milton through careful marriage arrangements or, as Plato suggested, "by an ingenious system of lots." Even if we could breed men with the tenacity of bulldogs, or like the Spartans, "lacking the wit to run away in battle," would the world be any better? Many of the noblest examples of the human race have been among the weakest physically. Tyrtaeus or Aesop, or our own Newton, would have been left to die at Sparta. Some of the most beautiful and strongest men and women have been among the wickedest and worst. Mankind has not gradually moved from the brutality and licentiousness of primitive marriage to Christian and civilized marriage through Plato's device of uniting the strong and beautiful with the strong and beautiful, regardless of sentiment and morality. Nor has it happened through his other device of combining dissimilar natures.
Few persons would deny that we bring into the world an inheritance of mental and physical qualities derived first from our parents, or through them from some remoter ancestor, secondly from our race, thirdly from the general condition of mankind into which we are born. Nothing is commoner than the remark, that ‘So and so is like his father or his uncle’; and an aged person may not unfrequently note a resemblance in a youth to a long-forgotten ancestor, observing that ‘Nature sometimes skips a generation.’ It may be true also, that if we knew more about our ancestors, these similarities would be even more striking to us. Admitting the facts which are thus described in a popular way, we may however remark that there is no method of difference by which they can be defined or estimated, and that they constitute only a small part of each individual. The doctrine of heredity may seem to take out of our hands the conduct of our own lives, but it is the idea, not the fact, which is really terrible to us. For what we have received from our ancestors is only a fraction of what we are, or may become. The knowledge that drunkenness or insanity has been prevalent in a family may be the best safeguard against their recurrence in a future generation. The parent will be most awake to the vices or diseases in his child of which he is most sensible within himself. The whole of life may be directed to their prevention or cure. The traces of consumption may become fainter, or be wholly effaced: the inherent tendency to vice or crime may be eradicated. And so heredity, from being a curse, may become a blessing. We acknowledge that in the matter of our birth, as in our nature generally, there are previous circumstances which affect us. But upon this platform of circumstances or within this wall of necessity, we have still the power of creating a life for ourselves by the informing energy of the human will.
Most people would agree that we inherit mental and physical traits when we're born. These come first from our parents, or through them from some distant ancestor. They also come from our race and from the general human condition we're born into. We often hear people say, "So and so is just like his father or his uncle." An older person might notice that a young person resembles a long-forgotten ancestor, noting that "Nature sometimes skips a generation." If we knew more about our ancestors, these similarities would probably be even more striking. We can accept these facts as they're commonly described. But there's no precise way to define or measure them, and they make up only a small part of who each person is. The idea of heredity might seem to take control of our lives away from us. But it's the idea, not the reality, that truly frightens us. What we inherit from our ancestors is only a fraction of what we are or what we can become. Knowing that alcoholism or mental illness runs in a family can be the best protection against it happening again in future generations. A parent will be most alert to the flaws or diseases in their child that they recognize in themselves. An entire life can be focused on preventing or curing these problems. Signs of tuberculosis can fade or disappear completely. An inherited tendency toward vice or crime can be eliminated. In this way, heredity can change from being a curse to being a blessing. We recognize that our birth and our nature are affected by circumstances that came before us. But on this foundation of circumstances, or within these walls of necessity, we still have the power to create our own lives through the driving force of human will.
There is another aspect of the marriage question to which Plato is a stranger. All the children born in his state are foundlings. It never occurred to him that the greater part of them, according to universal experience, would have perished. For children can only be brought up in families. There is a subtle sympathy between the mother and the child which cannot be supplied by other mothers, or by ‘strong nurses one or more’ (Laws). If Plato’s ‘pen’ was as fatal as the Creches of Paris, or the foundling hospital of Dublin, more than nine-tenths of his children would have perished. There would have been no need to expose or put out of the way the weaklier children, for they would have died of themselves. So emphatically does nature protest against the destruction of the family.
There is another aspect of the marriage question that Plato completely missed. All the children born in his state are foundlings. It never occurred to him that most of them would have died, based on what we know from history. Children can only be raised properly in families. There is a special bond between mother and child that cannot be replaced by other mothers or by "strong nurses one or more" (Laws). If Plato's system had been as deadly as the orphanages of Paris or the foundling hospital of Dublin, more than nine-tenths of his children would have died. There would have been no need to abandon or kill the weaker children, because they would have died naturally. Nature strongly opposes the destruction of the family.
What Plato had heard or seen of Sparta was applied by him in a mistaken way to his ideal commonwealth. He probably observed that both the Spartan men and women were superior in form and strength to the other Greeks; and this superiority he was disposed to attribute to the laws and customs relating to marriage. He did not consider that the desire of a noble offspring was a passion among the Spartans, or that their physical superiority was to be attributed chiefly, not to their marriage customs, but to their temperance and training. He did not reflect that Sparta was great, not in consequence of the relaxation of morality, but in spite of it, by virtue of a political principle stronger far than existed in any other Grecian state. Least of all did he observe that Sparta did not really produce the finest specimens of the Greek race. The genius, the political inspiration of Athens, the love of liberty—all that has made Greece famous with posterity, were wanting among the Spartans. They had no Themistocles, or Pericles, or Aeschylus, or Sophocles, or Socrates, or Plato. The individual was not allowed to appear above the state; the laws were fixed, and he had no business to alter or reform them. Yet whence has the progress of cities and nations arisen, if not from remarkable individuals, coming into the world we know not how, and from causes over which we have no control? Something too much may have been said in modern times of the value of individuality. But we can hardly condemn too strongly a system which, instead of fostering the scattered seeds or sparks of genius and character, tends to smother and extinguish them.
Plato misunderstood what he learned about Sparta when he applied it to his ideal society. He probably noticed that Spartan men and women were stronger and better built than other Greeks. He thought this came from their marriage laws and customs. But he didn't consider that Spartans were passionate about having noble children. Their physical strength came mainly from their discipline and training, not their marriage practices. Plato didn't think about how Sparta became great despite its loose morals, not because of them. Sparta succeeded because it had a stronger political system than any other Greek state. Most importantly, he failed to see that Sparta didn't actually produce the finest examples of the Greek people. The brilliance and political vision of Athens, the love of freedom—everything that made Greece famous—was missing in Sparta. They had no Themistocles, or Pericles, or Aeschylus, or Sophocles, or Socrates, or Plato. Individuals weren't allowed to rise above the state. The laws were set in stone, and no one could change or improve them. But where does progress in cities and nations come from? It comes from remarkable individuals who appear in the world in ways we don't understand, for reasons beyond our control. Modern times may have praised individuality too much. But we can't condemn strongly enough a system that smothers the scattered seeds of genius and character instead of helping them grow.
Still, while condemning Plato, we must acknowledge that neither Christianity, nor any other form of religion and society, has hitherto been able to cope with this most difficult of social problems, and that the side from which Plato regarded it is that from which we turn away. Population is the most untameable force in the political and social world. Do we not find, especially in large cities, that the greatest hindrance to the amelioration of the poor is their improvidence in marriage?—a small fault truly, if not involving endless consequences. There are whole countries too, such as India, or, nearer home, Ireland, in which a right solution of the marriage question seems to lie at the foundation of the happiness of the community. There are too many people on a given space, or they marry too early and bring into the world a sickly and half-developed offspring; or owing to the very conditions of their existence, they become emaciated and hand on a similar life to their descendants. But who can oppose the voice of prudence to the ‘mightiest passions of mankind’ (Laws), especially when they have been licensed by custom and religion? In addition to the influences of education, we seem to require some new principles of right and wrong in these matters, some force of opinion, which may indeed be already heard whispering in private, but has never affected the moral sentiments of mankind in general. We unavoidably lose sight of the principle of utility, just in that action of our lives in which we have the most need of it. The influences which we can bring to bear upon this question are chiefly indirect. In a generation or two, education, emigration, improvements in agriculture and manufactures, may have provided the solution. The state physician hardly likes to probe the wound: it is beyond his art; a matter which he cannot safely let alone, but which he dare not touch:
Still, while condemning Plato, we must acknowledge that neither Christianity nor any other form of religion and society has been able to cope with this most difficult of social problems. The side from which Plato regarded it is the one we turn away from. Population is the most untameable force in the political and social world. Don't we find, especially in large cities, that the greatest hindrance to helping the poor is their reckless approach to marriage? This seems like a small fault, but it involves endless consequences. There are whole countries too, such as India, or closer to home, Ireland, where solving the marriage question seems essential to the community's happiness. There are too many people in a given space, or they marry too early and bring sickly and underdeveloped children into the world. Due to the very conditions of their existence, they become weak and pass on a similar life to their descendants. But who can oppose the voice of prudence to the "mightiest passions of mankind," especially when custom and religion have approved them? In addition to education's influences, we seem to need some new principles of right and wrong in these matters. We need some force of opinion, which may already be whispered in private, but has never affected mankind's moral feelings in general. We lose sight of the principle of utility just in that action of our lives where we need it most. The influences we can bring to bear on this question are mostly indirect. In a generation or two, education, emigration, and improvements in agriculture and manufacturing may provide the solution. The state physician hardly likes to probe the wound. It is beyond his skill. It's a matter he cannot safely ignore, but which he dare not touch.
‘We do but skin and film the ulcerous place.’
"We're only covering up the infected wound with a thin layer."
When again in private life we see a whole family one by one dropping into the grave under the Ate of some inherited malady, and the parents perhaps surviving them, do our minds ever go back silently to that day twenty-five or thirty years before on which under the fairest auspices, amid the rejoicings of friends and acquaintances, a bride and bridegroom joined hands with one another? In making such a reflection we are not opposing physical considerations to moral, but moral to physical; we are seeking to make the voice of reason heard, which drives us back from the extravagance of sentimentalism on common sense. The late Dr. Combe is said by his biographer to have resisted the temptation to marriage, because he knew that he was subject to hereditary consumption. One who deserved to be called a man of genius, a friend of my youth, was in the habit of wearing a black ribbon on his wrist, in order to remind him that, being liable to outbreaks of insanity, he must not give way to the natural impulses of affection: he died unmarried in a lunatic asylum. These two little facts suggest the reflection that a very few persons have done from a sense of duty what the rest of mankind ought to have done under like circumstances, if they had allowed themselves to think of all the misery which they were about to bring into the world. If we could prevent such marriages without any violation of feeling or propriety, we clearly ought; and the prohibition in the course of time would be protected by a ‘horror naturalis’ similar to that which, in all civilized ages and countries, has prevented the marriage of near relations by blood. Mankind would have been the happier, if some things which are now allowed had from the beginning been denied to them; if the sanction of religion could have prohibited practices inimical to health; if sanitary principles could in early ages have been invested with a superstitious awe. But, living as we do far on in the world’s history, we are no longer able to stamp at once with the impress of religion a new prohibition. A free agent cannot have his fancies regulated by law; and the execution of the law would be rendered impossible, owing to the uncertainty of the cases in which marriage was to be forbidden. Who can weigh virtue, or even fortune against health, or moral and mental qualities against bodily? Who can measure probabilities against certainties? There has been some good as well as evil in the discipline of suffering; and there are diseases, such as consumption, which have exercised a refining and softening influence on the character. Youth is too inexperienced to balance such nice considerations; parents do not often think of them, or think of them too late. They are at a distance and may probably be averted; change of place, a new state of life, the interests of a home may be the cure of them. So persons vainly reason when their minds are already made up and their fortunes irrevocably linked together. Nor is there any ground for supposing that marriages are to any great extent influenced by reflections of this sort, which seem unable to make any head against the irresistible impulse of individual attachment.
When we're living our private lives, we sometimes see an entire family die one by one from some inherited disease. The parents might even outlive their children. Do we ever think back silently to that day twenty-five or thirty years earlier? On that day, under the best circumstances, surrounded by celebrating friends and family, a bride and groom joined hands with each other? When we make such a reflection, we're not putting physical concerns against moral ones, but moral against physical. We're trying to make the voice of reason heard, which pulls us back from sentimental extremes toward common sense. The late Dr. Combe, according to his biographer, resisted the temptation to marry because he knew he was prone to hereditary consumption. A friend of my youth, who deserved to be called a genius, wore a black ribbon on his wrist. It reminded him that since he was liable to bouts of insanity, he must not give in to natural impulses of affection. He died unmarried in a mental asylum. These two small facts suggest a reflection. Very few people have done from a sense of duty what the rest of mankind should have done in similar circumstances. They should have done this if they had allowed themselves to think of all the misery they were about to bring into the world. If we could prevent such marriages without violating feeling or propriety, we clearly should. The prohibition would in time be protected by a natural horror similar to what has prevented the marriage of close blood relatives in all civilized ages and countries. Mankind would have been happier if some things now allowed had been denied from the beginning. If religious authority could have prohibited practices harmful to health. If health principles could have been given superstitious reverence in early ages. But living as we do far along in the world's history, we can no longer instantly stamp a new prohibition with religious authority. A free person cannot have their desires regulated by law. Enforcing the law would be impossible due to uncertainty about which cases should forbid marriage. Who can weigh virtue, or even fortune, against health? Who can measure moral and mental qualities against physical ones? Who can measure probabilities against certainties? There has been some good as well as evil in the discipline of suffering. There are diseases, such as consumption, which have had a refining and softening influence on character. Youth is too inexperienced to balance such delicate considerations. Parents don't often think of them, or think of them too late. The problems seem distant and may probably be avoided. Change of place, a new way of life, the interests of a home may cure them. So people reason in vain when their minds are already made up and their fortunes irrevocably linked together. There's no reason to suppose that marriages are influenced to any great extent by reflections of this sort. Such thoughts seem unable to make any headway against the irresistible impulse of individual attachment.
Lastly, no one can have observed the first rising flood of the passions in youth, the difficulty of regulating them, and the effects on the whole mind and nature which follow from them, the stimulus which is given to them by the imagination, without feeling that there is something unsatisfactory in our method of treating them. That the most important influence on human life should be wholly left to chance or shrouded in mystery, and instead of being disciplined or understood, should be required to conform only to an external standard of propriety—cannot be regarded by the philosopher as a safe or satisfactory condition of human things. And still those who have the charge of youth may find a way by watchfulness, by affection, by the manliness and innocence of their own lives, by occasional hints, by general admonitions which every one can apply for himself, to mitigate this terrible evil which eats out the heart of individuals and corrupts the moral sentiments of nations. In no duty towards others is there more need of reticence and self-restraint. So great is the danger lest he who would be the counsellor of another should reveal the secret prematurely, lest he should get another too much into his power; or fix the passing impression of evil by demanding the confession of it.
Finally, anyone who has watched young people experience their first intense emotions knows how hard these feelings are to control. We've all seen how these passions affect the entire mind and personality, and how imagination makes them even stronger. This should make us realize that our current approach to handling these emotions is deeply flawed. The most powerful force in human life shouldn't be left entirely to chance or kept shrouded in secrecy. Instead of helping young people understand and manage these feelings, we simply expect them to follow social rules about proper behavior. No philosopher would consider this a safe or satisfactory way to handle such an important part of human nature. Still, those responsible for guiding young people can find ways to help. Through careful attention, genuine care, and living with integrity and purity themselves, they can make a difference. They can offer gentle hints and general advice that each person can apply to their own situation. This approach can help reduce this terrible problem that destroys individuals from within and corrupts the moral character of entire nations. In no other area of helping others is restraint and self-control more essential. The danger is enormous. A counselor might reveal sensitive information too early, gain too much power over another person, or make a fleeting bad thought permanent by forcing someone to confess it.
Nor is Plato wrong in asserting that family attachments may interfere with higher aims. If there have been some who ‘to party gave up what was meant for mankind,’ there have certainly been others who to family gave up what was meant for mankind or for their country. The cares of children, the necessity of procuring money for their support, the flatteries of the rich by the poor, the exclusiveness of caste, the pride of birth or wealth, the tendency of family life to divert men from the pursuit of the ideal or the heroic, are as lowering in our own age as in that of Plato. And if we prefer to look at the gentle influences of home, the development of the affections, the amenities of society, the devotion of one member of a family for the good of the others, which form one side of the picture, we must not quarrel with him, or perhaps ought rather to be grateful to him, for having presented to us the reverse. Without attempting to defend Plato on grounds of morality, we may allow that there is an aspect of the world which has not unnaturally led him into error.
Plato isn't wrong when he says that family ties can get in the way of higher goals. Some people have given up what they could have done for all humanity because of their loyalty to a political party. But others have certainly given up what they could have done for humanity or their country because of family obligations. The burden of caring for children, the need to make money to support them, poor people flattering the rich, the closed-off nature of social classes, pride in birth or wealth, the way family life tends to pull people away from pursuing ideals or heroic acts - all of these are just as damaging in our time as they were in Plato's. We might prefer to focus on the gentle influences of home life: the growth of love and affection, the pleasures of society, the way one family member devotes themselves to helping the others. These form one side of the picture. But we shouldn't argue with Plato for this, or perhaps we should actually be grateful to him for showing us the other side. We don't need to defend Plato on moral grounds. We can simply acknowledge that there's an aspect of the world that naturally led him into this mistake.
We hardly appreciate the power which the idea of the State, like all other abstract ideas, exercised over the mind of Plato. To us the State seems to be built up out of the family, or sometimes to be the framework in which family and social life is contained. But to Plato in his present mood of mind the family is only a disturbing influence which, instead of filling up, tends to disarrange the higher unity of the State. No organization is needed except a political, which, regarded from another point of view, is a military one. The State is all-sufficing for the wants of man, and, like the idea of the Church in later ages, absorbs all other desires and affections. In time of war the thousand citizens are to stand like a rampart impregnable against the world or the Persian host; in time of peace the preparation for war and their duties to the State, which are also their duties to one another, take up their whole life and time. The only other interest which is allowed to them besides that of war, is the interest of philosophy. When they are too old to be soldiers they are to retire from active life and to have a second novitiate of study and contemplation. There is an element of monasticism even in Plato’s communism. If he could have done without children, he might have converted his Republic into a religious order. Neither in the Laws, when the daylight of common sense breaks in upon him, does he retract his error. In the state of which he would be the founder, there is no marrying or giving in marriage: but because of the infirmity of mankind, he condescends to allow the law of nature to prevail.
