THE REPUBLIC
m OF
Tj PLATO
SECOND EDITION
TRANSLATED WITH NOTES AND
AN INTERPRETIVE ESSAY BY
ALLAN BLOOM
BasicBooks
A Division of HarperCoWmsPublishers
Copyright © 1968 by Allan Bloom
Preface to the paperback edition copyright © 1991 by Allan Bloom
Library of Congress Catalog Number: 68-54141
ISBN 0^65-06935-5 {cloth)
ISBN 0-^65-06936-3 (first edition paper)
ISBN 0-465-O6934-7 {second edition paper)
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To my mother and father
PREFACE TO THE
SECOND EDITION
When I teach the Republic now, the reactions to it are more urgent and
more intense than they were a quarter-century ago when I was working on
this translation and this interpretation. The Republic is, of course, a
permanent book, one of the small number of books that engage the interest
and sympathy of thoughtful persons wherever books are esteemed and
read in freedom. No other philosophic book so powerfully expresses the
human longing for justice while satisfying the intellect's demands for
clarity. The problems of justice as presented by Plato arouse more interest,
excitement, and disagreement at some points than at others. When non-
philosophers begin their acquaintance with philosophers, they frequently
say, "This is nonsense." But sometimes they say, "This is outrageous
nonsense," and at such moments their passions really become involved
with the philosophers, frequently culminating in hatred or in love. Right
now Plato is both attractive and repulsive to the young.
This is most obvious when they reach the section of the Republic
where Socrates legislates about music. Between the late 1940s and the
mid-1960s there was a lull in music's power over the soul, between the
declining magnetism of high romanticism and the surge of rock, and music
was not much of a practical or theoretical problem for students. They took
note of the fact that Socrates is for censorship — a no-no, of course — and
went on, not taking much account of what in particular is being censored. If
forced to think about it, they tended to be surprised that music above all
vn
Preface to the Second Edition
should be the theme of censorship when what seemed to them to be the
hkely candidates were science, poHtics, and sex. But now that musical
frenzy has resumed its natural place, Socrates is seen to be both pertinent
and dangerous. Discussion is real and intense, fo^^ocrates understands the
charms — erotic, military, political, and religious — of music, which he takes
to be the most authentic primitive expressions of the soul's hopes and
terrors./But, precisely because music is central to the soul and the
musicians are such virtuosos at plucking its chords, Socrates argues that it is
imperative to think about how the development of the passions affects the
whole of life and how musical pleasures may conflict with duties or other,
less immediate pleasures ./This is intolerable, and many students feel that
the whole Socratic understanding is subversive of their establishment. As I
said, the Republic is perennial; it always returns with the change of human
seasons.
Another theme, not unrelated to music, also suddenly became current
in the late 1960s and remains central to general and professional discussion
about politics: community, or roots. And again the republic becomes
peculiarly attractive and repulsive because no book describes community
so precisely and so completely or undertakes so rigorously to turn cold
politics into family warmth. In the period just after World War II, no
criticism of what Karl Popper called "the open society" was brooked. The
open society was understood to be simply unproblematic, having solved
the difficulties presented by older thinkers. The progress of science was
understood to be strictly paralleled by that of society; individualism
seemed no threat to human ties, and mass society no threat to meaningful
participation. The softening in this narrow liberal position can be seen in
the substitution in common discourse of the less positively charged term
technology for science, the pervasive doubt about whether the mastery of
nature is a very good idea, and a commonly expressed sentiment of lostness
and powerlessness on the part of individual citizens.
In the days of thoughtless optimism, Plato was considered irrelevant
and his criticism was not available to warn us of possible dangers. Now it is
recognized that he had all the doubts we have today and that the founding
myth of his city treats men and women as literally rooted in its soil.
Everybody is sure that Plato knew something about community, but he
makes today's comfortable communitarians uncomfortable by insisting that
so much individuality must be sacrificed to community. Moreover, they
rightly sense that Plato partly parodies the claims and the pretensions of
community. The uninvolved Socrates, distrustful of neat solutions, does
not appear to be a very reliable ally of movements. Plato, criticized in the
recent past for not being a good liberal, is now shunned for not being a
wholehearted communitarian. He is, however, back in the game.
But, above all, the Platonic text is now gripping because of its very
[ viii ]
Preface to the Second Edition
radical, more than up-to-date treatment of the "gender question." In a
stunning demonstration of the power of the philosophic imagination, Plato
treats the question as it was never again treated up to our own day —
proving thereby that reason can penetrate to the essentials at any time or
place. /Perfect justice, Socrates argues in the dialogue, can be achieved only
by suppression of the distinction between the sexes in all important matters
and the admission of women on an equal footing to all activities of the city,
particularly the most important, fighting and thinking. Corollary to this is
the virtual suppression of the bodily differences between the sexes and all
the psychic affects habitually accompanying those differences, especially
shame, which effectively separates women from men. J
In consequence, Socrates further recognizes that there must be a
revolution in the family in which its functions are transferred to the
community, so that women will not have to bear the double burden of
career mothers. Day-care centers, abortion, and the desacralization of
marriage are only a few of the easily recognizable elements of this revolu-
tion in favor of synthesizing the opposites man/woman into the unity,
human being. Some activists even find Socrates' analysis too radical,
sacrificing all the charms of family ties to rational considerations of justice.
Reason, it seems, is corrosive of the mysteries of human connectedness.
Others rightly suspect that Socrates is not sufficiently convinced of the
factual equality of women. Socrates is again the questionable ally, but he
marks the starting point of something that would be unimaginable if he had
not thought it through. One can search in other historical epochs and
cultures, but the foundations of this perspective v^dll not be found else-
where. They are inextricably linked to the founder of political philosophy.
For students the story of man bound in the cave and breaking the
bonds, moving out and up into the light of the sun, is the most memorable
from their encounter with the Republic. This is the image of every serious
student's profoundest longing, the longing for liberation from convention
in order to live according to nature, and one of the book's evidently
permanent aspects. The story still exercises some of its old magic, but it
now encounters a fresh obstacle, for the meaning of the story is that truth is
substituted for myth. Today students are taught that no such substitution is
possible and that there is nothing beyond myth or "narrative." The myths
of the most primitive cultures are not, it is said, qualitatively different from
the narratives of the most rigorous science. Men and women must bend to
the power of my th rather than try to shuck it off as philosophy wrongly used
to believe. Socrates, who gaily abandons the founding myth or noble lie he
himseff made up for the sake of the city, looks quixotic in this light. This can
be disheartening to the young person who cares, but it can be a beginning
of philosophy, for he is perplexed by a real difficulty in his own breast. This
is another case where Platonic radicalism is particularly timely for us.
[ ix ]
Preface to the Second Edition
Finally, in terms of my own experience of these last twenty-five years,
after the Republic I translated Rousseau's Emile, the greatest modem book
on education. Rousseau was one of the great readers of Plato, and from my
time on that work I gained an even greater respect for the Republic. Emile
is its natural companion, and Rousseau proved his greatness by entering
the lists in worthy combat with it. He shows that Plato articulated first and
best all the problems, and he himself differs only with respect to some of
the solutions. If one takes the two books together, one has the basic training
necessary for the educational wars. And wars they are, now that doctrine
tells us that these two books are cornerstones of an outlived canon. So, I
conclude, the Republic is always useful to students who read it, but now
more than ever.
I have corrected many minor mistranslations or misleading formula-
tions for this second edition. I must also add that there are certainly many
more I did not catch. This is regrettable but inherent in the nature of the
task and the nature of this translator.
Paris, iggi
[ X ]
PREFACE
This is intended to be a literal translation. My goal — unattained— was the
accuracy of William of Moerbeke's Latin translations of Aristotle. These
versions are so faithful to Aristotle's text that they are authorities for
the correction of the Greek manuscripts, and they enabled Thomas
Aquinas to become a supreme interpreter of Aristotle without knowing
Greek.