We barely understand how powerfully the idea of the State influenced Plato's thinking, just like other abstract concepts did. To us, the State seems built from families, or sometimes it's the structure that contains family and social life. But for Plato in his current frame of mind, the family is just a disruptive force. Instead of completing the State, it tends to mess up its higher unity. No organization is needed except a political one, which is also military when viewed differently. The State meets all human needs. Like the idea of the Church in later times, it absorbs all other desires and feelings. During war, the thousand citizens should stand like an unbreakable wall against the world or the Persian army. In peacetime, preparing for war and fulfilling their duties to the State (which are also duties to each other) takes up their entire lives. The only other interest allowed to them besides war is philosophy. When they become too old to be soldiers, they retire from active life. They then have a second period of training focused on study and contemplation. There's even a monastic element in Plato's communism. If he could have managed without children, he might have turned his Republic into a religious order. Even in the Laws, when common sense finally breaks through, he doesn't take back this mistake. In the state he would found, there is no marrying or giving in marriage. But because of human weakness, he reluctantly allows the law of nature to prevail.
(c) But Plato has an equal, or, in his own estimation, even greater paradox in reserve, which is summed up in the famous text, ‘Until kings are philosophers or philosophers are kings, cities will never cease from ill.’ And by philosophers he explains himself to mean those who are capable of apprehending ideas, especially the idea of good. To the attainment of this higher knowledge the second education is directed. Through a process of training which has already made them good citizens they are now to be made good legislators. We find with some surprise (not unlike the feeling which Aristotle in a well-known passage describes the hearers of Plato’s lectures as experiencing, when they went to a discourse on the idea of good, expecting to be instructed in moral truths, and received instead of them arithmetical and mathematical formulae) that Plato does not propose for his future legislators any study of finance or law or military tactics, but only of abstract mathematics, as a preparation for the still more abstract conception of good. We ask, with Aristotle, What is the use of a man knowing the idea of good, if he does not know what is good for this individual, this state, this condition of society? We cannot understand how Plato’s legislators or guardians are to be fitted for their work of statesmen by the study of the five mathematical sciences. We vainly search in Plato’s own writings for any explanation of this seeming absurdity.
Plato has an equally surprising paradox in store, or perhaps an even greater one by his own standards. This is captured in his famous statement: "Until kings are philosophers or philosophers are kings, cities will never cease from ill." By philosophers, he means those who can understand ideas, especially the idea of good. The second education is designed to help students reach this higher knowledge. Through training that has already made them good citizens, they will now become good legislators. We find this somewhat surprising. It's not unlike the feeling Aristotle describes in a well-known passage about people who attended Plato's lectures. They went expecting to hear about the idea of good and hoped to learn moral truths. Instead, they received arithmetic and mathematical formulas. Similarly, Plato doesn't propose that his future legislators study finance, law, or military tactics. He suggests only abstract mathematics as preparation for the even more abstract concept of good. We ask, along with Aristotle: What good does it do for someone to know the idea of good if they don't know what's good for this individual, this state, or this condition of society? We can't understand how Plato's legislators or guardians would be prepared for their work as statesmen by studying the five mathematical sciences. We search Plato's own writings in vain for any explanation of this apparent absurdity.
The discovery of a great metaphysical conception seems to ravish the mind with a prophetic consciousness which takes away the power of estimating its value. No metaphysical enquirer has ever fairly criticised his own speculations; in his own judgment they have been above criticism; nor has he understood that what to him seemed to be absolute truth may reappear in the next generation as a form of logic or an instrument of thought. And posterity have also sometimes equally misapprehended the real value of his speculations. They appear to them to have contributed nothing to the stock of human knowledge. The IDEA of good is apt to be regarded by the modern thinker as an unmeaning abstraction; but he forgets that this abstraction is waiting ready for use, and will hereafter be filled up by the divisions of knowledge. When mankind do not as yet know that the world is subject to law, the introduction of the mere conception of law or design or final cause, and the far-off anticipation of the harmony of knowledge, are great steps onward. Even the crude generalization of the unity of all things leads men to view the world with different eyes, and may easily affect their conception of human life and of politics, and also their own conduct and character (Tim). We can imagine how a great mind like that of Pericles might derive elevation from his intercourse with Anaxagoras (Phaedr.). To be struggling towards a higher but unattainable conception is a more favourable intellectual condition than to rest satisfied in a narrow portion of ascertained fact. And the earlier, which have sometimes been the greater ideas of science, are often lost sight of at a later period. How rarely can we say of any modern enquirer in the magnificent language of Plato, that ‘He is the spectator of all time and of all existence!’
When someone discovers a great philosophical idea, it seems to overwhelm their mind with a sense of prophecy. This takes away their ability to judge its true worth. No philosophical thinker has ever fairly criticized their own theories. In their own judgment, these ideas have been beyond criticism. They don't understand that what seems like absolute truth to them may appear to the next generation as just a form of logic or a tool for thinking. Later generations have also sometimes misunderstood the real value of these ideas. The ideas seem to contribute nothing to human knowledge. Modern thinkers tend to see the IDEA of good as a meaningless abstraction. But they forget that this abstraction is ready for use and will later be filled in by different areas of knowledge. When people don't yet know that the world follows laws, introducing the basic concept of law or design or purpose is a great step forward. Even the rough idea that all things are connected leads people to see the world differently. This can easily affect how they think about human life and politics, and also their own behavior and character (Tim). We can imagine how a great mind like Pericles might have been inspired by his conversations with Anaxagoras (Phaedr.). Struggling toward a higher but unreachable idea is a better intellectual state than being satisfied with a narrow set of proven facts. The earlier ideas of science, which have sometimes been the greatest ones, are often forgotten later. How rarely can we say of any modern researcher, in Plato's magnificent words, that 'He is the spectator of all time and of all existence!'
Nor is there anything unnatural in the hasty application of these vast metaphysical conceptions to practical and political life. In the first enthusiasm of ideas men are apt to see them everywhere, and to apply them in the most remote sphere. They do not understand that the experience of ages is required to enable them to fill up ‘the intermediate axioms.’ Plato himself seems to have imagined that the truths of psychology, like those of astronomy and harmonics, would be arrived at by a process of deduction, and that the method which he has pursued in the Fourth Book, of inferring them from experience and the use of language, was imperfect and only provisional. But when, after having arrived at the idea of good, which is the end of the science of dialectic, he is asked, What is the nature, and what are the divisions of the science? He refuses to answer, as if intending by the refusal to intimate that the state of knowledge which then existed was not such as would allow the philosopher to enter into his final rest. The previous sciences must first be studied, and will, we may add, continue to be studied tell the end of time, although in a sense different from any which Plato could have conceived. But we may observe, that while he is aware of the vacancy of his own ideal, he is full of enthusiasm in the contemplation of it. Looking into the orb of light, he sees nothing, but he is warmed and elevated. The Hebrew prophet believed that faith in God would enable him to govern the world; the Greek philosopher imagined that contemplation of the good would make a legislator. There is as much to be filled up in the one case as in the other, and the one mode of conception is to the Israelite what the other is to the Greek. Both find a repose in a divine perfection, which, whether in a more personal or impersonal form, exists without them and independently of them, as well as within them.
It's natural for people to quickly apply big philosophical ideas to practical politics and everyday life. When people first get excited about new ideas, they tend to see them everywhere and try to use them in completely unrelated areas. They don't realize that it takes centuries of experience to fill in all the gaps between grand theories and real-world applications. Plato himself seems to have thought that psychological truths, like those in astronomy and music theory, could be discovered through pure logical reasoning. He believed that his method in the Fourth Book, which drew conclusions from experience and language, was flawed and temporary. But when he reached his idea of "the good," which was supposed to be the ultimate goal of philosophical reasoning, someone asked him to explain what this science actually was and how it worked. He refused to answer. His refusal seemed to suggest that human knowledge wasn't advanced enough yet for a philosopher to reach final understanding. The foundational sciences would need to be studied first. We can add that they will continue to be studied until the end of time, though in ways Plato never could have imagined. Still, we can see that while Plato recognized his ideal was empty, he remained passionate about it. When he looked into this sphere of light, he saw nothing, but it warmed and inspired him. The Hebrew prophet believed that faith in God would let him rule the world. The Greek philosopher thought that contemplating "the good" would make him a great lawmaker. Both ideas have huge gaps that need filling. Each way of thinking meant something special to its culture - one to the Israelites, the other to the Greeks. Both found peace in divine perfection. This perfection existed outside them and independent of them, whether they saw it as personal or impersonal, but it also lived within them.
There is no mention of the idea of good in the Timaeus, nor of the divine Creator of the world in the Republic; and we are naturally led to ask in what relation they stand to one another. Is God above or below the idea of good? Or is the Idea of Good another mode of conceiving God? The latter appears to be the truer answer. To the Greek philosopher the perfection and unity of God was a far higher conception than his personality, which he hardly found a word to express, and which to him would have seemed to be borrowed from mythology. To the Christian, on the other hand, or to the modern thinker in general, it is difficult, if not impossible, to attach reality to what he terms mere abstraction; while to Plato this very abstraction is the truest and most real of all things. Hence, from a difference in forms of thought, Plato appears to be resting on a creation of his own mind only. But if we may be allowed to paraphrase the idea of good by the words ‘intelligent principle of law and order in the universe, embracing equally man and nature,’ we begin to find a meeting-point between him and ourselves.
The Timaeus doesn't mention the idea of good. The Republic doesn't mention the divine Creator of the world. This naturally makes us wonder how these two concepts relate to each other. Is God above or below the idea of good? Or is the Idea of Good just another way of thinking about God? The second option seems more accurate. For Greek philosophers, God's perfection and unity was a much higher concept than his personality. They barely had words to express personality, and it would have seemed borrowed from mythology. For Christians, or for modern thinkers in general, it's difficult or impossible to see reality in what they call mere abstraction. But for Plato, this very abstraction was the truest and most real of all things. Because of this difference in thinking, Plato appears to be relying on something he created in his own mind. But if we can rephrase the idea of good as "intelligent principle of law and order in the universe, embracing equally man and nature," we start to find common ground between him and ourselves.
The question whether the ruler or statesman should be a philosopher is one that has not lost interest in modern times. In most countries of Europe and Asia there has been some one in the course of ages who has truly united the power of command with the power of thought and reflection, as there have been also many false combinations of these qualities. Some kind of speculative power is necessary both in practical and political life; like the rhetorician in the Phaedrus, men require to have a conception of the varieties of human character, and to be raised on great occasions above the commonplaces of ordinary life. Yet the idea of the philosopher-statesman has never been popular with the mass of mankind; partly because he cannot take the world into his confidence or make them understand the motives from which he acts; and also because they are jealous of a power which they do not understand. The revolution which human nature desires to effect step by step in many ages is likely to be precipitated by him in a single year or life. They are afraid that in the pursuit of his greater aims he may disregard the common feelings of humanity, he is too apt to be looking into the distant future or back into the remote past, and unable to see actions or events which, to use an expression of Plato’s ‘are tumbling out at his feet.’ Besides, as Plato would say, there are other corruptions of these philosophical statesmen. Either ‘the native hue of resolution is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,’ and at the moment when action above all things is required he is undecided, or general principles are enunciated by him in order to cover some change of policy; or his ignorance of the world has made him more easily fall a prey to the arts of others; or in some cases he has been converted into a courtier, who enjoys the luxury of holding liberal opinions, but was never known to perform a liberal action. No wonder that mankind have been in the habit of calling statesmen of this class pedants, sophisters, doctrinaires, visionaries. For, as we may be allowed to say, a little parodying the words of Plato, ‘they have seen bad imitations of the philosopher-statesman.’ But a man in whom the power of thought and action are perfectly balanced, equal to the present, reaching forward to the future, ‘such a one,’ ruling in a constitutional state, ‘they have never seen.’
The question of whether a ruler or statesman should be a philosopher still interests us today. Throughout history, most countries in Europe and Asia have had someone who truly combined the power to command with the power to think and reflect. There have also been many false combinations of these qualities. Some kind of thinking ability is necessary in both practical and political life. Like the rhetorician in the Phaedrus, people need to understand different types of human character. They need to rise above everyday thinking on important occasions. Yet the idea of the philosopher-statesman has never been popular with most people. This is partly because he cannot share his confidence with the world or make them understand why he acts as he does. People are also jealous of a power they don't understand. The gradual change that human nature wants to make over many ages might be rushed by him in a single year or lifetime. They fear that in pursuing his greater goals, he may ignore common human feelings. He tends to look too far into the future or back into the distant past. He cannot see actions or events that, to use Plato's words, "are tumbling out at his feet." Besides, as Plato would say, these philosophical statesmen have other flaws. Either "the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought," and when action is most needed he cannot decide. Or he states general principles to cover up some change in policy. Or his ignorance of the world makes him easy prey for others' tricks. Or in some cases he becomes a courtier who enjoys holding liberal opinions but never performs a liberal action. No wonder people have called statesmen of this type pedants, sophisters, doctrinaires, and visionaries. As we might say, slightly changing Plato's words, "they have seen bad imitations of the philosopher-statesman." But a person who perfectly balances the power of thought and action, who is equal to the present and reaches toward the future, "such a one," ruling in a constitutional state, "they have never seen."
But as the philosopher is apt to fail in the routine of political life, so the ordinary statesman is also apt to fail in extraordinary crises. When the face of the world is beginning to alter, and thunder is heard in the distance, he is still guided by his old maxims, and is the slave of his inveterate party prejudices; he cannot perceive the signs of the times; instead of looking forward he looks back; he learns nothing and forgets nothing; with ‘wise saws and modern instances’ he would stem the rising tide of revolution. He lives more and more within the circle of his own party, as the world without him becomes stronger. This seems to be the reason why the old order of things makes so poor a figure when confronted with the new, why churches can never reform, why most political changes are made blindly and convulsively. The great crises in the history of nations have often been met by an ecclesiastical positiveness, and a more obstinate reassertion of principles which have lost their hold upon a nation. The fixed ideas of a reactionary statesman may be compared to madness; they grow upon him, and he becomes possessed by them; no judgement of others is ever admitted by him to be weighed in the balance against his own.
Philosophers often struggle with the day-to-day work of politics. In the same way, ordinary politicians often fail during extraordinary crises. When the world begins to change and trouble rumbles in the distance, these leaders still follow their old rules. They remain slaves to their deep-rooted party prejudices. They cannot see the signs of the times. Instead of looking forward, they look backward. They learn nothing and forget nothing. With old sayings and outdated examples, they try to stop the rising tide of revolution. As the world around them grows stronger, they live more and more within their own party's narrow circle. This explains why the old order looks so weak when faced with the new. This is why churches can never reform themselves. This is why most political changes happen blindly and violently. The great crises in national history have often been met with stubborn religious attitudes and more obstinate reassertion of principles that have lost their grip on the nation. The fixed ideas of a reactionary statesman can be compared to madness. These ideas grow stronger in him, and he becomes possessed by them. He never allows the judgment of others to be weighed against his own.
(d) Plato, labouring under what, to modern readers, appears to have been a confusion of ideas, assimilates the state to the individual, and fails to distinguish Ethics from Politics. He thinks that to be most of a state which is most like one man, and in which the citizens have the greatest uniformity of character. He does not see that the analogy is partly fallacious, and that the will or character of a state or nation is really the balance or rather the surplus of individual wills, which are limited by the condition of having to act in common. The movement of a body of men can never have the pliancy or facility of a single man; the freedom of the individual, which is always limited, becomes still more straitened when transferred to a nation. The powers of action and feeling are necessarily weaker and more balanced when they are diffused through a community; whence arises the often discussed question, ‘Can a nation, like an individual, have a conscience?’ We hesitate to say that the characters of nations are nothing more than the sum of the characters of the individuals who compose them; because there may be tendencies in individuals which react upon one another. A whole nation may be wiser than any one man in it; or may be animated by some common opinion or feeling which could not equally have affected the mind of a single person, or may have been inspired by a leader of genius to perform acts more than human. Plato does not appear to have analysed the complications which arise out of the collective action of mankind. Neither is he capable of seeing that analogies, though specious as arguments, may often have no foundation in fact, or of distinguishing between what is intelligible or vividly present to the mind, and what is true. In this respect he is far below Aristotle, who is comparatively seldom imposed upon by false analogies. He cannot disentangle the arts from the virtues—at least he is always arguing from one to the other. His notion of music is transferred from harmony of sounds to harmony of life: in this he is assisted by the ambiguities of language as well as by the prevalence of Pythagorean notions. And having once assimilated the state to the individual, he imagines that he will find the succession of states paralleled in the lives of individuals.
Plato seems confused about ideas that modern readers can see more clearly. He treats the state like an individual person and fails to separate ethics from politics. He believes the best state is one that acts most like a single person, where all citizens have very similar characters. But he doesn't realize this comparison is partly wrong. The will or character of a state is actually the balance of individual wills. These individual wills are limited because people must act together. A group of people can never move as smoothly or easily as one person can. Individual freedom, which is already limited, becomes even more restricted when applied to an entire nation. When powers of action and feeling spread through a whole community, they naturally become weaker and more balanced. This raises the often-discussed question: "Can a nation have a conscience like an individual does?" We can't simply say that national character is just the sum of individual characters. Individuals influence each other in complex ways. A whole nation might be wiser than any single person in it. A nation might be driven by shared opinions or feelings that couldn't affect one person in the same way. Or a brilliant leader might inspire a nation to achieve superhuman acts. Plato doesn't seem to have analyzed these complications that come from people acting together. He also can't see that analogies, while they sound convincing as arguments, often have no basis in reality. He can't tell the difference between what seems clear to the mind and what is actually true. In this way, he falls far short of Aristotle, who rarely gets fooled by false analogies. Plato can't separate arts from virtues. He's always arguing from one to the other. He takes his idea of music from harmony of sounds and applies it to harmony of life. Language ambiguities help him do this, along with popular Pythagorean ideas. Once he decides the state is like an individual, he imagines he'll find the same sequence of states reflected in individual lives.
Still, through this fallacious medium, a real enlargement of ideas is attained. When the virtues as yet presented no distinct conception to the mind, a great advance was made by the comparison of them with the arts; for virtue is partly art, and has an outward form as well as an inward principle. The harmony of music affords a lively image of the harmonies of the world and of human life, and may be regarded as a splendid illustration which was naturally mistaken for a real analogy. In the same way the identification of ethics with politics has a tendency to give definiteness to ethics, and also to elevate and ennoble men’s notions of the aims of government and of the duties of citizens; for ethics from one point of view may be conceived as an idealized law and politics; and politics, as ethics reduced to the conditions of human society. There have been evils which have arisen out of the attempt to identify them, and this has led to the separation or antagonism of them, which has been introduced by modern political writers. But we may likewise feel that something has been lost in their separation, and that the ancient philosophers who estimated the moral and intellectual wellbeing of mankind first, and the wealth of nations and individuals second, may have a salutary influence on the speculations of modern times. Many political maxims originate in a reaction against an opposite error; and when the errors against which they were directed have passed away, they in turn become errors.
Even though this comparison was flawed, it still led to real progress in understanding ideas. When people couldn't clearly grasp what virtues were, comparing them to arts was a major step forward. Virtue is partly an art, after all. It has both an outward form and an inner principle. The harmony of music gives us a vivid picture of the harmonies in the world and human life. It served as a brilliant illustration that people naturally mistook for a true parallel. In the same way, linking ethics with politics tends to make ethics more concrete. It also elevates and ennobles people's ideas about what government should achieve and what duties citizens have. From one perspective, ethics can be seen as idealized law and politics. Politics, meanwhile, is ethics adapted to the realities of human society. Problems have certainly emerged from trying to make ethics and politics identical. This led to the separation or opposition between them that modern political writers have introduced. But we might also feel that something has been lost in separating them. The ancient philosophers put humanity's moral and intellectual wellbeing first and the wealth of nations and individuals second. This approach might have a healthy influence on modern thinking. Many political principles arise as reactions against opposite mistakes. When the errors they were meant to counter have disappeared, these principles often become errors themselves.
3. Plato’s views of education are in several respects remarkable; like the rest of the Republic they are partly Greek and partly ideal, beginning with the ordinary curriculum of the Greek youth, and extending to after-life. Plato is the first writer who distinctly says that education is to comprehend the whole of life, and to be a preparation for another in which education begins again. This is the continuous thread which runs through the Republic, and which more than any other of his ideas admits of an application to modern life.
3. Plato's views of education are remarkable in several ways. Like the rest of the Republic, they blend Greek tradition with ideal vision. They start with the standard curriculum for Greek youth and extend into after-life. Plato is the first writer to clearly state that education should cover a person's entire life. He sees it as preparation for another life where education begins again. This continuous thread runs through the Republic. More than any other of his ideas, it can be applied to modern life.
He has long given up the notion that virtue cannot be taught; and he is disposed to modify the thesis of the Protagoras, that the virtues are one and not many. He is not unwilling to admit the sensible world into his scheme of truth. Nor does he assert in the Republic the involuntariness of vice, which is maintained by him in the Timaeus, Sophist, and Laws (Protag., Apol., Gorg.). Nor do the so-called Platonic ideas recovered from a former state of existence affect his theory of mental improvement. Still we observe in him the remains of the old Socratic doctrine, that true knowledge must be elicited from within, and is to be sought for in ideas, not in particulars of sense. Education, as he says, will implant a principle of intelligence which is better than ten thousand eyes. The paradox that the virtues are one, and the kindred notion that all virtue is knowledge, are not entirely renounced; the first is seen in the supremacy given to justice over the rest; the second in the tendency to absorb the moral virtues in the intellectual, and to centre all goodness in the contemplation of the idea of good. The world of sense is still depreciated and identified with opinion, though admitted to be a shadow of the true. In the Republic he is evidently impressed with the conviction that vice arises chiefly from ignorance and may be cured by education; the multitude are hardly to be deemed responsible for what they do. A faint allusion to the doctrine of reminiscence occurs in the Tenth Book; but Plato’s views of education have no more real connection with a previous state of existence than our own; he only proposes to elicit from the mind that which is there already. Education is represented by him, not as the filling of a vessel, but as the turning the eye of the soul towards the light.
He has long given up the idea that virtue cannot be taught. He is willing to change his earlier view from the Protagoras that the virtues are one and not many. He doesn't mind including the physical world in his understanding of truth. In the Republic, he also doesn't claim that vice is involuntary, though he maintains this idea in the Timaeus, Sophist, and Laws (Protag., Apol., Gorg.). The so-called Platonic ideas recovered from a former state of existence don't affect his theory of mental improvement either. Still, we can see traces of the old Socratic teaching in his work. True knowledge must come from within and should be found in ideas, not in what we perceive through our senses. Education, as he says, will plant a principle of intelligence that is better than ten thousand eyes. The paradox that the virtues are one, and the related idea that all virtue is knowledge, are not completely abandoned. The first appears in the supreme importance he gives to justice over the other virtues. The second shows up in his tendency to merge moral virtues with intellectual ones and to center all goodness in contemplating the idea of good. The world of the senses is still looked down upon and equated with mere opinion, though he admits it is a shadow of the true world. In the Republic, he is clearly convinced that vice comes mainly from ignorance and can be cured through education. The masses can hardly be held responsible for what they do. A brief reference to the doctrine of reminiscence appears in the Tenth Book. But Plato's views on education have no more real connection with a previous state of existence than our own do. He only suggests drawing out from the mind what is already there. He represents education not as filling a vessel, but as turning the eye of the soul toward the light.
He treats first of music or literature, which he divides into true and false, and then goes on to gymnastics; of infancy in the Republic he takes no notice, though in the Laws he gives sage counsels about the nursing of children and the management of the mothers, and would have an education which is even prior to birth. But in the Republic he begins with the age at which the child is capable of receiving ideas, and boldly asserts, in language which sounds paradoxical to modern ears, that he must be taught the false before he can learn the true. The modern and ancient philosophical world are not agreed about truth and falsehood; the one identifies truth almost exclusively with fact, the other with ideas. This is the difference between ourselves and Plato, which is, however, partly a difference of words. For we too should admit that a child must receive many lessons which he imperfectly understands; he must be taught some things in a figure only, some too which he can hardly be expected to believe when he grows older; but we should limit the use of fiction by the necessity of the case. Plato would draw the line differently; according to him the aim of early education is not truth as a matter of fact, but truth as a matter of principle; the child is to be taught first simple religious truths, and then simple moral truths, and insensibly to learn the lesson of good manners and good taste. He would make an entire reformation of the old mythology; like Xenophanes and Heracleitus he is sensible of the deep chasm which separates his own age from Homer and Hesiod, whom he quotes and invests with an imaginary authority, but only for his own purposes. The lusts and treacheries of the gods are to be banished; the terrors of the world below are to be dispelled; the misbehaviour of the Homeric heroes is not to be a model for youth. But there is another strain heard in Homer which may teach our youth endurance; and something may be learnt in medicine from the simple practice of the Homeric age. The principles on which religion is to be based are two only: first, that God is true; secondly, that he is good. Modern and Christian writers have often fallen short of these; they can hardly be said to have gone beyond them.
He starts with music and literature, which he divides into true and false. Then he moves on to gymnastics. In the Republic, he doesn't discuss infancy at all. But in the Laws, he gives wise advice about nursing children and managing mothers. He even suggests education that begins before birth. In the Republic, he begins with the age when a child can understand ideas. He boldly claims something that sounds strange to modern ears: children must be taught false things before they can learn true ones. Modern and ancient philosophers disagree about truth and falsehood. We identify truth almost entirely with facts. The ancients focused on ideas. This is the main difference between us and Plato, though it's partly just a matter of words. We would also admit that children must learn many lessons they don't fully understand. They must be taught some things through stories and symbols. Some lessons they can hardly be expected to believe when they grow up. But we would limit fiction to what's necessary. Plato would draw the line differently. For him, early education isn't about factual truth but about principles. Children should first learn simple religious truths, then simple moral truths. They should gradually learn good manners and good taste. He wants to completely reform the old mythology. Like Xenophanes and Heracleitus, he sees the deep gap between his own age and Homer and Hesiod. He quotes them and gives them imaginary authority, but only for his own purposes. The gods' lusts and betrayals must be banished. The terrors of the underworld must be dispelled. The bad behavior of Homeric heroes shouldn't be a model for young people. But there's another theme in Homer that can teach our youth endurance. Something can also be learned in medicine from the simple practices of Homer's time. Religion should be based on only two principles: first, that God is true; second, that he is good. Modern and Christian writers have often fallen short of these standards. They can hardly be said to have gone beyond them.
The young are to be brought up in happy surroundings, out of the way of sights or sounds which may hurt the character or vitiate the taste. They are to live in an atmosphere of health; the breeze is always to be wafting to them the impressions of truth and goodness. Could such an education be realized, or if our modern religious education could be bound up with truth and virtue and good manners and good taste, that would be the best hope of human improvement. Plato, like ourselves, is looking forward to changes in the moral and religious world, and is preparing for them. He recognizes the danger of unsettling young men’s minds by sudden changes of laws and principles, by destroying the sacredness of one set of ideas when there is nothing else to take their place. He is afraid too of the influence of the drama, on the ground that it encourages false sentiment, and therefore he would not have his children taken to the theatre; he thinks that the effect on the spectators is bad, and on the actors still worse. His idea of education is that of harmonious growth, in which are insensibly learnt the lessons of temperance and endurance, and the body and mind develope in equal proportions. The first principle which runs through all art and nature is simplicity; this also is to be the rule of human life.
Young people should grow up in happy environments, away from sights or sounds that might damage their character or corrupt their taste. They should live in a healthy atmosphere. The breeze should always carry impressions of truth and goodness to them. If we could achieve such an education, or if our modern religious education could be combined with truth, virtue, good manners, and good taste, that would be our best hope for human improvement. Plato, like us, looks forward to changes in the moral and religious world and prepares for them. He recognizes the danger of unsettling young men's minds with sudden changes in laws and principles. He warns against destroying the sacredness of one set of ideas when nothing else exists to replace them. He also fears the influence of drama because it encourages false sentiment. For this reason, he would not take his children to the theatre. He believes the effect on spectators is bad, and on actors even worse. His idea of education is harmonious growth. In this process, people naturally learn lessons of temperance and endurance. The body and mind develop in equal proportions. The first principle that runs through all art and nature is simplicity. This should also be the rule of human life.
The second stage of education is gymnastic, which answers to the period of muscular growth and development. The simplicity which is enforced in music is extended to gymnastic; Plato is aware that the training of the body may be inconsistent with the training of the mind, and that bodily exercise may be easily overdone. Excessive training of the body is apt to give men a headache or to render them sleepy at a lecture on philosophy, and this they attribute not to the true cause, but to the nature of the subject. Two points are noticeable in Plato’s treatment of gymnastic:—First, that the time of training is entirely separated from the time of literary education. He seems to have thought that two things of an opposite and different nature could not be learnt at the same time. Here we can hardly agree with him; and, if we may judge by experience, the effect of spending three years between the ages of fourteen and seventeen in mere bodily exercise would be far from improving to the intellect. Secondly, he affirms that music and gymnastic are not, as common opinion is apt to imagine, intended, the one for the cultivation of the mind and the other of the body, but that they are both equally designed for the improvement of the mind. The body, in his view, is the servant of the mind; the subjection of the lower to the higher is for the advantage of both. And doubtless the mind may exercise a very great and paramount influence over the body, if exerted not at particular moments and by fits and starts, but continuously, in making preparation for the whole of life. Other Greek writers saw the mischievous tendency of Spartan discipline (Arist. Pol; Thuc.). But only Plato recognized the fundamental error on which the practice was based.
The second stage of education is gymnastic, which corresponds to the period of muscular growth and development. The simplicity required in music extends to gymnastic as well. Plato understands that training the body may conflict with training the mind. He knows that bodily exercise can easily be overdone. Excessive physical training tends to give men headaches or make them sleepy during philosophy lectures. They blame this on the nature of the subject rather than the true cause. Two points stand out in Plato's treatment of gymnastic. First, he completely separates the time for physical training from literary education. He seems to believe that two opposite and different things cannot be learned at the same time. We can hardly agree with him here. Based on experience, spending three years between ages fourteen and seventeen doing only physical exercise would hardly improve the intellect. Second, he argues that music and gymnastic are not intended for different purposes, as people commonly think. They are not meant for cultivating the mind versus the body. Instead, both are equally designed to improve the mind. In his view, the body serves the mind. The subjection of the lower to the higher benefits both. The mind can certainly exercise great and supreme influence over the body. This happens when the influence is continuous and prepares for the whole of life, not just at particular moments or in fits and starts. Other Greek writers saw the harmful effects of Spartan discipline (Arist. Pol; Thuc.). But only Plato recognized the fundamental error on which the practice was based.
The subject of gymnastic leads Plato to the sister subject of medicine, which he further illustrates by the parallel of law. The modern disbelief in medicine has led in this, as in some other departments of knowledge, to a demand for greater simplicity; physicians are becoming aware that they often make diseases ‘greater and more complicated’ by their treatment of them (Rep.). In two thousand years their art has made but slender progress; what they have gained in the analysis of the parts is in a great degree lost by their feebler conception of the human frame as a whole. They have attended more to the cure of diseases than to the conditions of health; and the improvements in medicine have been more than counterbalanced by the disuse of regular training. Until lately they have hardly thought of air and water, the importance of which was well understood by the ancients; as Aristotle remarks, ‘Air and water, being the elements which we most use, have the greatest effect upon health’ (Polit.). For ages physicians have been under the dominion of prejudices which have only recently given way; and now there are as many opinions in medicine as in theology, and an equal degree of scepticism and some want of toleration about both. Plato has several good notions about medicine; according to him, ‘the eye cannot be cured without the rest of the body, nor the body without the mind’ (Charm.). No man of sense, he says in the Timaeus, would take physic; and we heartily sympathize with him in the Laws when he declares that ‘the limbs of the rustic worn with toil will derive more benefit from warm baths than from the prescriptions of a not over wise doctor.’ But we can hardly praise him when, in obedience to the authority of Homer, he depreciates diet, or approve of the inhuman spirit in which he would get rid of invalid and useless lives by leaving them to die. He does not seem to have considered that the ‘bridle of Theages’ might be accompanied by qualities which were of far more value to the State than the health or strength of the citizens; or that the duty of taking care of the helpless might be an important element of education in a State. The physician himself (this is a delicate and subtle observation) should not be a man in robust health; he should have, in modern phraseology, a nervous temperament; he should have experience of disease in his own person, in order that his powers of observation may be quickened in the case of others.
The subject of gymnastics leads Plato to the related subject of medicine. He explains this through a comparison with law. Modern doubts about medicine have created a demand for greater simplicity in this field, as in others. Doctors are realizing that they often make diseases "greater and more complicated" through their treatments. In two thousand years, medical practice has made little real progress. What doctors have gained by analyzing individual parts of the body, they have largely lost through a weaker understanding of the human body as a whole. They have focused more on curing diseases than on maintaining health. The improvements in medicine have been more than offset by the decline of regular physical training. Until recently, doctors barely considered air and water, though the ancients understood their importance well. As Aristotle noted, "Air and water, being the elements which we most use, have the greatest effect upon health." For centuries, physicians have been controlled by prejudices that have only recently begun to fade. Now there are as many different opinions in medicine as in theology. There is equal skepticism and intolerance in both fields. Plato has several good ideas about medicine. According to him, "the eye cannot be cured without the rest of the body, nor the body without the mind." No sensible person, he says in the Timaeus, would take medicine. We completely agree with him in the Laws when he declares that "the limbs of the farmer worn with hard work will benefit more from warm baths than from the prescriptions of a not-too-wise doctor." But we can hardly praise Plato when he dismisses the importance of diet, following Homer's authority. We also cannot approve of his cruel attitude toward getting rid of sick and useless lives by leaving them to die. He doesn't seem to have considered that "the bridle of Theages" might come with qualities far more valuable to the State than citizens' health or strength. He also ignores that caring for the helpless might be an important part of education in a State. The physician himself (this is a delicate and subtle observation) should not be a man in perfect health. He should have, in modern terms, a nervous temperament. He should have personal experience with disease so that his powers of observation will be sharper when treating others.
The perplexity of medicine is paralleled by the perplexity of law; in which, again, Plato would have men follow the golden rule of simplicity. Greater matters are to be determined by the legislator or by the oracle of Delphi, lesser matters are to be left to the temporary regulation of the citizens themselves. Plato is aware that laissez faire is an important element of government. The diseases of a State are like the heads of a hydra; they multiply when they are cut off. The true remedy for them is not extirpation but prevention. And the way to prevent them is to take care of education, and education will take care of all the rest. So in modern times men have often felt that the only political measure worth having—the only one which would produce any certain or lasting effect, was a measure of national education. And in our own more than in any previous age the necessity has been recognized of restoring the ever-increasing confusion of law to simplicity and common sense.
Medicine is confusing, and so is law. Plato believed both should follow a simple golden rule. He thought major issues should be decided by lawmakers or by the oracle of Delphi. Minor matters should be left to citizens to regulate themselves temporarily. Plato understood that a hands-off approach is an important part of government. A state's problems are like the heads of a hydra. When you cut them off, they multiply. The real solution isn't to destroy them but to prevent them. The way to prevent them is to focus on education. Education will take care of everything else. In modern times, people have often felt the same way. They believed the only political action worth taking was improving national education. It was the only measure that would produce certain and lasting results. In our age more than any before, we've recognized something important. We need to restore our increasingly confusing legal system to simplicity and common sense.
When the training in music and gymnastic is completed, there follows the first stage of active and public life. But soon education is to begin again from a new point of view. In the interval between the Fourth and Seventh Books we have discussed the nature of knowledge, and have thence been led to form a higher conception of what was required of us. For true knowledge, according to Plato, is of abstractions, and has to do, not with particulars or individuals, but with universals only; not with the beauties of poetry, but with the ideas of philosophy. And the great aim of education is the cultivation of the habit of abstraction. This is to be acquired through the study of the mathematical sciences. They alone are capable of giving ideas of relation, and of arousing the dormant energies of thought.
When training in music and gymnastic is completed, the first stage of active and public life follows. But soon education must begin again from a new point of view. In the interval between the Fourth and Seventh Books we have discussed the nature of knowledge. This discussion has led us to form a higher conception of what was required of us. For true knowledge, according to Plato, is of abstractions. It has to do not with particulars or individuals, but with universals only. It deals not with the beauties of poetry, but with the ideas of philosophy. The great aim of education is the cultivation of the habit of abstraction. This is to be acquired through the study of the mathematical sciences. They alone are capable of giving ideas of relation. They alone can arouse the dormant energies of thought.