Such a translation is intended to be useful to the serious student,
the one who wishes and is able to arrive at his own understanding of
the work. He must be emancipated from the tyranny of the translator,
given the means of transcending the limitations of the translator's inter-
pretation, enabled to discover the subtleties of the elusive original. The
only way to provide the reader with this independence is by a slavish,
even if sometimes cumbersome, literalness— insofar as possible always
using the same English equivalent for the same Greek word. Thus the
little difficulties which add up to major discoveries become evident to,
or at least are not hidden from, the careful student. The translator
should conceive of himself as a medium between a master whose
depths he has not plumbed and an audience of potential students of
that master who may be much better endowed than is the translator.
His greatest vice is to believe he has adequately grasped the teaching of
his author. It is least of all his function to render the work palatable to
those who do not wish, or are unable, to expend the effort requisite to
[ xi ]
Preface
the study of difficult texts. Nor should he try to make an ancient mode
of thought sound "contemporary." Such translations become less useful
as more attention is paid to the text. At the very least, one can say that
a literal translation is a necessary supplement to more felicitous rendi-
tions which deviate widely from their original.
The difference from age to age in the notions of the translator's re-
sponsibility is in itself a chapter of intellectual history. Certainly the
popularization of the classics is one part of that chapter. But there
seem to be two major causes for the current distaste for literal transla-
tions — one rooted in the historical science of our time, the other rooted
in a specific, and I believe erroneous, view of the character of Platonic
books.
The modern historical consciousness has engendered a general
scepticism about the truth of all "world views," except for that one of
which it is itself a product. There seems to be an opinion that the
thought of the past is immediately accessible to us, that, although we
may not accept it, we at least understand it. We apply the tools of our
science to the past without reflecting that those tools are also historical-
ly limited. We do not sufficiently realize that^he only true historical ob-
jectivity is to understand the ancient authors as they understood them-
selves/and we are loath to assume that perhaps they may be able to
criticize our framework and our methodsAVe should, rather, try to see
our historical science in the perspective of their teachings rather than
the other way around. jMost of all, we must accept, at least tentative-
ly, the claim of the older thinkers that the truth is potentially attainable
by the efforts of unaided human reason at all times and in all places. If
we begin by denying the fundamental contention of men like Plato and
Aristotle, they are refuted for us from the outset, not by any immanent
criticism but by our unreflecting acceptance of the self-contradictory
principle that all thought is related to a specific age and has no grasp of
reality beyond that age./On this basis, it is impossible to take them
seriously. One often suspects that this is what is lacking in many
translations: they are not animated by the passion for the truth; they
are really the results of elegant trifling. William of Moerbeke was
motivated by the concern that he might miss the most important coun-
sels about the most important things, counsels emanating from a man
wiser than he. His knowledge of the world and his way of life, nay, his
very happiness, depended on the success of his quest to get at Aris-
totle's real meaning.
Today men do not generally believe so much is at stake in their
studies of classic thinkers, and there is an inclination to smile at naive
scholastic reverence for antiquity. But that smile should fade when it is
[ xii ]
Preface
realized that this sense of superiority is merely the perseveration of the
confidence, so widespread in the nineteenth century, that science had
reached a plateau overlooking broader and more comprehensible hori-
zons than those previously known, a confidence that our intellectual
progress could suffer no reverse. This confidence has almost vanished;
few scholars believe that our perspective is the authoritative one any
longer; but much scholarship still clings to the habits which grew up in
the shadow of that conviction. However, if that is not a justified convic-
tion, if we are really at sea so far as the truth of things goes, then our
most evident categories are questionable, and we do not even know
whether we understand the simplest questions Plato poses. It then
behooves us to rediscover the perspective of the ancient authors, for the
sake both of accurate scholarship and of trying to find alternatives to
the current mode of understanding things.
It is not usually understood how difficult it is to see the phe-
nomena as they were seen by the older writers. It is one of the most
awesome undertakings of the mind, for we have divided the world up
differently, and willy-niU v we apply our terms, and hence the thoughts
behind them, to the things discussedAJt is always the most popular and
questionable terms of our own age that seem most natural; it is virtually
impossible to speak without using them. For example, H. D. P. Lee, in
describing his view of a translator's responsibility, says, "The translator
must go behind what Plato said and discover what he means, and if, for
example, he says 'examining the beautiful and the good' must not
hesitate to render this as 'discussing moral values' if that is in fact the
way in which the same thought would be expressed today." {The
Republic [London: Penguin, 1956], p. 48.) But if one hurries too
quickly "behind" Plato's .speech, one loses the sense of the surface. Lee
shares with Cornford and many other translators the assurance that
they have a sufficient understanding of Plato's meaning, and that
that meaning is pretty much the kind of thing Englishmen or Amer-
icans already think. However, it might be more prudent to let the
reader decide whether "the beautiful and the good" are simply
equivalent to "moral values." If they are the same, he will soon
enough find out. And if they are not, as may be the case, he will not
be prevented from finding that out and thereby putting his own
opinions to the test.A
In fact "values, in this sense, is a usage of German origin
popularized by sociologists in the last seventy-five years. Implicit in
this usage is the distinction between "facts and values" and the conse-
quence that ends or goals are not based on facts but are mere individual
subjective preferences or, at most, ideal creations of the human spirit.
[ xiii ]
preface
Whether the translator intends it or not, the word "values" coniures
a series of thoughts which are alien to Plato. Every school child kn
that values are relative, and thus that the Plato who seems to de "
them from facts, or treat them as facts themselves, is unsophisticat r\
When the case is prejudged for him in this way, how could the stud t
ever find out that there was once another way of looking at these th '
that had some plausibility? The text becomes a mirror in which he s
only himself. Or, as Nietzsche put it, the scholars dig up what th
themselves buried.
Even if Plato is wrong, the pre-history of our current wisdom "
still of some importance so that the inadequacies of the traditio 1
teaching, which necessitated its replacement, may become clear
Similarly, the word "moral" is inappropriate. It is questionabl
whether Plato had a "moral philosophy." There is a teaching about th
virtues, some of which find their roots in the city, some in philosonh
But/in Plato there are no moral virtues, as we find them first describeH
in Aristotle's Ethics. This is a subtle question, one that requires Ion
study, but one that leads to the heart of the difference between Plat
and Aristotle, and beyond to the whole dispute about the status of
morality. Thus the translator hides another issue. And even if "th
beautiful and the good" do add up to what we mean by morality it •
well that the student should know that for Plato morality is composed
of two elements, one of which lends a certain splendor to it which i
lacking in, say, Kantian morality. And it may also be the case that these
two elements are not always wholly in harmony. The good or the iust
need not always be beautiful or poble, for example, punishment- and
the beautiful or noble need not always be good or just, for examnlp
Achilles' wrath. There is further matter for reflection here.- one
might learn a great deal if one could follow such problems throughout
Plato's works. It is only in this way that a student might reconstruct a
plausible and profound Platonic view of the world rather than find the
dialogues a compendiu m of unconvincing platitudes.
F. M. Cornford, whose translation is now the one most widely
used, ridicules literal translation and insists that it is often "
misleading, or tedious, or grotesque and silly, or pompous and verbose"
{The Republic [New York: Oxford University Press, 1956], p. v.). i
doubt that it is often misleading, although I ad|nit that it may often
lack the beauty of the original. The issue is whether a certain spurious
charm— for it is not Plato's charm— is worth the loss of awareness of
Plato's problems necessitated by Comford's notions about translation
It is only because he did not see the extent of the loss that he could b
so cavalier with the original. He made a rather heavy joke at the
pense of an earlier translator:
[ xiv ]
Preface
One who opened Jowett's version at random and lighted on the state-
ment (at 549B) that the best guardian for a man's "virtue" is
"philosophy tempered with music," might run away with the idea
that in order to avoid irregular relations with women, he had better
play the violin in the intervals of studying metaphysics. There may
be some truth in this; but only after reading widely in other parts of
the book would he discover that it was not quite what Plato meant
by describing logos, combined with musike, as the only sure safe-
guard oi arete (ibid., p. vi.).