Mathematics in the age of Plato comprehended a very small part of that which is now included in them; but they bore a much larger proportion to the sum of human knowledge. They were the only organon of thought which the human mind at that time possessed, and the only measure by which the chaos of particulars could be reduced to rule and order. The faculty which they trained was naturally at war with the poetical or imaginative; and hence to Plato, who is everywhere seeking for abstractions and trying to get rid of the illusions of sense, nearly the whole of education is contained in them. They seemed to have an inexhaustible application, partly because their true limits were not yet understood. These Plato himself is beginning to investigate; though not aware that number and figure are mere abstractions of sense, he recognizes that the forms used by geometry are borrowed from the sensible world. He seeks to find the ultimate ground of mathematical ideas in the idea of good, though he does not satisfactorily explain the connexion between them; and in his conception of the relation of ideas to numbers, he falls very far short of the definiteness attributed to him by Aristotle (Met.). But if he fails to recognize the true limits of mathematics, he also reaches a point beyond them; in his view, ideas of number become secondary to a higher conception of knowledge. The dialectician is as much above the mathematician as the mathematician is above the ordinary man. The one, the self-proving, the good which is the higher sphere of dialectic, is the perfect truth to which all things ascend, and in which they finally repose.
Mathematics in Plato's time covered a much smaller area than it does today. But it made up a much larger portion of all human knowledge. Mathematics was the only tool for organized thinking that people had back then. It was the only way to bring order to the chaos of individual facts and observations. The mental skills that mathematics developed naturally conflicted with poetry and imagination. This is why Plato, who was always looking for abstract concepts and trying to escape the illusions of our senses, made mathematics the center of education. Mathematics seemed to have endless applications, partly because people didn't yet understand its true limits. Plato himself was starting to explore these limits. He didn't realize that numbers and geometric shapes are just abstractions drawn from what we experience through our senses. But he did recognize that the forms used in geometry come from the physical world we can see and touch. He tried to find the ultimate foundation of mathematical ideas in his concept of "the good." However, he never clearly explained how these two things connect. His ideas about how abstract forms relate to numbers fell far short of the precise system that Aristotle later described. Even though Plato failed to recognize the true limits of mathematics, he also saw beyond them. In his view, mathematical concepts became less important than a higher form of knowledge. The dialectician ranks as far above the mathematician as the mathematician ranks above ordinary people. The ultimate reality - the self-proving good that belongs to the higher realm of dialectic - is the perfect truth that all things reach toward and finally rest in.
This self-proving unity or idea of good is a mere vision of which no distinct explanation can be given, relative only to a particular stage in Greek philosophy. It is an abstraction under which no individuals are comprehended, a whole which has no parts (Arist., Nic. Eth.). The vacancy of such a form was perceived by Aristotle, but not by Plato. Nor did he recognize that in the dialectical process are included two or more methods of investigation which are at variance with each other. He did not see that whether he took the longer or the shorter road, no advance could be made in this way. And yet such visions often have an immense effect; for although the method of science cannot anticipate science, the idea of science, not as it is, but as it will be in the future, is a great and inspiring principle. In the pursuit of knowledge we are always pressing forward to something beyond us; and as a false conception of knowledge, for example the scholastic philosophy, may lead men astray during many ages, so the true ideal, though vacant, may draw all their thoughts in a right direction. It makes a great difference whether the general expectation of knowledge, as this indefinite feeling may be termed, is based upon a sound judgment. For mankind may often entertain a true conception of what knowledge ought to be when they have but a slender experience of facts. The correlation of the sciences, the consciousness of the unity of nature, the idea of classification, the sense of proportion, the unwillingness to stop short of certainty or to confound probability with truth, are important principles of the higher education. Although Plato could tell us nothing, and perhaps knew that he could tell us nothing, of the absolute truth, he has exercised an influence on the human mind which even at the present day is not exhausted; and political and social questions may yet arise in which the thoughts of Plato may be read anew and receive a fresh meaning.
This self-proving unity or idea of good is just a vision that can't be clearly explained. It relates only to a particular stage in Greek philosophy. It's an abstraction that includes no individuals, a whole that has no parts (Arist., Nic. Eth.). Aristotle saw the emptiness of such a form, but Plato did not. Plato also failed to recognize that the dialectical process includes two or more methods of investigation that contradict each other. He didn't see that no progress could be made this way, whether he took the longer or shorter road. Yet such visions often have enormous impact. The method of science cannot anticipate science itself, but the idea of science—not as it is, but as it will be in the future—is a great and inspiring principle. In pursuing knowledge we always push forward to something beyond us. A false conception of knowledge, like scholastic philosophy, may lead people astray for many ages. Similarly, the true ideal, though empty, may draw all their thoughts in the right direction. It makes a huge difference whether the general expectation of knowledge is based on sound judgment. People may often hold a true conception of what knowledge should be when they have only limited experience with facts. The correlation of the sciences, the awareness of nature's unity, the idea of classification, the sense of proportion, the refusal to stop short of certainty or to confuse probability with truth—these are important principles of higher education. Although Plato could tell us nothing, and perhaps knew he could tell us nothing, about absolute truth, he has influenced the human mind in ways that even today are not exhausted. Political and social questions may yet arise in which Plato's thoughts may be read anew and receive fresh meaning.
The Idea of good is so called only in the Republic, but there are traces of it in other dialogues of Plato. It is a cause as well as an idea, and from this point of view may be compared with the creator of the Timaeus, who out of his goodness created all things. It corresponds to a certain extent with the modern conception of a law of nature, or of a final cause, or of both in one, and in this regard may be connected with the measure and symmetry of the Philebus. It is represented in the Symposium under the aspect of beauty, and is supposed to be attained there by stages of initiation, as here by regular gradations of knowledge. Viewed subjectively, it is the process or science of dialectic. This is the science which, according to the Phaedrus, is the true basis of rhetoric, which alone is able to distinguish the natures and classes of men and things; which divides a whole into the natural parts, and reunites the scattered parts into a natural or organized whole; which defines the abstract essences or universal ideas of all things, and connects them; which pierces the veil of hypotheses and reaches the final cause or first principle of all; which regards the sciences in relation to the idea of good. This ideal science is the highest process of thought, and may be described as the soul conversing with herself or holding communion with eternal truth and beauty, and in another form is the everlasting question and answer—the ceaseless interrogative of Socrates. The dialogues of Plato are themselves examples of the nature and method of dialectic. Viewed objectively, the idea of good is a power or cause which makes the world without us correspond with the world within. Yet this world without us is still a world of ideas. With Plato the investigation of nature is another department of knowledge, and in this he seeks to attain only probable conclusions (Timaeus).
The Idea of good gets this name only in the Republic, but we can find hints of it in Plato's other dialogues. It works as both a cause and an idea. From this angle, we can compare it to the creator in the Timaeus, who made all things out of goodness. It matches up somewhat with our modern idea of a natural law or a final cause, or both combined. In this way, it connects to the measure and symmetry discussed in the Philebus. The Symposium presents it as beauty. There, people reach it through stages of initiation, just as here they reach it through gradual steps of knowledge. When we look at it subjectively, it becomes the process or science of dialectic. According to the Phaedrus, this science forms the true foundation of rhetoric. It alone can distinguish the different natures and classes of people and things. It divides a whole into its natural parts and brings scattered parts back together into a natural or organized whole. It defines the abstract essences or universal ideas of all things and connects them. It breaks through the surface of hypotheses and reaches the final cause or first principle of everything. It views all sciences in relation to the idea of good. This ideal science represents the highest form of thinking. We can describe it as the soul talking with itself or connecting with eternal truth and beauty. In another form, it becomes the endless question and answer, the constant questioning of Socrates. Plato's dialogues themselves show us examples of dialectic's nature and method. When we look at it objectively, the idea of good becomes a power or cause that makes the outside world match the world inside us. Yet this outside world remains a world of ideas. For Plato, studying nature belongs to a different area of knowledge. In this area, he tries to reach only probable conclusions (Timaeus).
If we ask whether this science of dialectic which Plato only half explains to us is more akin to logic or to metaphysics, the answer is that in his mind the two sciences are not as yet distinguished, any more than the subjective and objective aspects of the world and of man, which German philosophy has revealed to us. Nor has he determined whether his science of dialectic is at rest or in motion, concerned with the contemplation of absolute being, or with a process of development and evolution. Modern metaphysics may be described as the science of abstractions, or as the science of the evolution of thought; modern logic, when passing beyond the bounds of mere Aristotelian forms, may be defined as the science of method. The germ of both of them is contained in the Platonic dialectic; all metaphysicians have something in common with the ideas of Plato; all logicians have derived something from the method of Plato. The nearest approach in modern philosophy to the universal science of Plato, is to be found in the Hegelian ‘succession of moments in the unity of the idea.’ Plato and Hegel alike seem to have conceived the world as the correlation of abstractions; and not impossibly they would have understood one another better than any of their commentators understand them (Swift’s Voyage to Laputa. ‘Having a desire to see those ancients who were most renowned for wit and learning, I set apart one day on purpose. I proposed that Homer and Aristotle might appear at the head of all their commentators; but these were so numerous that some hundreds were forced to attend in the court and outward rooms of the palace. I knew, and could distinguish these two heroes, at first sight, not only from the crowd, but from each other. Homer was the taller and comelier person of the two, walked very erect for one of his age, and his eyes were the most quick and piercing I ever beheld. Aristotle stooped much, and made use of a staff. His visage was meagre, his hair lank and thin, and his voice hollow. I soon discovered that both of them were perfect strangers to the rest of the company, and had never seen or heard of them before. And I had a whisper from a ghost, who shall be nameless, “That these commentators always kept in the most distant quarters from their principals, in the lower world, through a consciousness of shame and guilt, because they had so horribly misrepresented the meaning of these authors to posterity.” I introduced Didymus and Eustathius to Homer, and prevailed on him to treat them better than perhaps they deserved, for he soon found they wanted a genius to enter into the spirit of a poet. But Aristotle was out of all patience with the account I gave him of Scotus and Ramus, as I presented them to him; and he asked them “whether the rest of the tribe were as great dunces as themselves?”’). There is, however, a difference between them: for whereas Hegel is thinking of all the minds of men as one mind, which developes the stages of the idea in different countries or at different times in the same country, with Plato these gradations are regarded only as an order of thought or ideas; the history of the human mind had not yet dawned upon him.
When we ask whether Plato's science of dialectic is more like logic or metaphysics, the answer is complex. In Plato's mind, these two sciences weren't yet separate. This is similar to how the subjective and objective aspects of the world and humanity weren't distinguished until German philosophy revealed them to us. Plato also hadn't decided whether his science of dialectic was static or dynamic. Was it concerned with contemplating absolute being, or with a process of development and evolution? Modern metaphysics can be described as the science of abstractions, or as the science of how thought evolves. Modern logic, when it goes beyond simple Aristotelian forms, can be defined as the science of method. The seed of both sciences is contained in Platonic dialectic. All metaphysicians share something with Plato's ideas. All logicians have borrowed something from Plato's method. The closest thing in modern philosophy to Plato's universal science is found in Hegel's "succession of moments in the unity of the idea." Both Plato and Hegel seem to have conceived the world as the correlation of abstractions. It's quite possible they would have understood each other better than any of their commentators understand them. (Swift's Voyage to Laputa: "Having a desire to see those ancients who were most renowned for wit and learning, I set apart one day on purpose. I proposed that Homer and Aristotle might appear at the head of all their commentators. But these were so numerous that some hundreds were forced to attend in the court and outward rooms of the palace. I knew, and could distinguish these two heroes, at first sight, not only from the crowd, but from each other. Homer was the taller and comelier person of the two, walked very erect for one of his age, and his eyes were the most quick and piercing I ever beheld. Aristotle stooped much, and made use of a staff. His visage was meagre, his hair lank and thin, and his voice hollow. I soon discovered that both of them were perfect strangers to the rest of the company, and had never seen or heard of them before. And I had a whisper from a ghost, who shall be nameless, 'That these commentators always kept in the most distant quarters from their principals, in the lower world, through a consciousness of shame and guilt, because they had so horribly misrepresented the meaning of these authors to posterity.' I introduced Didymus and Eustathius to Homer, and prevailed on him to treat them better than perhaps they deserved, for he soon found they wanted a genius to enter into the spirit of a poet. But Aristotle was out of all patience with the account I gave him of Scotus and Ramus, as I presented them to him. And he asked them 'whether the rest of the tribe were as great dunces as themselves?'") There is a difference between Plato and Hegel, though. Hegel thinks of all human minds as one mind. This mind develops the stages of the idea in different countries or at different times in the same country. With Plato, these gradations are regarded only as an order of thought or ideas. The history of the human mind had not yet dawned upon him.
Many criticisms may be made on Plato’s theory of education. While in some respects he unavoidably falls short of modern thinkers, in others he is in advance of them. He is opposed to the modes of education which prevailed in his own time; but he can hardly be said to have discovered new ones. He does not see that education is relative to the characters of individuals; he only desires to impress the same form of the state on the minds of all. He has no sufficient idea of the effect of literature on the formation of the mind, and greatly exaggerates that of mathematics. His aim is above all things to train the reasoning faculties; to implant in the mind the spirit and power of abstraction; to explain and define general notions, and, if possible, to connect them. No wonder that in the vacancy of actual knowledge his followers, and at times even he himself, should have fallen away from the doctrine of ideas, and have returned to that branch of knowledge in which alone the relation of the one and many can be truly seen—the science of number. In his views both of teaching and training he might be styled, in modern language, a doctrinaire; after the Spartan fashion he would have his citizens cast in one mould; he does not seem to consider that some degree of freedom, ‘a little wholesome neglect,’ is necessary to strengthen and develope the character and to give play to the individual nature. His citizens would not have acquired that knowledge which in the vision of Er is supposed to be gained by the pilgrims from their experience of evil.
Plato's theory of education has many flaws. In some ways, he falls behind modern thinkers. In others, he's ahead of them. He opposed the teaching methods of his time, but he didn't really discover new ones. He doesn't understand that education should fit individual personalities. Instead, he wants to stamp the same state-approved mindset on everyone. He doesn't grasp how literature shapes the mind. He puts too much emphasis on mathematics. His main goal is to train logical thinking. He wants to plant the spirit and power of abstract thought in students' minds. He aims to explain and define general concepts and connect them if possible. It's no surprise that when actual knowledge was lacking, his followers (and sometimes Plato himself) abandoned the doctrine of ideas. They returned to the one field where the relationship between unity and diversity can truly be seen: mathematics. In modern terms, we might call his approach to teaching and training doctrinaire. Like the Spartans, he wants all citizens molded the same way. He doesn't seem to realize that some freedom and "a little wholesome neglect" are necessary. These help strengthen and develop character. They allow individual nature to flourish. His citizens would never gain the knowledge that, in the vision of Er, pilgrims are supposed to learn from experiencing evil.
On the other hand, Plato is far in advance of modern philosophers and theologians when he teaches that education is to be continued through life and will begin again in another. He would never allow education of some kind to cease; although he was aware that the proverbial saying of Solon, ‘I grow old learning many things,’ cannot be applied literally. Himself ravished with the contemplation of the idea of good, and delighting in solid geometry (Rep.), he has no difficulty in imagining that a lifetime might be passed happily in such pursuits. We who know how many more men of business there are in the world than real students or thinkers, are not equally sanguine. The education which he proposes for his citizens is really the ideal life of the philosopher or man of genius, interrupted, but only for a time, by practical duties,—a life not for the many, but for the few.
Plato was far ahead of modern philosophers and theologians in one key way. He taught that education should continue throughout life and begin again in another life. He believed education should never stop completely. He knew that Solon's famous saying, "I grow old learning many things," couldn't be taken literally. But Plato was captivated by contemplating the idea of good and loved solid geometry. He had no trouble imagining that someone could spend a lifetime happily in such pursuits. We know there are many more businesspeople in the world than real students or thinkers. So we're not as optimistic as Plato was. The education he proposed for his citizens was really the ideal life of a philosopher or genius. Practical duties would interrupt this life, but only temporarily. This was a life designed not for the many, but for the few.
Yet the thought of Plato may not be wholly incapable of application to our own times. Even if regarded as an ideal which can never be realized, it may have a great effect in elevating the characters of mankind, and raising them above the routine of their ordinary occupation or profession. It is the best form under which we can conceive the whole of life. Nevertheless the idea of Plato is not easily put into practice. For the education of after life is necessarily the education which each one gives himself. Men and women cannot be brought together in schools or colleges at forty or fifty years of age; and if they could the result would be disappointing. The destination of most men is what Plato would call ‘the Den’ for the whole of life, and with that they are content. Neither have they teachers or advisers with whom they can take counsel in riper years. There is no ‘schoolmaster abroad’ who will tell them of their faults, or inspire them with the higher sense of duty, or with the ambition of a true success in life; no Socrates who will convict them of ignorance; no Christ, or follower of Christ, who will reprove them of sin. Hence they have a difficulty in receiving the first element of improvement, which is self-knowledge. The hopes of youth no longer stir them; they rather wish to rest than to pursue high objects. A few only who have come across great men and women, or eminent teachers of religion and morality, have received a second life from them, and have lighted a candle from the fire of their genius.
Plato's ideas might still apply to our times. Even if we see them as impossible ideals, they could still elevate human character. They could lift people above the routine of their daily jobs and professions. This is the best way we can imagine living a complete life. But Plato's vision is hard to put into practice. Adult education must be self-directed. You can't bring middle-aged men and women together in schools or colleges. Even if you could, the results would disappoint. Most people spend their whole lives in what Plato called "the Den," and they're satisfied with that. They don't have teachers or advisers to guide them in their later years. No one tells them about their faults or inspires them with a higher sense of duty. No one gives them the ambition for true success in life. There's no Socrates to show them their ignorance, no Christ or Christian to point out their sins. So they struggle to gain the first requirement for improvement: self-knowledge. The hopes of youth no longer move them. They'd rather rest than chase high goals. Only a few people who have met great men and women or outstanding religious and moral teachers have received a second life from them. They have lit a candle from the fire of their genius.