But no matter how widely one reads in Comford's translation, one
cannot clarify this sentence or connect it with the -general problems
developed throughout the Republic; for the only possible sources
of clarification or connection, the original terms, have disappeared
and have been replaced by a sentence meaningless in itself and
unillumined by the carefully prepared antecedents which were in-
tended to give the thought special significance. Corriford's version
reads as follows, ". . . his character is not thoroughly sound, for
lack of the only safeguard that can preserve it throughout life, a
thoughtful and cultivated mind." A literal rendering would be " '. . .
[he is] not pure in his attachment to virtue, having been abandoned by
the best guardian . . .' 'What's that?' Adeimantus said. 'Argument [or
speech or reason] mixed with music. . . .' " There is no doubt that one
can read the sentence as it appears in Comford without being drawn up
short, without being puzzled. But this is only because it says nothing. It
uses commonplace terms which have no precise significance; it is the
kind of sentence one finds in newspaper editorials. From having been
shocking or incomprehensible, Plato becomes boring. There is no food
for reflection here. Virtue has become character. But virtue has been a
theme from the beginning of the Republic, and it has received a most
subtle treatment. As a matter of fact^the whole issue of the book is
whether one of the virtues, justice, is choiceworthy in itself or only for
its accessory advantages/ Socrates in this passage teaches that a man
of the Spartan type— the kind of man most reputed for virtue — really
does not love virtue for its own sake, but for other advantages follow-
ing upon it. Secretly he believes money is truly good. This is the same
critique Aristotle makes of Sparta. The question raised here is whether
all vulgar virtue, all nonphilosophic practice of the virtues, is based
upon expectation of some kind of further reward or not. None of this
would appear from Comford's version, no matter how hard the stu-
dent of the text might think about it. He even suppresses Adeimantus'
question so that the entire atmosphere of perplexity disappears. Now,
Adeirnantus is an admirer of Sparta, and Socrates has been trying to
[ XV ]
Preface
correct and purify that, admiration. Adeimantus' question indicates
his difficulty in understanding Socrates' criticism of what he admires;
it shows how little he has learned. The dramatic aspect of the dialogue
is not without significance.
Comford is undoubtedly right that virtue no longer means what it
used to mean and that it has lost its currency. (However, if one were to
assert that courage, for example, is a virtue, most contemporaries
would have some divination of what one is talking about.) But is this
senility of the word only an accident? It has been said that it is one of
the great mysteries of Western thought "how a word which used to
mean the manliness of man has come to mean the chastity of woman."
This change in significance is the product of a new understanding of the
nature of man which began with Machiavelli. (If there were a transla-
tion of the Prince which always translated virtu by virtue, the
student who compared it with the Republic would be in a position
to make the most exciting of discoveries.) "Freedom" took the place
of "virtue" as the most important term of political discourse, and
virtue came to mean social virtue — that is, the disposition which
would lead men to be obedient to civil authority and live in peace
together rather than the natural perfection of the soul. The man
who begins his studies should not be expected to know these things,
but the only tolerable result of learning is that he become aware of
them and be able to reflect on which of the alternatives most ade-
quately describes the human condition. As it now stands, he may well
be robbed of the greatest opportunity for enlightenment afforded
by the classic literature. A study of the use of the word "virtue" in
the Republic is by itself most revealing; and when, in addition, its
sense is compared in Cicero, Thomas Aquinas, Hobbes, and Rous-
seau, the true history of political thought comes to light, and a series
of alternatives is presented to the mind. These authors all self-con-
sciously used the same term and in their disagreement were re-
ferring to the same issues. The reader must be sensitized by the
use of the term to a whole ethos in which "virtue" was still a political
issue.
Comford uses safeguard instead of guardian. This is unob-
jectionable in itself, but guardian is a word that has been laden
with significance by what has preceded in the^book. The rulers,
in particular those who fight and thus hold the power in the city,
have been called guardians since their introduction in Book II. In a
sense the problem of the Republic was to educate a ruling class which
is such as to possess the characteristics of both the citizen, who cares
for his country and has the spirit to fight for it, and the philosopher,
who is gentle and cosmopolitan. This is a quasi-impossibility, and it is
[ xvi ]
Preface
the leading theme of the onerous and complex training prescribed in
the succeeding five books. If the education does not succeed, justice
must be fundamentally compromised with the nature of those who hold
power. In the context under discussion here Socrates is discussing the
regimes which have to be founded on the fundamental compromise be-
cause of the flawed character of the guardians' virtues. Regimes depend
on men's virtues, not on institutions; if the highest virtues are not pres-
ent in the rulers, an inferior regime must be instituted. There are no
guardians above the guardians; )the only guardian of the guardians is a
proper education/ It is this theme to which the reader's attention must
be brought.
J( Andi^ocrates tells us something important about that education; it
consists of reason but not reason alone. It must be mixed with a non-
rational element which tempers the wildness and harshness of both the
pre-philosophic and philosophic natures. Reason does not suffice in the
formation of the good rulep/This is not the place to enter into a discus-
sion of the full bearing of this lesson, but it is of utmost significance.
The term music is indeed a difficult one for the modern reader, but
there has been a full discussion of it in several passages of the
Republic, and any other word would surely be most misleading. And,
in fact, the sense we give to music is not totally alien to the understand-
ing Glaucon and Adeimantus had at the start. It is Socrates who
transformed their view by concentrating on the speech and its truth
while subordinating rhythm and harmony. It is Socrates who ra-
tionalized music.
Is it not conceivable that the Republic is a book meant for people
who are going to read widely in it, and that it would be unfair to cheat
them for the sake of the subjective satisfaction of those who pick out
sentences aimlessly? Is the man who comes away from the text with the
interpretation feared by Cornford a reader about whom Plato would
care? And does the gain in immediate intelligibility or beauty offset the
loss in substance? Only unawareness of the problems can account for
such a perverse skewing of the emphases. And this was a sentence cho-
sen by Cornford to demonstrate the evident superiority of his pro-
cedure!
There are a whole series of fundamental teiTns like virtue. Nature
and city are but two of the most important which are most often mis-
translated. I have tried to indicate a number of them in the notes when
they first occur. They are translated as they have been by the great
authors in the philosophic tradition. Above all, I have avoided using
terms of recent origin for which it is difficult to find an exact Greek
equivalent, inasmuch as they are likely to be the ones which most
reflect specifically modem thought. It is, of course, impossible always
[ xvii ]
Preface
to translate every Greek word in the same way. But the only standard
for change was the absolute unintelligibility of the rendition and not
any desire to make Plato sound better or to add variety where he might
seem monotonous. And the most crucial words, like those just men-
tioned and form and regime, etc., are always the same in spite of the
difficulties this procedure sometimes causes. Ordinarily in con-
temporary translations the occurrence of, for example, nature in the
English is no indication that there is anything related to physis in the
Greek, and the occurrence of physis in the Greek does not regularly
call forth any word related to nature from the translator. But, since
nature is the standard for Plato, this confusion causes the reader either
to be ignorant of the fact that nature is indeed Plato's standard or to
mistake which phenomena he considers natural. Literal translation
makes the Republic a difficult book to read; but it is in itself a difficult
bock, and our historical situation makes it doubly difficult for us. This
must not be hidden./Plato intended his works essentially for the in-
telligent and industrious few, a natural aristocracy determined neither
by birth nor wealthyand this translation attempts to do nothing which
would contradict that intention.
In addition to unawareness of the need for precision, unwill-
ingness to accept certain unpalatable or shocking statements or teach-
ings is another cause of deviation from literalness. This unwillingness
is due either to a refusal to believe Plato says what he means or to a
desire to make him respectable. Comford provides again a spectacular
example of a not too uncommon tendency. At Book III 414 Socrates
tells of the need for a "noble lie" to be believed in the city he and his
companions are founding (in speech). Cornford calls it a"bold flight of
invention' and adds the following note: "This phrase is commonly ren-
dered 'noble lie,' a self-contradictory expression no more applicable to
Plato's harmless allegory than to a New Testament parable or the
Pilgrim's Progress, and liable to suggest that he would countenance the
lies, for the most part ignoble, now called propaganda . . ." {ibid., p.