The want of energy is one of the main reasons why so few persons continue to improve in later years. They have not the will, and do not know the way. They ‘never try an experiment,’ or look up a point of interest for themselves; they make no sacrifices for the sake of knowledge; their minds, like their bodies, at a certain age become fixed. Genius has been defined as ‘the power of taking pains’; but hardly any one keeps up his interest in knowledge throughout a whole life. The troubles of a family, the business of making money, the demands of a profession destroy the elasticity of the mind. The waxen tablet of the memory which was once capable of receiving ‘true thoughts and clear impressions’ becomes hard and crowded; there is not room for the accumulations of a long life (Theaet.). The student, as years advance, rather makes an exchange of knowledge than adds to his stores. There is no pressing necessity to learn; the stock of Classics or History or Natural Science which was enough for a man at twenty-five is enough for him at fifty. Neither is it easy to give a definite answer to any one who asks how he is to improve. For self-education consists in a thousand things, commonplace in themselves,—in adding to what we are by nature something of what we are not; in learning to see ourselves as others see us; in judging, not by opinion, but by the evidence of facts; in seeking out the society of superior minds; in a study of lives and writings of great men; in observation of the world and character; in receiving kindly the natural influence of different times of life; in any act or thought which is raised above the practice or opinions of mankind; in the pursuit of some new or original enquiry; in any effort of mind which calls forth some latent power.
Lack of energy is one of the main reasons why so few people continue to improve in later years. They don't have the will, and they don't know how. They never try an experiment or look up something interesting for themselves. They make no sacrifices for the sake of knowledge. Their minds, like their bodies, become fixed at a certain age. Genius has been defined as "the power of taking pains," but hardly anyone keeps up their interest in knowledge throughout a whole life. Family troubles, the business of making money, and professional demands destroy the mind's flexibility. The memory, which was once capable of receiving "true thoughts and clear impressions," becomes hard and crowded. There isn't room for the accumulations of a long life (Theaet.). As years advance, the student exchanges knowledge rather than adding to what he knows. There's no pressing need to learn. The stock of Classics or History or Natural Science that was enough for a man at twenty-five is enough for him at fifty. It's also not easy to give a clear answer to anyone who asks how to improve. Self-education consists of a thousand things, commonplace in themselves. It means adding to what we are by nature something of what we are not. It means learning to see ourselves as others see us. It means judging not by opinion, but by the evidence of facts. It means seeking out the company of superior minds. It means studying the lives and writings of great men. It means observing the world and human character. It means receiving kindly the natural influence of different times of life. It means any act or thought that rises above the common practice or opinions of mankind. It means pursuing some new or original inquiry. It means any effort of mind that calls forth some hidden power.
If any one is desirous of carrying out in detail the Platonic education of after-life, some such counsels as the following may be offered to him:—That he shall choose the branch of knowledge to which his own mind most distinctly inclines, and in which he takes the greatest delight, either one which seems to connect with his own daily employment, or, perhaps, furnishes the greatest contrast to it. He may study from the speculative side the profession or business in which he is practically engaged. He may make Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Plato, Bacon the friends and companions of his life. He may find opportunities of hearing the living voice of a great teacher. He may select for enquiry some point of history or some unexplained phenomenon of nature. An hour a day passed in such scientific or literary pursuits will furnish as many facts as the memory can retain, and will give him ‘a pleasure not to be repented of’ (Timaeus). Only let him beware of being the slave of crotchets, or of running after a Will o’ the Wisp in his ignorance, or in his vanity of attributing to himself the gifts of a poet or assuming the air of a philosopher. He should know the limits of his own powers. Better to build up the mind by slow additions, to creep on quietly from one thing to another, to gain insensibly new powers and new interests in knowledge, than to form vast schemes which are never destined to be realized. But perhaps, as Plato would say, ‘This is part of another subject’ (Tim.); though we may also defend our digression by his example (Theaet.).
If you want to follow Plato's approach to lifelong education, here are some practical suggestions: Choose a field of knowledge that genuinely interests you and brings you joy. Pick something that connects to your daily work, or perhaps something completely different that provides contrast. You might study the theoretical side of your profession or business. You could make Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Plato, or Bacon your lifelong companions through their works. Look for chances to hear great teachers speak in person. Pick a historical question or unexplained natural phenomenon to investigate. Just one hour a day spent on these intellectual or literary pursuits will give you as many facts as your memory can hold. It will bring you "a pleasure not to be repented of," as Plato wrote in the Timaeus. But be careful not to become obsessed with odd theories or chase after false leads out of ignorance. Don't let vanity convince you that you have the gifts of a poet or the wisdom of a philosopher. Know your own limits. It's better to build up your mind slowly, adding knowledge bit by bit. Move quietly from one subject to another. Gradually gain new abilities and interests rather than creating grand plans that will never happen. But perhaps, as Plato would say, "This is part of another subject" (Timaeus). Though we can defend this digression by following his own example (Theaetetus).
4. We remark with surprise that the progress of nations or the natural growth of institutions which fill modern treatises on political philosophy seem hardly ever to have attracted the attention of Plato and Aristotle. The ancients were familiar with the mutability of human affairs; they could moralize over the ruins of cities and the fall of empires (Plato, Statesman, and Sulpicius’ Letter to Cicero); by them fate and chance were deemed to be real powers, almost persons, and to have had a great share in political events. The wiser of them like Thucydides believed that ‘what had been would be again,’ and that a tolerable idea of the future could be gathered from the past. Also they had dreams of a Golden Age which existed once upon a time and might still exist in some unknown land, or might return again in the remote future. But the regular growth of a state enlightened by experience, progressing in knowledge, improving in the arts, of which the citizens were educated by the fulfilment of political duties, appears never to have come within the range of their hopes and aspirations. Such a state had never been seen, and therefore could not be conceived by them. Their experience (Aristot. Metaph.; Plato, Laws) led them to conclude that there had been cycles of civilization in which the arts had been discovered and lost many times over, and cities had been overthrown and rebuilt again and again, and deluges and volcanoes and other natural convulsions had altered the face of the earth. Tradition told them of many destructions of mankind and of the preservation of a remnant. The world began again after a deluge and was reconstructed out of the fragments of itself. Also they were acquainted with empires of unknown antiquity, like the Egyptian or Assyrian; but they had never seen them grow, and could not imagine, any more than we can, the state of man which preceded them. They were puzzled and awestricken by the Egyptian monuments, of which the forms, as Plato says, not in a figure, but literally, were ten thousand years old (Laws), and they contrasted the antiquity of Egypt with their own short memories.
4. We find it surprising that the progress of nations or the natural growth of institutions, which fill modern books on political philosophy, seem to have hardly ever attracted the attention of Plato and Aristotle. The ancients were familiar with how changeable human affairs could be. They could reflect on the ruins of cities and the fall of empires (Plato, Statesman, and Sulpicius' Letter to Cicero). They believed that fate and chance were real powers, almost like people, and had played a major role in political events. The wiser ones like Thucydides believed that "what had been would be again," and that you could get a reasonable idea of the future by looking at the past. They also had dreams of a Golden Age that existed once upon a time and might still exist in some unknown land, or might return again in the distant future. But the steady growth of a state enlightened by experience, advancing in knowledge, improving in the arts, where citizens were educated by fulfilling their political duties, never seems to have entered their hopes and dreams. Such a state had never been seen, so they could not imagine it. Their experience (Aristot. Metaph.; Plato, Laws) led them to conclude that there had been cycles of civilization in which the arts had been discovered and lost many times over. Cities had been overthrown and rebuilt again and again. Floods and volcanoes and other natural disasters had changed the face of the earth. Tradition told them of many destructions of mankind and the survival of a small group. The world began again after a flood and was rebuilt from the pieces of itself. They were also familiar with empires of unknown age, like the Egyptian or Assyrian. But they had never seen them grow, and could not imagine, any more than we can, what human life was like before them. They were puzzled and amazed by the Egyptian monuments, whose forms, as Plato says, not symbolically but literally, were ten thousand years old (Laws). They contrasted the ancient history of Egypt with their own short memories.
The early legends of Hellas have no real connection with the later history: they are at a distance, and the intermediate region is concealed from view; there is no road or path which leads from one to the other. At the beginning of Greek history, in the vestibule of the temple, is seen standing first of all the figure of the legislator, himself the interpreter and servant of the God. The fundamental laws which he gives are not supposed to change with time and circumstances. The salvation of the state is held rather to depend on the inviolable maintenance of them. They were sanctioned by the authority of heaven, and it was deemed impiety to alter them. The desire to maintain them unaltered seems to be the origin of what at first sight is very surprising to us—the intolerant zeal of Plato against innovators in religion or politics (Laws); although with a happy inconsistency he is also willing that the laws of other countries should be studied and improvements in legislation privately communicated to the Nocturnal Council (Laws). The additions which were made to them in later ages in order to meet the increasing complexity of affairs were still ascribed by a fiction to the original legislator; and the words of such enactments at Athens were disputed over as if they had been the words of Solon himself. Plato hopes to preserve in a later generation the mind of the legislator; he would have his citizens remain within the lines which he has laid down for them. He would not harass them with minute regulations, he would have allowed some changes in the laws: but not changes which would affect the fundamental institutions of the state, such for example as would convert an aristocracy into a timocracy, or a timocracy into a popular form of government.
The early legends of Greece have no real connection with later history. They are distant, and the middle ground is hidden from view. There is no road or path that leads from one to the other. At the beginning of Greek history, in the entrance of the temple, stands the figure of the lawgiver. He is the interpreter and servant of God. The basic laws he gives are not supposed to change with time and circumstances. The state's survival depends on keeping these laws unchanged. They were blessed by heaven's authority, and changing them was considered unholy. The desire to keep laws unchanged explains something that surprises us today. This is Plato's harsh opposition to innovators in religion or politics, as seen in his Laws. Yet he inconsistently allows that laws from other countries should be studied. He also permits improvements in lawmaking to be privately shared with the Nocturnal Council. Later additions made to meet increasingly complex affairs were still credited to the original lawgiver through fiction. In Athens, people argued over the words of such laws as if they had been written by Solon himself. Plato hopes to preserve the lawgiver's mind in future generations. He wants his citizens to stay within the boundaries he has set for them. He would not burden them with detailed regulations. He would have allowed some changes in the laws, but not changes that would affect the state's basic institutions. For example, he would not allow changes that would turn an aristocracy into a timocracy, or a timocracy into a popular form of government.
Passing from speculations to facts, we observe that progress has been the exception rather than the law of human history. And therefore we are not surprised to find that the idea of progress is of modern rather than of ancient date; and, like the idea of a philosophy of history, is not more than a century or two old. It seems to have arisen out of the impression left on the human mind by the growth of the Roman Empire and of the Christian Church, and to be due to the political and social improvements which they introduced into the world; and still more in our own century to the idealism of the first French Revolution and the triumph of American Independence; and in a yet greater degree to the vast material prosperity and growth of population in England and her colonies and in America. It is also to be ascribed in a measure to the greater study of the philosophy of history. The optimist temperament of some great writers has assisted the creation of it, while the opposite character has led a few to regard the future of the world as dark. The ‘spectator of all time and of all existence’ sees more of ‘the increasing purpose which through the ages ran’ than formerly: but to the inhabitant of a small state of Hellas the vision was necessarily limited like the valley in which he dwelt. There was no remote past on which his eye could rest, nor any future from which the veil was partly lifted up by the analogy of history. The narrowness of view, which to ourselves appears so singular, was to him natural, if not unavoidable.
When we look at facts instead of theories, we see that progress has been rare in human history rather than the norm. So it makes sense that the idea of progress is modern, not ancient. Like the concept of a philosophy of history, it's only a century or two old. This idea seems to have grown from the impact that the Roman Empire and Christian Church had on people's minds. It came from the political and social improvements they brought to the world. In our own century, it grew even more from the idealism of the first French Revolution and the triumph of American Independence. But it owes most to the huge material prosperity and population growth in England, her colonies, and America. The greater study of the philosophy of history has also contributed to this idea. Some great writers with optimistic temperaments helped create this view of progress. Others with opposite personalities have led a few people to see the world's future as dark. The person who observes "all time and all existence" sees more of "the increasing purpose which through the ages ran" than people did before. But for someone living in a small Greek state, the vision was necessarily limited, like the valley where he lived. There was no distant past for his eye to rest on. There was no future from which history had partly lifted the veil through comparison. The narrow view that seems so strange to us was natural to him, if not unavoidable.
5. For the relation of the Republic to the Statesman and the Laws, and the two other works of Plato which directly treat of politics, see the Introductions to the two latter; a few general points of comparison may be touched upon in this place.
5. To understand how the Republic relates to the Statesman and the Laws, see the introductions to those two works. Plato wrote these as his other main political works. We can touch on a few general points of comparison here.
And first of the Laws.
Let's start with the Laws.
(1) The Republic, though probably written at intervals, yet speaking generally and judging by the indications of thought and style, may be reasonably ascribed to the middle period of Plato’s life: the Laws are certainly the work of his declining years, and some portions of them at any rate seem to have been written in extreme old age.
The Republic was probably written at different times over several years. Based on Plato's thinking and writing style, we can reasonably place it in the middle period of his life. The Laws, however, were definitely written during his final years. Some parts of the Laws appear to have been written when Plato was very old.
(2) The Republic is full of hope and aspiration: the Laws bear the stamp of failure and disappointment. The one is a finished work which received the last touches of the author: the other is imperfectly executed, and apparently unfinished. The one has the grace and beauty of youth: the other has lost the poetical form, but has more of the severity and knowledge of life which is characteristic of old age.
The Republic is full of hope and aspiration. The Laws shows the marks of failure and disappointment. The Republic is a finished work that received the author's final touches. The Laws is poorly executed and apparently unfinished. The Republic has the grace and beauty of youth. The Laws has lost its poetic form, but it contains more of the harshness and life experience that comes with old age.
(3) The most conspicuous defect of the Laws is the failure of dramatic power, whereas the Republic is full of striking contrasts of ideas and oppositions of character.
(3) The most obvious flaw in the Laws is its lack of dramatic power. The Republic, by contrast, is packed with striking clashes of ideas and opposing characters.
(4) The Laws may be said to have more the nature of a sermon, the Republic of a poem; the one is more religious, the other more intellectual.
The Laws reads more like a sermon, while the Republic reads more like a poem. One is more religious, the other more intellectual.
(5) Many theories of Plato, such as the doctrine of ideas, the government of the world by philosophers, are not found in the Laws; the immortality of the soul is first mentioned in xii; the person of Socrates has altogether disappeared. The community of women and children is renounced; the institution of common or public meals for women (Laws) is for the first time introduced (Ar. Pol.).
Many of Plato's theories don't appear in the Laws. The doctrine of ideas and the idea that philosophers should govern the world are missing. The immortality of the soul is only mentioned for the first time in book twelve. Socrates has completely disappeared as a character. The community of women and children is abandoned. For the first time, the Laws introduces the institution of common or public meals for women, as noted by Aristotle in his Politics.
(6) There remains in the Laws the old enmity to the poets, who are ironically saluted in high-flown terms, and, at the same time, are peremptorily ordered out of the city, if they are not willing to submit their poems to the censorship of the magistrates (Rep.).
(6) The Laws still shows the old hostility toward poets. They are greeted with ironic, flowery praise. At the same time, they are firmly ordered to leave the city if they won't submit their poems to the magistrates for censorship (Rep.).
(7) Though the work is in most respects inferior, there are a few passages in the Laws, such as the honour due to the soul, the evils of licentious or unnatural love, the whole of Book x. (religion), the dishonesty of retail trade, and bequests, which come more home to us, and contain more of what may be termed the modern element in Plato than almost anything in the Republic.
Though the work is mostly inferior, there are a few passages in the Laws that feel more relevant to us today. These include the honor due to the soul, the evils of immoral or unnatural love, all of Book X (on religion), the dishonesty of retail trade, and bequests. These sections contain more of what we might call the modern element in Plato than almost anything in the Republic.
The relation of the two works to one another is very well given:
The relationship between the two works is explained very clearly:
(1) by Aristotle in the Politics from the side of the Laws:—
(1) by Aristotle in the Politics from the perspective of the Laws:—
‘The same, or nearly the same, objections apply to Plato’s later work, the Laws, and therefore we had better examine briefly the constitution which is therein described. In the Republic, Socrates has definitely settled in all a few questions only; such as the community of women and children, the community of property, and the constitution of the state. The population is divided into two classes—one of husbandmen, and the other of warriors; from this latter is taken a third class of counsellors and rulers of the state. But Socrates has not determined whether the husbandmen and artists are to have a share in the government, and whether they too are to carry arms and share in military service or not. He certainly thinks that the women ought to share in the education of the guardians, and to fight by their side. The remainder of the work is filled up with digressions foreign to the main subject, and with discussions about the education of the guardians. In the Laws there is hardly anything but laws; not much is said about the constitution. This, which he had intended to make more of the ordinary type, he gradually brings round to the other or ideal form. For with the exception of the community of women and property, he supposes everything to be the same in both states; there is to be the same education; the citizens of both are to live free from servile occupations, and there are to be common meals in both. The only difference is that in the Laws the common meals are extended to women, and the warriors number about 5000, but in the Republic only 1000.’
The same problems, or nearly the same ones, apply to Plato's later work, the Laws. So we should briefly examine the constitution described in that book. In the Republic, Socrates has definitely settled only a few questions. These include the community of women and children, the community of property, and the constitution of the state. The population is divided into two classes: farmers and warriors. From the warriors comes a third class of counselors and rulers of the state. But Socrates has not determined whether the farmers and craftsmen should have a share in the government. He also hasn't decided whether they too should carry arms and share in military service or not. He certainly thinks that women ought to share in the education of the guardians and fight alongside them. The rest of the work is filled with digressions that have nothing to do with the main subject. It also contains discussions about the education of the guardians. In the Laws there is hardly anything but laws. Not much is said about the constitution. This constitution, which he had intended to make more ordinary, he gradually brings around to the other or ideal form. Except for the community of women and property, he supposes everything to be the same in both states. There is to be the same education. The citizens of both are to live free from servile occupations, and there are to be common meals in both. The only difference is that in the Laws the common meals are extended to women. Also, the warriors number about 5000, but in the Republic only 1000.
(2) by Plato in the Laws (Book v.), from the side of the Republic:—
(2) by Plato in the Laws (Book v.), from the perspective of the Republic:—
‘The first and highest form of the state and of the government and of the law is that in which there prevails most widely the ancient saying that “Friends have all things in common.” Whether there is now, or ever will be, this communion of women and children and of property, in which the private and individual is altogether banished from life, and things which are by nature private, such as eyes and ears and hands, have become common, and all men express praise and blame, and feel joy and sorrow, on the same occasions, and the laws unite the city to the utmost,—whether all this is possible or not, I say that no man, acting upon any other principle, will ever constitute a state more exalted in virtue, or truer or better than this. Such a state, whether inhabited by Gods or sons of Gods, will make them blessed who dwell therein; and therefore to this we are to look for the pattern of the state, and to cling to this, and, as far as possible, to seek for one which is like this. The state which we have now in hand, when created, will be nearest to immortality and unity in the next degree; and after that, by the grace of God, we will complete the third one. And we will begin by speaking of the nature and origin of the second.’