106). But Socrates calls it a lie. The diflference between a parable and
this tale is that the man who hears a parable is conscious that it is an in-
vention the truth of which is not in its literal expression, whereas the
inhabitants of Socrates' city are to believe the untrue story to be true.
His ijjterlocutors are shocked by the notion, but— according to Corn-
ford— we are to believe it is harmless because it might conjure up
unpleasant associations.
This whole question of lying has been carefully prepared by Plato
from the very outset, starting with the discussion with old Cephalus
(331 b-c). It recurs again with respect to the lies of the poets (377 d).
XV]]]
Preface
and in the assertions that gods cannot lie (381 e-382 e) and that rulers
may lie (380 b-c). Now, finally,jit is baldly stated that the only truly
just civil society must be founded on a lie. Socrates prefers to face up to
the issue with clarity. A good regime cannot be based on enlighten-
ment; if there is no lie, a number of compromises— among them private
property-^must be made and hence merely conventional inequalities
must be accepted. This is a radical statement about the relationship
between truth and justice, one which leads to the paradox that wisdom
can rule only in an element dominated by falsehood^It is hardly worth
obscuring this issue for the sake of avoiding the crudest of misun-
derstandings. And perhaps the peculiarly modem phenomenon of prop-
aganda might become clearer to the man who sees that it is somehow
related to a certain myth of enlightenment which is itself brought into
question by the Platonic analysis.^
Beyond the general problems affecting the translation of all Greek
and Latin texts, the Platonic dialogues present a particular difficulty. It
is not too hard to find acceptable versions of Aristotle's treatises. This
is because they are not entirely unlike modem books. There is, on the
other hand, frequently a lack of clarity about the purposes of the
dialogue form. Plato is commonly understood to have had a teaching
like that of Aristotle and to have enclosed it in a sweet coating designed
to perform certain didactic or artistic functions but which must be
stripped away to get to the philosophic core. We then have Plato the
poet and Plato the philosopher, two beings rolled into one and coexist-
ing in an uneasy harmony. This is the fatal error which leads to the
distinction between form and substance. The student of philosophy
then takes one part of the dialogue as his special domain and the stu-
dent of literature another as his; the translator follows suit, using great
license in the bulk of the book and reverting to a care appropriate to
Aristotle when philosophy appears to enter.
Cornford, as in all other things, expresses the current tendency in
a radical form. He cuts out many of the exchanges of the interlocutors
and suppresses entire arguments which do not seem to him to con-
tribute to the movement of the dialogue. Although he claims his wish is
to fulfill Plato's intentions in a modem context, he finally confesses that
"the convention of question and answer becomes formal and frequently
tedious. Plato himself came near to abandoning it in his latest work, the
Laws . . ." {ibid., p. vii). Comford thus improves on Plato, correcting
him in what he believes to be the proper direction. He thinks the
dialogue form is only a convention, and, when it fatigues him, he aban-
dons it. It is at precisely this point that>fene should begin to ask whether
we understand what a dialogue really is. It is neither poetry nor
[ xix ]
Treface
philosophy; it is something of both, but it is itself and not a mere com-
bination of the two. The fact that sometimes it does not meet the stan-
dards of the dramatic art reveals the same thing as the fact that
sometimes the arguments are not up to the standards of philosophical
rigor:/ Plato's intention is different from that of the poet or the
philosopher as we understand them. To call the dialogue a convention
is to hide the, problem. Perhaps this very tedium of which Comford
complains is/he test which Plato gives to the potential philosopher to
see whether he is capable of overcoming the charm of external fonn;(
for a harsh concentration on often ugly detail is requisite to the
philosophic enterprise/lt is the concentration on beauty to the detri-
ment of truth which constitutes the core of his critique of poetry, just as
the indifference to forms, and hence to man, constitutes the core of his
criticism of pre-Socratic^philosophy/The dialogue is the synthesis of
these two poles and is an organic unity. Every argument must be inter-
preted dramatically, for every argument is incomplete in itself and only
the context can supply the missing links. And every dramatic detail
must be interpreted philosophically, because these details contain the
images of the problems which complete the arguments. Separately
these two aspects are meaningless; together they are an invitation to the
philosophic quest.