The first and highest form of government and law is one where the ancient saying "Friends have all things in common" applies most widely. In this ideal state, women, children, and property would all be shared. Private ownership would be completely eliminated from life. Even things that are naturally private, like eyes, ears, and hands, would become common to all. All citizens would express the same praise and blame. They would feel joy and sorrow at the same occasions. The laws would unite the city to the greatest possible degree. I cannot say whether such a system is possible now or ever will be. But I do know this: no one acting on any other principle will ever create a state that is more virtuous, truer, or better. Whether gods or sons of gods inhabit such a state, it will bring happiness to all who live there. This is the pattern we should look to for our ideal state. We should cling to this model and seek to create something as close to it as possible. The state we are now designing will come nearest to this immortal unity in the second degree. After that, by God's grace, we will complete the third type of state. Let us begin by discussing the nature and origin of this second form of government.
The comparatively short work called the Statesman or Politicus in its style and manner is more akin to the Laws, while in its idealism it rather resembles the Republic. As far as we can judge by various indications of language and thought, it must be later than the one and of course earlier than the other. In both the Republic and Statesman a close connection is maintained between Politics and Dialectic. In the Statesman, enquiries into the principles of Method are interspersed with discussions about Politics. The comparative advantages of the rule of law and of a person are considered, and the decision given in favour of a person (Arist. Pol.). But much may be said on the other side, nor is the opposition necessary; for a person may rule by law, and law may be so applied as to be the living voice of the legislator. As in the Republic, there is a myth, describing, however, not a future, but a former existence of mankind. The question is asked, ‘Whether the state of innocence which is described in the myth, or a state like our own which possesses art and science and distinguishes good from evil, is the preferable condition of man.’ To this question of the comparative happiness of civilized and primitive life, which was so often discussed in the last century and in our own, no answer is given. The Statesman, though less perfect in style than the Republic and of far less range, may justly be regarded as one of the greatest of Plato’s dialogues.
The relatively short work called the Statesman or Politicus has a style more like the Laws. But its idealism is closer to the Republic. Based on various clues in the language and ideas, it must have been written after the Republic and before the Laws. Both the Republic and Statesman maintain a close connection between Politics and Dialectic. In the Statesman, discussions about the principles of Method are mixed with political topics. The work considers whether it's better to be ruled by law or by a person. It decides in favor of a person (Arist. Pol.). But there are good arguments on both sides, and the opposition isn't necessary. A person can rule through law, and law can be applied as the living voice of the lawmaker. Like the Republic, there is a myth. This one describes not a future existence of mankind, but a former one. The question is asked: "Which is better for humans - the innocent state described in the myth, or a state like ours that has art and science and can tell good from evil?" This question about whether civilized or primitive life brings more happiness was often debated in the last century and in our own. No answer is given. The Statesman may not have the perfect style of the Republic or its broad scope. But it can justly be considered one of Plato's greatest dialogues.
6. Others as well as Plato have chosen an ideal Republic to be the vehicle of thoughts which they could not definitely express, or which went beyond their own age. The classical writing which approaches most nearly to the Republic of Plato is the ‘De Republica’ of Cicero; but neither in this nor in any other of his dialogues does he rival the art of Plato. The manners are clumsy and inferior; the hand of the rhetorician is apparent at every turn. Yet noble sentiments are constantly recurring: the true note of Roman patriotism—‘We Romans are a great people’—resounds through the whole work. Like Socrates, Cicero turns away from the phenomena of the heavens to civil and political life. He would rather not discuss the ‘two Suns’ of which all Rome was talking, when he can converse about ‘the two nations in one’ which had divided Rome ever since the days of the Gracchi. Like Socrates again, speaking in the person of Scipio, he is afraid lest he should assume too much the character of a teacher, rather than of an equal who is discussing among friends the two sides of a question. He would confine the terms King or State to the rule of reason and justice, and he will not concede that title either to a democracy or to a monarchy. But under the rule of reason and justice he is willing to include the natural superior ruling over the natural inferior, which he compares to the soul ruling over the body. He prefers a mixture of forms of government to any single one. The two portraits of the just and the unjust, which occur in the second book of the Republic, are transferred to the state—Philus, one of the interlocutors, maintaining against his will the necessity of injustice as a principle of government, while the other, Laelius, supports the opposite thesis. His views of language and number are derived from Plato; like him he denounces the drama. He also declares that if his life were to be twice as long he would have no time to read the lyric poets. The picture of democracy is translated by him word for word, though he had hardly shown himself able to ‘carry the jest’ of Plato. He converts into a stately sentence the humorous fancy about the animals, who ‘are so imbued with the spirit of democracy that they make the passers-by get out of their way.’ His description of the tyrant is imitated from Plato, but is far inferior. The second book is historical, and claims for the Roman constitution (which is to him the ideal) a foundation of fact such as Plato probably intended to have given to the Republic in the Critias. His most remarkable imitation of Plato is the adaptation of the vision of Er, which is converted by Cicero into the ‘Somnium Scipionis’; he has ‘romanized’ the myth of the Republic, adding an argument for the immortality of the soul taken from the Phaedrus, and some other touches derived from the Phaedo and the Timaeus. Though a beautiful tale and containing splendid passages, the ‘Somnium Scipionis; is very inferior to the vision of Er; it is only a dream, and hardly allows the reader to suppose that the writer believes in his own creation. Whether his dialogues were framed on the model of the lost dialogues of Aristotle, as he himself tells us, or of Plato, to which they bear many superficial resemblances, he is still the Roman orator; he is not conversing, but making speeches, and is never able to mould the intractable Latin to the grace and ease of the Greek Platonic dialogue. But if he is defective in form, much more is he inferior to the Greek in matter; he nowhere in his philosophical writings leaves upon our minds the impression of an original thinker.
Many writers besides Plato have used an ideal Republic as a way to express thoughts they couldn't state directly, or ideas that were ahead of their time. The classical work that comes closest to Plato's Republic is Cicero's 'De Republica.' But Cicero doesn't match Plato's artistic skill in this work or any of his other dialogues. His style is clumsy and inferior. You can see the heavy hand of a rhetorician at every turn. Still, noble ideas appear constantly throughout the work. The true spirit of Roman patriotism rings out: "We Romans are a great people." This theme echoes through the entire piece. Like Socrates, Cicero turns away from studying the heavens to focus on civil and political life. He would rather not discuss the 'two Suns' that all Rome was talking about. Instead, he prefers to talk about 'the two nations in one' that had divided Rome since the days of the Gracchi. Like Socrates again, speaking through the character of Scipio, he worries about seeming too much like a teacher. He wants to be seen as an equal discussing both sides of a question with friends. He limits the terms King or State to the rule of reason and justice. He won't give that title to either a democracy or a monarchy. But under the rule of reason and justice, he accepts the natural superior ruling over the natural inferior. He compares this to the soul ruling over the body. He prefers a mixture of government forms to any single one. The two portraits of the just and the unjust from the second book of the Republic are transferred to the state. Philus, one of the speakers, argues against his own beliefs for the necessity of injustice as a principle of government. Meanwhile, Laelius supports the opposite view. Cicero's ideas about language and number come from Plato. Like Plato, he condemns drama. He also says that even if his life were twice as long, he wouldn't have time to read the lyric poets. He translates Plato's picture of democracy word for word, though he can barely 'carry the jest' of Plato. He turns Plato's humorous idea about animals into a formal sentence. The animals 'are so filled with the spirit of democracy that they make passersby get out of their way.' His description of the tyrant copies Plato but falls far short. The second book is historical. It claims that the Roman constitution (which he sees as ideal) has a factual foundation. This is probably what Plato intended to give the Republic in the Critias. His most striking imitation of Plato is his adaptation of the vision of Er. Cicero converts this into the 'Somnium Scipionis.' He has 'romanized' the myth of the Republic. He adds an argument for the immortality of the soul taken from the Phaedrus, plus other touches from the Phaedo and the Timaeus. Though it's a beautiful tale with splendid passages, the 'Somnium Scipionis' is much inferior to the vision of Er. It's only a dream. It hardly lets the reader believe that the writer believes in his own creation. His dialogues may have been modeled on Aristotle's lost dialogues, as he tells us, or on Plato's, which they resemble in many surface ways. But he remains the Roman orator. He's not having conversations but making speeches. He never manages to shape the stubborn Latin language into the grace and ease of Greek Platonic dialogue. If he falls short in form, he's even more inferior to the Greek in content. Nowhere in his philosophical writings does he leave us with the impression of an original thinker.
Plato’s Republic has been said to be a church and not a state; and such an ideal of a city in the heavens has always hovered over the Christian world, and is embodied in St. Augustine’s ‘De Civitate Dei,’ which is suggested by the decay and fall of the Roman Empire, much in the same manner in which we may imagine the Republic of Plato to have been influenced by the decline of Greek politics in the writer’s own age. The difference is that in the time of Plato the degeneracy, though certain, was gradual and insensible: whereas the taking of Rome by the Goths stirred like an earthquake the age of St. Augustine. Men were inclined to believe that the overthrow of the city was to be ascribed to the anger felt by the old Roman deities at the neglect of their worship. St. Augustine maintains the opposite thesis; he argues that the destruction of the Roman Empire is due, not to the rise of Christianity, but to the vices of Paganism. He wanders over Roman history, and over Greek philosophy and mythology, and finds everywhere crime, impiety and falsehood. He compares the worst parts of the Gentile religions with the best elements of the faith of Christ. He shows nothing of the spirit which led others of the early Christian Fathers to recognize in the writings of the Greek philosophers the power of the divine truth. He traces the parallel of the kingdom of God, that is, the history of the Jews, contained in their scriptures, and of the kingdoms of the world, which are found in gentile writers, and pursues them both into an ideal future. It need hardly be remarked that his use both of Greek and of Roman historians and of the sacred writings of the Jews is wholly uncritical. The heathen mythology, the Sybilline oracles, the myths of Plato, the dreams of Neo-Platonists are equally regarded by him as matter of fact. He must be acknowledged to be a strictly polemical or controversial writer who makes the best of everything on one side and the worst of everything on the other. He has no sympathy with the old Roman life as Plato has with Greek life, nor has he any idea of the ecclesiastical kingdom which was to arise out of the ruins of the Roman empire. He is not blind to the defects of the Christian Church, and looks forward to a time when Christian and Pagan shall be alike brought before the judgment-seat, and the true City of God shall appear...The work of St. Augustine is a curious repertory of antiquarian learning and quotations, deeply penetrated with Christian ethics, but showing little power of reasoning, and a slender knowledge of the Greek literature and language. He was a great genius, and a noble character, yet hardly capable of feeling or understanding anything external to his own theology. Of all the ancient philosophers he is most attracted by Plato, though he is very slightly acquainted with his writings. He is inclined to believe that the idea of creation in the Timaeus is derived from the narrative in Genesis; and he is strangely taken with the coincidence (?) of Plato’s saying that ‘the philosopher is the lover of God,’ and the words of the Book of Exodus in which God reveals himself to Moses (Exod.) He dwells at length on miracles performed in his own day, of which the evidence is regarded by him as irresistible. He speaks in a very interesting manner of the beauty and utility of nature and of the human frame, which he conceives to afford a foretaste of the heavenly state and of the resurrection of the body. The book is not really what to most persons the title of it would imply, and belongs to an age which has passed away. But it contains many fine passages and thoughts which are for all time.
Plato's Republic has been called a church rather than a state. This ideal of a heavenly city has always influenced the Christian world. It appears in St. Augustine's 'De Civitate Dei,' which was inspired by the decay and fall of the Roman Empire. We can imagine that Plato's Republic was similarly influenced by the decline of Greek politics in his own time. The difference is that in Plato's era, the decline was gradual and barely noticeable. But when the Goths captured Rome, it shook St. Augustine's age like an earthquake. People believed that Rome's fall happened because the old Roman gods were angry about being neglected. St. Augustine argued the opposite. He claimed that Christianity didn't cause the Roman Empire's destruction. Instead, he blamed the vices of Paganism. He wandered through Roman history, Greek philosophy, and mythology, finding crime, impiety, and lies everywhere. He compared the worst parts of non-Christian religions with the best elements of Christ's faith. He showed none of the spirit that led other early Christian Fathers to recognize divine truth in Greek philosophical writings. He traced two parallel histories: the kingdom of God (the history of the Jews from their scriptures) and the kingdoms of the world (from non-Jewish writers). He followed both into an ideal future. His use of Greek and Roman historians, as well as Jewish sacred writings, was completely uncritical. He treated heathen mythology, Sibylline oracles, Plato's myths, and Neo-Platonist dreams all as factual. He was strictly a controversial writer who presented everything favorably on one side and unfavorably on the other. Unlike Plato's sympathy with Greek life, Augustine had no sympathy with old Roman life. He also had no idea of the ecclesiastical kingdom that would rise from the Roman empire's ruins. He wasn't blind to the Christian Church's defects. He looked forward to a time when Christians and Pagans would both face judgment, and the true City of God would appear. St. Augustine's work is a curious collection of ancient learning and quotations. It's deeply influenced by Christian ethics but shows little reasoning power and limited knowledge of Greek literature and language. He was a great genius and noble character, yet he could barely feel or understand anything outside his own theology. Of all ancient philosophers, he was most attracted to Plato, though he barely knew Plato's writings. He believed that the creation idea in the Timaeus came from the Genesis narrative. He was strangely fascinated by the coincidence of Plato's saying that "the philosopher is the lover of God" and God's words to Moses in Exodus. He wrote extensively about miracles performed in his own day, considering their evidence irresistible. He spoke very interestingly about nature's beauty and utility, and about the human body. He thought these gave a preview of the heavenly state and bodily resurrection. The book isn't really what most people would expect from its title, and it belongs to an age that has passed away. But it contains many fine passages and thoughts that are timeless.
The short treatise de Monarchia of Dante is by far the most remarkable of mediaeval ideals, and bears the impress of the great genius in whom Italy and the Middle Ages are so vividly reflected. It is the vision of an Universal Empire, which is supposed to be the natural and necessary government of the world, having a divine authority distinct from the Papacy, yet coextensive with it. It is not ‘the ghost of the dead Roman Empire sitting crowned upon the grave thereof,’ but the legitimate heir and successor of it, justified by the ancient virtues of the Romans and the beneficence of their rule. Their right to be the governors of the world is also confirmed by the testimony of miracles, and acknowledged by St. Paul when he appealed to Caesar, and even more emphatically by Christ Himself, Who could not have made atonement for the sins of men if He had not been condemned by a divinely authorized tribunal. The necessity for the establishment of an Universal Empire is proved partly by a priori arguments such as the unity of God and the unity of the family or nation; partly by perversions of Scripture and history, by false analogies of nature, by misapplied quotations from the classics, and by odd scraps and commonplaces of logic, showing a familiar but by no means exact knowledge of Aristotle (of Plato there is none). But a more convincing argument still is the miserable state of the world, which he touchingly describes. He sees no hope of happiness or peace for mankind until all nations of the earth are comprehended in a single empire. The whole treatise shows how deeply the idea of the Roman Empire was fixed in the minds of his contemporaries. Not much argument was needed to maintain the truth of a theory which to his own contemporaries seemed so natural and congenial. He speaks, or rather preaches, from the point of view, not of the ecclesiastic, but of the layman, although, as a good Catholic, he is willing to acknowledge that in certain respects the Empire must submit to the Church. The beginning and end of all his noble reflections and of his arguments, good and bad, is the aspiration ‘that in this little plot of earth belonging to mortal man life may pass in freedom and peace.’ So inextricably is his vision of the future bound up with the beliefs and circumstances of his own age.
Dante's short work "de Monarchia" stands out as the most remarkable of medieval ideals. It bears the mark of the great genius who so vividly reflected both Italy and the Middle Ages. The work presents a vision of a Universal Empire. This empire would be the natural and necessary government of the world, with divine authority separate from the Papacy but equal in scope. This isn't "the ghost of the dead Roman Empire sitting crowned upon the grave thereof." Instead, it's the legitimate heir and successor of Rome, justified by the ancient virtues of the Romans and the benefits of their rule. Their right to govern the world is confirmed by miraculous testimony. St. Paul acknowledged this right when he appealed to Caesar. Christ Himself acknowledged it even more clearly. Christ could not have atoned for human sins if He hadn't been condemned by a divinely authorized court. The need for a Universal Empire is proven partly through logical arguments. These include the unity of God and the unity of family or nation. The argument also relies on twisted interpretations of Scripture and history, false comparisons to nature, misused quotes from classical works, and odd bits of logic. This shows a familiar but imprecise knowledge of Aristotle (there's no knowledge of Plato). But an even more convincing argument is the miserable state of the world, which Dante describes with deep feeling. He sees no hope of happiness or peace for humanity until all nations are united under a single empire. The entire work shows how deeply the idea of the Roman Empire was embedded in the minds of his contemporaries. Not much argument was needed to support a theory that seemed so natural and appealing to people of his time. He speaks, or rather preaches, from the viewpoint of a layman, not a church official. Still, as a good Catholic, he's willing to admit that the Empire must submit to the Church in certain matters. The beginning and end of all his noble thoughts and arguments, both good and bad, is his hope "that in this little plot of earth belonging to mortal man life may pass in freedom and peace." His vision of the future is inseparably tied to the beliefs and circumstances of his own age.
The ‘Utopia’ of Sir Thomas More is a surprising monument of his genius, and shows a reach of thought far beyond his contemporaries. The book was written by him at the age of about 34 or 35, and is full of the generous sentiments of youth. He brings the light of Plato to bear upon the miserable state of his own country. Living not long after the Wars of the Roses, and in the dregs of the Catholic Church in England, he is indignant at the corruption of the clergy, at the luxury of the nobility and gentry, at the sufferings of the poor, at the calamities caused by war. To the eye of More the whole world was in dissolution and decay; and side by side with the misery and oppression which he has described in the First Book of the Utopia, he places in the Second Book the ideal state which by the help of Plato he had constructed. The times were full of stir and intellectual interest. The distant murmur of the Reformation was beginning to be heard. To minds like More’s, Greek literature was a revelation: there had arisen an art of interpretation, and the New Testament was beginning to be understood as it had never been before, and has not often been since, in its natural sense. The life there depicted appeared to him wholly unlike that of Christian commonwealths, in which ‘he saw nothing but a certain conspiracy of rich men procuring their own commodities under the name and title of the Commonwealth.’ He thought that Christ, like Plato, ‘instituted all things common,’ for which reason, he tells us, the citizens of Utopia were the more willing to receive his doctrines (‘Howbeit, I think this was no small help and furtherance in the matter, that they heard us say that Christ instituted among his, all things common, and that the same community doth yet remain in the rightest Christian communities’ (Utopia).). The community of property is a fixed idea with him, though he is aware of the arguments which may be urged on the other side (‘These things (I say), when I consider with myself, I hold well with Plato, and do nothing marvel that he would make no laws for them that refused those laws, whereby all men should have and enjoy equal portions of riches and commodities. For the wise men did easily foresee this to be the one and only way to the wealth of a community, if equality of all things should be brought in and established’ (Utopia).). We wonder how in the reign of Henry VIII, though veiled in another language and published in a foreign country, such speculations could have been endured.
Sir Thomas More's 'Utopia' stands as a remarkable achievement of his genius. It shows a depth of thinking far beyond what his contemporaries could reach. More wrote the book when he was about 34 or 35 years old, and it overflows with the generous ideals of youth. He applies Plato's wisdom to examine the terrible conditions in his own country. More lived shortly after the Wars of the Roses, during a time when the Catholic Church in England had reached its lowest point. He felt outraged by the corruption among clergy, the excessive luxury of nobles and gentry, the suffering of the poor, and the disasters caused by war. To More's eyes, the entire world seemed to be falling apart and decaying. In the First Book of Utopia, he describes this misery and oppression. Then in the Second Book, he presents the ideal state he constructed with Plato's help. The times buzzed with activity and intellectual excitement. People could hear the distant rumblings of the coming Reformation. For minds like More's, Greek literature came as a revelation. A new art of interpretation had emerged, and scholars were beginning to understand the New Testament as it had never been understood before, and rarely has been since, in its natural meaning. The life depicted there seemed completely different from that of Christian nations. In those nations, he saw nothing but "a conspiracy of rich men securing their own advantages under the name and title of the Commonwealth." He believed that Christ, like Plato, "made all things common." For this reason, he tells us, the citizens of Utopia were more willing to accept Christ's teachings. ("I think this was no small help in the matter, that they heard us say that Christ established among his followers all things in common, and that the same sharing still remains in the truest Christian communities.") The idea of shared property became fixed in his mind, though he understood the arguments that could be made against it. ("When I consider these things, I agree with Plato, and I'm not surprised that he refused to make laws for those who rejected the laws by which all people should have and enjoy equal portions of wealth and goods. Wise men could easily see this as the one and only path to a community's prosperity, if equality in all things could be established.") We wonder how such ideas could have been tolerated during Henry VIII's reign, even though they were disguised in another language and published in a foreign country.
He is gifted with far greater dramatic invention than any one who succeeded him, with the exception of Swift. In the art of feigning he is a worthy disciple of Plato. Like him, starting from a small portion of fact, he founds his tale with admirable skill on a few lines in the Latin narrative of the voyages of Amerigo Vespucci. He is very precise about dates and facts, and has the power of making us believe that the narrator of the tale must have been an eyewitness. We are fairly puzzled by his manner of mixing up real and imaginary persons; his boy John Clement and Peter Giles, citizen of Antwerp, with whom he disputes about the precise words which are supposed to have been used by the (imaginary) Portuguese traveller, Raphael Hythloday. ‘I have the more cause,’ says Hythloday, ‘to fear that my words shall not be believed, for that I know how difficultly and hardly I myself would have believed another man telling the same, if I had not myself seen it with mine own eyes.’ Or again: ‘If you had been with me in Utopia, and had presently seen their fashions and laws as I did which lived there five years and more, and would never have come thence, but only to make the new land known here,’ etc. More greatly regrets that he forgot to ask Hythloday in what part of the world Utopia is situated; he ‘would have spent no small sum of money rather than it should have escaped him,’ and he begs Peter Giles to see Hythloday or write to him and obtain an answer to the question. After this we are not surprised to hear that a Professor of Divinity (perhaps ‘a late famous vicar of Croydon in Surrey,’ as the translator thinks) is desirous of being sent thither as a missionary by the High Bishop, ‘yea, and that he may himself be made Bishop of Utopia, nothing doubting that he must obtain this Bishopric with suit; and he counteth that a godly suit which proceedeth not of the desire of honour or lucre, but only of a godly zeal.’ The design may have failed through the disappearance of Hythloday, concerning whom we have ‘very uncertain news’ after his departure. There is no doubt, however, that he had told More and Giles the exact situation of the island, but unfortunately at the same moment More’s attention, as he is reminded in a letter from Giles, was drawn off by a servant, and one of the company from a cold caught on shipboard coughed so loud as to prevent Giles from hearing. And ‘the secret has perished’ with him; to this day the place of Utopia remains unknown.
He has far greater dramatic invention than anyone who came after him, except for Swift. In the art of creating fiction, he is a worthy student of Plato. Like Plato, he starts with a small piece of fact and builds his story with remarkable skill on just a few lines from the Latin account of Amerigo Vespucci's voyages. He is very precise about dates and facts, and he has the power to make us believe that the person telling the story must have been there to see it all happen. We are completely puzzled by how he mixes real and imaginary people. He includes his servant John Clement and Peter Giles, a citizen of Antwerp, who argue with him about the exact words supposedly used by the imaginary Portuguese traveler, Raphael Hythloday. "I have even more reason," says Hythloday, "to fear that my words won't be believed, because I know how hard it would be for me to believe another person telling the same story, if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes." Or again: "If you had been with me in Utopia, and had seen their customs and laws as I did, living there for five years or more, and would never have left except to make this new land known here," and so on. More greatly regrets that he forgot to ask Hythloday what part of the world Utopia is located in. He "would have spent a considerable sum of money rather than let that slip by," and he begs Peter Giles to find Hythloday or write to him to get an answer to the question. After this we are not surprised to hear that a Professor of Divinity (perhaps "a late famous vicar of Croydon in Surrey," as the translator thinks) wants to be sent there as a missionary by the High Bishop, "yes, and that he may himself be made Bishop of Utopia, not doubting that he must obtain this Bishopric through petition. And he considers that a godly petition which comes not from the desire of honor or profit, but only from godly zeal." The plan may have failed because Hythloday disappeared, and we have "very uncertain news" about him after his departure. There is no doubt that he had told More and Giles the exact location of the island, but unfortunately at that same moment More's attention, as he is reminded in a letter from Giles, was distracted by a servant, and one of the company coughed so loudly from a cold caught on the ship that it prevented Giles from hearing. And "the secret has died" with him. To this day the location of Utopia remains unknown.
The words of Phaedrus, ‘O Socrates, you can easily invent Egyptians or anything,’ are recalled to our mind as we read this lifelike fiction. Yet the greater merit of the work is not the admirable art, but the originality of thought. More is as free as Plato from the prejudices of his age, and far more tolerant. The Utopians do not allow him who believes not in the immortality of the soul to share in the administration of the state (Laws), ‘howbeit they put him to no punishment, because they be persuaded that it is in no man’s power to believe what he list’; and ‘no man is to be blamed for reasoning in support of his own religion (‘One of our company in my presence was sharply punished. He, as soon as he was baptised, began, against our wills, with more earnest affection than wisdom, to reason of Christ’s religion, and began to wax so hot in his matter, that he did not only prefer our religion before all other, but also did despise and condemn all other, calling them profane, and the followers of them wicked and devilish, and the children of everlasting damnation. When he had thus long reasoned the matter, they laid hold on him, accused him, and condemned him into exile, not as a despiser of religion, but as a seditious person and a raiser up of dissension among the people’).’ In the public services ‘no prayers be used, but such as every man may boldly pronounce without giving offence to any sect.’ He says significantly, ‘There be that give worship to a man that was once of excellent virtue or of famous glory, not only as God, but also the chiefest and highest God. But the most and the wisest part, rejecting all these, believe that there is a certain godly power unknown, far above the capacity and reach of man’s wit, dispersed throughout all the world, not in bigness, but in virtue and power. Him they call the Father of all. To Him alone they attribute the beginnings, the increasings, the proceedings, the changes, and the ends of all things. Neither give they any divine honours to any other than him.’ So far was More from sharing the popular beliefs of his time. Yet at the end he reminds us that he does not in all respects agree with the customs and opinions of the Utopians which he describes. And we should let him have the benefit of this saving clause, and not rudely withdraw the veil behind which he has been pleased to conceal himself.
The words of Phaedrus, 'O Socrates, you can easily invent Egyptians or anything,' come to mind as we read this lifelike fiction. Yet the work's greatest merit is not its admirable art, but its original thinking. More is as free from his age's prejudices as Plato was, and far more tolerant. The Utopians don't allow anyone who doesn't believe in the soul's immortality to help run the state. However, they don't punish such people, because they believe that no one can control what they believe. No one should be blamed for defending their own religion. 'One of our group was sharply punished in my presence. As soon as he was baptized, he began arguing about Christ's religion against our wishes. He showed more passion than wisdom. He grew so heated that he not only put our religion above all others, but also despised and condemned all others. He called them profane, and their followers wicked and devilish, children of eternal damnation. After he had argued this way for a long time, they seized him, accused him, and condemned him to exile. They didn't punish him as someone who despised religion, but as a troublemaker who stirred up conflict among the people.' In public services 'no prayers are used except those that every person can boldly say without offending any group.' More says meaningfully, 'Some worship a man who once had excellent virtue or famous glory, not only as God, but as the highest and greatest God. But most people, and the wisest, reject all these beliefs. They believe there is a certain divine power, unknown and far beyond human understanding, spread throughout the world. This power exists not in physical size, but in virtue and strength. They call this power the Father of all. To Him alone they give credit for the beginnings, growth, progress, changes, and endings of all things. They give divine honors to no one else but Him.' This shows how far More was from sharing his time's popular beliefs. Yet at the end he reminds us that he doesn't agree with all the customs and opinions of the Utopians he describes. We should give him the benefit of this disclaimer, and not rudely pull away the veil behind which he chose to hide himself.
Nor is he less in advance of popular opinion in his political and moral speculations. He would like to bring military glory into contempt; he would set all sorts of idle people to profitable occupation, including in the same class, priests, women, noblemen, gentlemen, and ‘sturdy and valiant beggars,’ that the labour of all may be reduced to six hours a day. His dislike of capital punishment, and plans for the reformation of offenders; his detestation of priests and lawyers (Compare his satirical observation: ‘They (the Utopians) have priests of exceeding holiness, and therefore very few.); his remark that ‘although every one may hear of ravenous dogs and wolves and cruel man-eaters, it is not easy to find states that are well and wisely governed,’ are curiously at variance with the notions of his age and indeed with his own life. There are many points in which he shows a modern feeling and a prophetic insight like Plato. He is a sanitary reformer; he maintains that civilized states have a right to the soil of waste countries; he is inclined to the opinion which places happiness in virtuous pleasures, but herein, as he thinks, not disagreeing from those other philosophers who define virtue to be a life according to nature. He extends the idea of happiness so as to include the happiness of others; and he argues ingeniously, ‘All men agree that we ought to make others happy; but if others, how much more ourselves!’ And still he thinks that there may be a more excellent way, but to this no man’s reason can attain unless heaven should inspire him with a higher truth. His ceremonies before marriage; his humane proposal that war should be carried on by assassinating the leaders of the enemy, may be compared to some of the paradoxes of Plato. He has a charming fancy, like the affinities of Greeks and barbarians in the Timaeus, that the Utopians learnt the language of the Greeks with the more readiness because they were originally of the same race with them. He is penetrated with the spirit of Plato, and quotes or adapts many thoughts both from the Republic and from the Timaeus. He prefers public duties to private, and is somewhat impatient of the importunity of relations. His citizens have no silver or gold of their own, but are ready enough to pay them to their mercenaries. There is nothing of which he is more contemptuous than the love of money. Gold is used for fetters of criminals, and diamonds and pearls for children’s necklaces (When the ambassadors came arrayed in gold and peacocks’ feathers ‘to the eyes of all the Utopians except very few, which had been in other countries for some reasonable cause, all that gorgeousness of apparel seemed shameful and reproachful. In so much that they most reverently saluted the vilest and most abject of them for lords—passing over the ambassadors themselves without any honour, judging them by their wearing of golden chains to be bondmen. You should have seen children also, that had cast away their pearls and precious stones, when they saw the like sticking upon the ambassadors’ caps, dig and push their mothers under the sides, saying thus to them—“Look, though he were a little child still.” But the mother; yea and that also in good earnest: “Peace, son,” saith she, “I think he be some of the ambassadors’ fools.”’)
He was also ahead of popular opinion in his political and moral ideas. He wanted to make military glory seem worthless. He believed all idle people should do useful work. This included priests, women, noblemen, gentlemen, and "sturdy and valiant beggars." If everyone worked, the labor day could be reduced to six hours. He disliked capital punishment and made plans to reform criminals. He detested priests and lawyers. He made this satirical observation: "The Utopians have priests of exceeding holiness, and therefore very few." He remarked that "although everyone may hear of ravenous dogs and wolves and cruel man-eaters, it is not easy to find states that are well and wisely governed." These views were strangely different from the ideas of his time and even from his own life. He showed modern feelings and prophetic insight like Plato in many ways. He was a sanitary reformer. He believed civilized states had a right to the soil of waste countries. He thought happiness came from virtuous pleasures. But he believed this didn't disagree with other philosophers who defined virtue as a life according to nature. He expanded the idea of happiness to include the happiness of others. He argued cleverly: "All men agree that we ought to make others happy. But if others, how much more ourselves!" Still, he thought there might be a more excellent way. But no man's reason could reach this unless heaven inspired him with a higher truth. His ceremonies before marriage and his humane proposal that war should be carried on by assassinating enemy leaders can be compared to some of Plato's paradoxes. He had a charming fancy, like the affinities of Greeks and barbarians in the Timaeus. He imagined that the Utopians learned the Greek language more readily because they were originally of the same race. He was filled with Plato's spirit and quoted or adapted many thoughts from both the Republic and the Timaeus. He preferred public duties to private ones and was somewhat impatient with demanding relatives. His citizens had no silver or gold of their own but were ready enough to pay mercenaries with these metals. Nothing earned his contempt more than the love of money. Gold was used for criminals' chains, and diamonds and pearls for children's necklaces. When ambassadors came dressed in gold and peacocks' feathers, "to the eyes of all the Utopians except very few who had been in other countries for some reasonable cause, all that gorgeous apparel seemed shameful and reproachful. So much so that they most reverently saluted the vilest and most abject of them as lords. They passed over the ambassadors themselves without any honor, judging them by their wearing of golden chains to be bondmen. You should have seen children also, who had cast away their pearls and precious stones, when they saw the like sticking upon the ambassadors' caps. They dug and pushed their mothers under the sides, saying thus to them: 'Look, though he were a little child still.' But the mother, yea and that also in good earnest: 'Peace, son,' said she, 'I think he be some of the ambassadors' fools.'"
Like Plato he is full of satirical reflections on governments and princes; on the state of the world and of knowledge. The hero of his discourse (Hythloday) is very unwilling to become a minister of state, considering that he would lose his independence and his advice would never be heeded (Compare an exquisite passage, of which the conclusion is as follows: ‘And verily it is naturally given...suppressed and ended.’) He ridicules the new logic of his time; the Utopians could never be made to understand the doctrine of Second Intentions (‘For they have not devised one of all those rules of restrictions, amplifications, and suppositions, very wittily invented in the small Logicals, which here our children in every place do learn. Furthermore, they were never yet able to find out the second intentions; insomuch that none of them all could ever see man himself in common, as they call him, though he be (as you know) bigger than was ever any giant, yea, and pointed to of us even with our finger.’) He is very severe on the sports of the gentry; the Utopians count ‘hunting the lowest, the vilest, and the most abject part of butchery.’ He quotes the words of the Republic in which the philosopher is described ‘standing out of the way under a wall until the driving storm of sleet and rain be overpast,’ which admit of a singular application to More’s own fate; although, writing twenty years before (about the year 1514), he can hardly be supposed to have foreseen this. There is no touch of satire which strikes deeper than his quiet remark that the greater part of the precepts of Christ are more at variance with the lives of ordinary Christians than the discourse of Utopia (‘And yet the most part of them is more dissident from the manners of the world now a days, than my communication was. But preachers, sly and wily men, following your counsel (as I suppose) because they saw men evil-willing to frame their manners to Christ’s rule, they have wrested and wried his doctrine, and, like a rule of lead, have applied it to men’s manners, that by some means at the least way, they might agree together.’)
Like Plato, he is full of satirical comments about governments and princes, about the state of the world and of knowledge. The hero of his story (Hythloday) is very reluctant to become a government minister. He believes he would lose his independence and his advice would never be listened to. (Compare an excellent passage, which concludes as follows: 'And verily it is naturally given...suppressed and ended.') He makes fun of the new logic of his time. The Utopians could never be made to understand the doctrine of Second Intentions. ('For they have not devised one of all those rules of restrictions, amplifications, and suppositions, very wittily invented in the small Logicals, which here our children in every place do learn. Furthermore, they were never yet able to find out the second intentions. So much so that none of them all could ever see man himself in common, as they call him, though he be (as you know) bigger than was ever any giant, yea, and pointed to of us even with our finger.') He is very harsh about the sports of the gentry. The Utopians consider 'hunting the lowest, the vilest, and the most abject part of butchery.' He quotes the words of the Republic in which the philosopher is described 'standing out of the way under a wall until the driving storm of sleet and rain be overpast.' These words have a strange application to More's own fate. Yet, writing twenty years before (about the year 1514), he can hardly be supposed to have foreseen this. No touch of satire strikes deeper than his quiet remark that most of Christ's teachings conflict more with the lives of ordinary Christians than the discourse of Utopia does. ('And yet the most part of them is more dissident from the manners of the world now a days, than my communication was. But preachers, sly and wily men, following your counsel (as I suppose) because they saw men evil-willing to frame their manners to Christ's rule, they have wrested and wried his doctrine, and, like a rule of lead, have applied it to men's manners, that by some means at the least way, they might agree together.')
The ‘New Atlantis’ is only a fragment, and far inferior in merit to the ‘Utopia.’ The work is full of ingenuity, but wanting in creative fancy, and by no means impresses the reader with a sense of credibility. In some places Lord Bacon is characteristically different from Sir Thomas More, as, for example, in the external state which he attributes to the governor of Solomon’s House, whose dress he minutely describes, while to Sir Thomas More such trappings appear simple ridiculous. Yet, after this programme of dress, Bacon adds the beautiful trait, ‘that he had a look as though he pitied men.’ Several things are borrowed by him from the Timaeus; but he has injured the unity of style by adding thoughts and passages which are taken from the Hebrew Scriptures.
The 'New Atlantis' is only a fragment. It's far inferior to the 'Utopia.' The work is full of clever ideas, but it lacks creative imagination. It doesn't convince the reader that any of it could be real. In some places Lord Bacon is completely different from Sir Thomas More. For example, Bacon describes in great detail the fancy clothing worn by the governor of Solomon's House. Sir Thomas More would have found such elaborate dress simply ridiculous. Yet after this detailed description of clothing, Bacon adds a beautiful touch: "he had a look as though he pitied men." Bacon borrows several things from the Timaeus. But he ruins the unity of style by adding thoughts and passages taken from the Hebrew Scriptures.
The ‘City of the Sun’ written by Campanella (1568-1639), a Dominican friar, several years after the ‘New Atlantis’ of Bacon, has many resemblances to the Republic of Plato. The citizens have wives and children in common; their marriages are of the same temporary sort, and are arranged by the magistrates from time to time. They do not, however, adopt his system of lots, but bring together the best natures, male and female, ‘according to philosophical rules.’ The infants until two years of age are brought up by their mothers in public temples; and since individuals for the most part educate their children badly, at the beginning of their third year they are committed to the care of the State, and are taught at first, not out of books, but from paintings of all kinds, which are emblazoned on the walls of the city. The city has six interior circuits of walls, and an outer wall which is the seventh. On this outer wall are painted the figures of legislators and philosophers, and on each of the interior walls the symbols or forms of some one of the sciences are delineated. The women are, for the most part, trained, like the men, in warlike and other exercises; but they have two special occupations of their own. After a battle, they and the boys soothe and relieve the wounded warriors; also they encourage them with embraces and pleasant words. Some elements of the Christian or Catholic religion are preserved among them. The life of the Apostles is greatly admired by this people because they had all things in common; and the short prayer which Jesus Christ taught men is used in their worship. It is a duty of the chief magistrates to pardon sins, and therefore the whole people make secret confession of them to the magistrates, and they to their chief, who is a sort of Rector Metaphysicus; and by this means he is well informed of all that is going on in the minds of men. After confession, absolution is granted to the citizens collectively, but no one is mentioned by name. There also exists among them a practice of perpetual prayer, performed by a succession of priests, who change every hour. Their religion is a worship of God in Trinity, that is of Wisdom, Love and Power, but without any distinction of persons. They behold in the sun the reflection of His glory; mere graven images they reject, refusing to fall under the ‘tyranny’ of idolatry.
The 'City of the Sun' was written by Campanella (1568-1639), a Dominican friar, several years after Bacon's 'New Atlantis.' It has many similarities to Plato's Republic. The citizens share wives and children in common. Their marriages are temporary arrangements made by magistrates from time to time. They don't use Plato's system of drawing lots. Instead, they bring together the best men and women 'according to philosophical rules.' Mothers raise infants until age two in public temples. Since most individuals educate their children poorly, the State takes over at the beginning of their third year. Children learn at first not from books, but from paintings of all kinds displayed on the city walls. The city has six interior walls and a seventh outer wall. The outer wall shows painted figures of legislators and philosophers. Each interior wall displays symbols or forms representing different sciences. Women train alongside men in warfare and other exercises. But they have two special duties of their own. After battles, they and the boys comfort and care for wounded warriors. They also encourage the fighters with embraces and kind words. Some elements of Christian or Catholic religion survive among them. This people greatly admires the life of the Apostles because they shared all things in common. They use the short prayer that Jesus Christ taught in their worship. The chief magistrates have a duty to pardon sins. The whole population makes secret confession to the magistrates. The magistrates then confess to their chief, who is a sort of Rector Metaphysicus. This way he stays well informed about what goes on in people's minds. After confession, the citizens receive collective absolution. No one is mentioned by name. They also practice perpetual prayer, performed by priests who change every hour. Their religion worships God in Trinity. That is, Wisdom, Love and Power, but without any distinction of persons. They see in the sun a reflection of His glory. They reject carved images, refusing to fall under the 'tyranny' of idolatry.
Many details are given about their customs of eating and drinking, about their mode of dressing, their employments, their wars. Campanella looks forward to a new mode of education, which is to be a study of nature, and not of Aristotle. He would not have his citizens waste their time in the consideration of what he calls ‘the dead signs of things.’ He remarks that he who knows one science only, does not really know that one any more than the rest, and insists strongly on the necessity of a variety of knowledge. More scholars are turned out in the City of the Sun in one year than by contemporary methods in ten or fifteen. He evidently believes, like Bacon, that henceforward natural science will play a great part in education, a hope which seems hardly to have been realized, either in our own or in any former age; at any rate the fulfilment of it has been long deferred.
The text provides many details about their customs around eating and drinking, their clothing, their work, and their wars. Campanella envisions a new approach to education. This would focus on studying nature rather than Aristotle. He doesn't want his citizens to waste time thinking about what he calls "the dead signs of things." He points out that someone who knows only one science doesn't really understand that science any better than the others. He strongly emphasizes the need for diverse knowledge. The City of the Sun produces more scholars in one year than contemporary methods do in ten or fifteen years. Like Bacon, he clearly believes that natural science will become central to education going forward. This hope seems barely realized, either in our time or in any earlier period. The fulfillment of this vision has been long delayed.
There is a good deal of ingenuity and even originality in this work, and a most enlightened spirit pervades it. But it has little or no charm of style, and falls very far short of the ‘New Atlantis’ of Bacon, and still more of the ‘Utopia’ of Sir Thomas More. It is full of inconsistencies, and though borrowed from Plato, shows but a superficial acquaintance with his writings. It is a work such as one might expect to have been written by a philosopher and man of genius who was also a friar, and who had spent twenty-seven years of his life in a prison of the Inquisition. The most interesting feature of the book, common to Plato and Sir Thomas More, is the deep feeling which is shown by the writer, of the misery and ignorance prevailing among the lower classes in his own time. Campanella takes note of Aristotle’s answer to Plato’s community of property, that in a society where all things are common, no individual would have any motive to work (Arist. Pol.): he replies, that his citizens being happy and contented in themselves (they are required to work only four hours a day), will have greater regard for their fellows than exists among men at present. He thinks, like Plato, that if he abolishes private feelings and interests, a great public feeling will take their place.
This work shows considerable ingenuity and even originality, and it's filled with an enlightened spirit. But it has little or no stylistic charm. It falls far short of Bacon's 'New Atlantis' and even further from Sir Thomas More's 'Utopia.' The book is full of contradictions. Though it borrows from Plato, it shows only a shallow understanding of his writings. It reads like something you'd expect from a philosopher and genius who was also a friar and had spent twenty-seven years imprisoned by the Inquisition. The most interesting aspect of the book, which it shares with Plato and Sir Thomas More, is the writer's deep awareness of the misery and ignorance that plagued the lower classes of his time. Campanella addresses Aristotle's criticism of Plato's idea of common property. Aristotle argued that in a society where everything is shared, no individual would have any reason to work. Campanella responds that his citizens, being happy and content (they only need to work four hours a day), will care more for their fellow citizens than people do today. Like Plato, he believes that eliminating private feelings and interests will create a strong sense of public spirit to replace them.
Other writings on ideal states, such as the ‘Oceana’ of Harrington, in which the Lord Archon, meaning Cromwell, is described, not as he was, but as he ought to have been; or the ‘Argenis’ of Barclay, which is an historical allegory of his own time, are too unlike Plato to be worth mentioning. More interesting than either of these, and far more Platonic in style and thought, is Sir John Eliot’s ‘Monarchy of Man,’ in which the prisoner of the Tower, no longer able ‘to be a politician in the land of his birth,’ turns away from politics to view ‘that other city which is within him,’ and finds on the very threshold of the grave that the secret of human happiness is the mastery of self. The change of government in the time of the English Commonwealth set men thinking about first principles, and gave rise to many works of this class...The great original genius of Swift owes nothing to Plato; nor is there any trace in the conversation or in the works of Dr. Johnson of any acquaintance with his writings. He probably would have refuted Plato without reading him, in the same fashion in which he supposed himself to have refuted Bishop Berkeley’s theory of the non-existence of matter. If we except the so-called English Platonists, or rather Neo-Platonists, who never understood their master, and the writings of Coleridge, who was to some extent a kindred spirit, Plato has left no permanent impression on English literature.
Other writings about ideal states include Harrington's 'Oceana,' which describes the Lord Archon (meaning Cromwell) not as he was, but as he should have been. There's also Barclay's 'Argenis,' an historical allegory of his own time. Both are too different from Plato to be worth mentioning. More interesting than either, and far more Platonic in style and thought, is Sir John Eliot's 'Monarchy of Man.' In this work, the prisoner of the Tower could no longer "be a politician in the land of his birth." So he turned away from politics to examine "that other city which is within him." On the very threshold of death, he discovered that the secret of human happiness is mastering oneself. The change of government during the English Commonwealth made people think about basic principles. This led to many works of this type. Swift's great original genius owes nothing to Plato. There's no trace in Dr. Johnson's conversation or works of any familiarity with Plato's writings. Johnson probably would have refuted Plato without reading him. He would have done this the same way he thought he had refuted Bishop Berkeley's theory about the non-existence of matter. The so-called English Platonists, or rather Neo-Platonists, never understood their master. Coleridge's writings show he was somewhat of a kindred spirit. But if we except these examples, Plato has left no lasting impression on English literature.
7. Human life and conduct are affected by ideals in the same way that they are affected by the examples of eminent men. Neither the one nor the other are immediately applicable to practice, but there is a virtue flowing from them which tends to raise individuals above the common routine of society or trade, and to elevate States above the mere interests of commerce or the necessities of self-defence. Like the ideals of art they are partly framed by the omission of particulars; they require to be viewed at a certain distance, and are apt to fade away if we attempt to approach them. They gain an imaginary distinctness when embodied in a State or in a system of philosophy, but they still remain the visions of ‘a world unrealized.’ More striking and obvious to the ordinary mind are the examples of great men, who have served their own generation and are remembered in another. Even in our own family circle there may have been some one, a woman, or even a child, in whose face has shone forth a goodness more than human. The ideal then approaches nearer to us, and we fondly cling to it. The ideal of the past, whether of our own past lives or of former states of society, has a singular fascination for the minds of many. Too late we learn that such ideals cannot be recalled, though the recollection of them may have a humanizing influence on other times. But the abstractions of philosophy are to most persons cold and vacant; they give light without warmth; they are like the full moon in the heavens when there are no stars appearing. Men cannot live by thought alone; the world of sense is always breaking in upon them. They are for the most part confined to a corner of earth, and see but a little way beyond their own home or place of abode; they ‘do not lift up their eyes to the hills’; they are not awake when the dawn appears. But in Plato we have reached a height from which a man may look into the distance and behold the future of the world and of philosophy. The ideal of the State and of the life of the philosopher; the ideal of an education continuing through life and extending equally to both sexes; the ideal of the unity and correlation of knowledge; the faith in good and immortality—are the vacant forms of light on which Plato is seeking to fix the eye of mankind.
Human life and conduct are affected by ideals in the same way that they are affected by the examples of great people. Neither ideals nor examples can be immediately put into practice. But there is a virtue flowing from them that tends to raise individuals above the common routine of society or business. They elevate nations above the mere interests of commerce or the necessities of self-defense. Like the ideals of art, they are partly created by leaving out particulars. They need to be viewed at a certain distance and tend to fade away if we try to approach them too closely. They gain an imaginary clarity when embodied in a nation or in a system of philosophy, but they still remain visions of "a world unrealized." More striking and obvious to the ordinary mind are the examples of great people who have served their own generation and are remembered in another. Even in our own family circle there may have been someone, a woman or even a child, in whose face has shone a goodness more than human. The ideal then comes closer to us, and we fondly cling to it. The ideal of the past, whether of our own past lives or of former states of society, has a strange fascination for many minds. Too late we learn that such ideals cannot be recalled, though remembering them may have a humanizing influence on other times. But the abstractions of philosophy are to most people cold and empty. They give light without warmth. They are like the full moon in the heavens when there are no stars appearing. People cannot live by thought alone. The world of the senses is always breaking in upon them. They are for the most part confined to a corner of earth and see only a little way beyond their own home or place of residence. They "do not lift up their eyes to the hills." They are not awake when the dawn appears. But in Plato we have reached a height from which a person may look into the distance and see the future of the world and of philosophy. The ideal of the State and of the life of the philosopher, the ideal of an education continuing through life and extending equally to both sexes, the ideal of the unity and correlation of knowledge, the faith in good and immortality are the vacant forms of light on which Plato is seeking to fix the eye of mankind.
8. Two other ideals, which never appeared above the horizon in Greek Philosophy, float before the minds of men in our own day: one seen more clearly than formerly, as though each year and each generation brought us nearer to some great change; the other almost in the same degree retiring from view behind the laws of nature, as if oppressed by them, but still remaining a silent hope of we know not what hidden in the heart of man. The first ideal is the future of the human race in this world; the second the future of the individual in another. The first is the more perfect realization of our own present life; the second, the abnegation of it: the one, limited by experience, the other, transcending it. Both of them have been and are powerful motives of action; there are a few in whom they have taken the place of all earthly interests. The hope of a future for the human race at first sight seems to be the more disinterested, the hope of individual existence the more egotistical, of the two motives. But when men have learned to resolve their hope of a future either for themselves or for the world into the will of God—‘not my will but Thine,’ the difference between them falls away; and they may be allowed to make either of them the basis of their lives, according to their own individual character or temperament. There is as much faith in the willingness to work for an unseen future in this world as in another. Neither is it inconceivable that some rare nature may feel his duty to another generation, or to another century, almost as strongly as to his own, or that living always in the presence of God, he may realize another world as vividly as he does this.
Two other ideals never appeared in Greek Philosophy, but they float before people's minds today. One becomes clearer each year, as if each generation brings us closer to some great change. The other seems to retreat behind the laws of nature, as though crushed by them, but it remains a silent hope hidden in the human heart. The first ideal is the future of the human race in this world. The second is the future of the individual in another world. The first means making our present life more perfect. The second means giving up our present life entirely. One is limited by experience, the other goes beyond it. Both ideals have been powerful reasons for action. Some people have let these hopes replace all earthly interests. At first glance, hoping for humanity's future seems less selfish than hoping for individual survival after death. But when people learn to surrender both hopes to God's will—"not my will but yours"—the difference disappears. They can base their lives on either ideal, depending on their character and temperament. Working for an unseen future in this world takes as much faith as believing in another world. It's possible that some rare person might feel as much duty to future generations as to their own. Living always in God's presence, they might experience another world as vividly as this one.
The greatest of all ideals may, or rather must be conceived by us under similitudes derived from human qualities; although sometimes, like the Jewish prophets, we may dash away these figures of speech and describe the nature of God only in negatives. These again by degrees acquire a positive meaning. It would be well, if when meditating on the higher truths either of philosophy or religion, we sometimes substituted one form of expression for another, lest through the necessities of language we should become the slaves of mere words.
We can only understand the greatest ideals by comparing them to human qualities. Sometimes, like the Jewish prophets, we may throw away these comparisons and describe God's nature only by saying what it is not. Over time, these negative descriptions start to take on positive meaning. When we think about deep truths in philosophy or religion, it would help to switch between different ways of expressing the same idea. This prevents us from becoming trapped by the limitations of language and turning into slaves of mere words.
There is a third ideal, not the same, but akin to these, which has a place in the home and heart of every believer in the religion of Christ, and in which men seem to find a nearer and more familiar truth, the Divine man, the Son of Man, the Saviour of mankind, Who is the first-born and head of the whole family in heaven and earth, in Whom the Divine and human, that which is without and that which is within the range of our earthly faculties, are indissolubly united. Neither is this divine form of goodness wholly separable from the ideal of the Christian Church, which is said in the New Testament to be ‘His body,’ or at variance with those other images of good which Plato sets before us. We see Him in a figure only, and of figures of speech we select but a few, and those the simplest, to be the expression of Him. We behold Him in a picture, but He is not there. We gather up the fragments of His discourses, but neither do they represent Him as He truly was. His dwelling is neither in heaven nor earth, but in the heart of man. This is that image which Plato saw dimly in the distance, which, when existing among men, he called, in the language of Homer, ‘the likeness of God,’ the likeness of a nature which in all ages men have felt to be greater and better than themselves, and which in endless forms, whether derived from Scripture or nature, from the witness of history or from the human heart, regarded as a person or not as a person, with or without parts or passions, existing in space or not in space, is and will always continue to be to mankind the Idea of Good.
There is a third ideal, different but related to these others. It has a place in the home and heart of every believer in Christianity. In this ideal, people seem to find a closer and more familiar truth. This is the Divine man, the Son of Man, the Saviour of mankind. He is the first-born and head of the whole family in heaven and earth. In Him, the Divine and human are united forever. This includes both what lies beyond our earthly abilities and what falls within them. This divine form of goodness cannot be completely separated from the ideal of the Christian Church. The New Testament calls the Church "His body." It also aligns with those other images of good that Plato shows us. We see Him only in a figure. Of all the figures of speech available, we choose just a few. We pick the simplest ones to express Him. We see Him in a picture, but He is not really there. We gather up the fragments of His teachings, but even these don't represent Him as He truly was. His dwelling is not in heaven or on earth, but in the heart of man. This is the image that Plato saw dimly in the distance. When it existed among people, he called it "the likeness of God," using Homer's language. It is the likeness of a nature that people in all ages have felt to be greater and better than themselves. This nature appears in endless forms. It may come from Scripture or nature, from historical evidence or from the human heart. It may be seen as a person or not as a person, with or without parts or emotions, existing in space or beyond space. Whatever form it takes, it is and will always be mankind's Idea of Good.