Comford cites the Laws as proof that Plato gradually mended his
ways; thus he has a certain Platonic justification for his changes in the
text. But the difference in form between the Republic and the Laws is
not a result of Plato's old age having taught him the defects of his man-
nered drama, as Comford would have it, or its having caused him to
lose his dramatic flair, as others assert. Rather the difference reflects
the differences in the participants in the dialogues and thereby the dif-
ference of intention of the two works. This is just one example of what
is typical of every part of the Platonic works. By way of the drama one
comes to the profoundest issues. In the Republic Socrates discusses the
best regime, a regime which can never be actualized, with two young
men of some theoretical gifts whom he tries to convert from the life of
political ambition to one in which philosophy plays a role. He must
persuade them; every step of the argument is directed to their par-
ticular opinions and characters. Their reasoned assent is crucial to the
whole process. The points at which they object to Socrates' reasoning
are always most important, and so are the points when they assent
when they should not. Each of the exchanges reveals something, even
when the responses seem most uninteresting. In the Laws the Athenian
Stranger engages in the narrower task of prescribing a code of laws for
a possible but inferior regime. His interlocutors are old men who have
[ XX ]
Preface
no theoretical gifts or openness. The Stranger talks to them not for the
end of any conversion but only because one of them has the political
power the Stranger lacks. The purpose of his rhetoric is to make his
two companions receptive to this unusual code. The Stranger must
have the consent of the other two to operate his reforms of existing or-
ders. Their particular prejudices must be overcome, but not by true
persuasion of the truth; the new teaching must be made to appear to be
in accord with their ancestrally hallowed opinions. Important conces-
sions must be made to those opinions, since they are inalterable. The
discussions indicate such difficulties and are preliminary to the essen-
tial act of lawgiving. Laws by their nature have the character of
monologue rather than dialogue, and they are not supposed to discuss
or be discussed; thus the presentation of the laws tends to be inter-
rupted less.(The strength and weakness of law lies in the fact that it is
the polar opposite of philosophic discussion. The intention of a
dialogue is the cause of its form, and that intention comes to light only
to those who reflect on its form. I
The Platonic dialogues do not present a doctrine; they prepare the
way for philosophizing. They are intended to perform the function of a
living teacher who makes his students think,) who knows which ones
should be led further and which ones should be kept away from the
mysteries, and who makes them exercise the same faculties and virtues
in studying his words as they would have to use in studying nature in-
dependently. One must philosophize to understand them. There is a
Platonic teaching, but it is no more to be found in any of the speeches
than is the thought of Shakespeare to be found in the utterances of any
particular character. That thought is in none of the parts but is some-
how in the whole, and the process of arriving at it is more subtle than
that involved in reading a treatise. One must look at the microcosm of
the drama just as one would look at the macrocosm of the world
which it represents. Every detail of that world is an effect of the un-
derlying causes which can be grasped only by the mind but which
can be unearthed only by using all the senses as well. Those causes
are truly known only when they are come to by way of the fullest
consciousness of the world which they cause. Otherwise one does
not know what to look for nor can one know the full power of the
causes. A teaching which gives only the principles remains abstract
and is mere dogma, for the student himself does not know what the
principles explain nor does he know enough of the world to be sure
that their explanations are anything more than partial. It is this rich
consciousness of the phenomena on which the dialogues insist, and
they themselves provide a training in it.
[ xxi ]
Preface
The human world is characterized by the distinction between
speech and deed, and we all recognize that in order to understand a
man or what he says both aspects must be taken into account. Just as
no action of a man can be interpreted without hearing what he says
about it himself, no speech can be accepted on its face value without
corhparing it to the actions of its author. The understanding of the man
and his speeches is a result of a combination of the two perspectives.
Thrasymachus' blush is as important as any of his theoretical argu-
ments. A student who has on his own pieced together the nature of the
rhetorician on the basis of his representation in the Republic has
grasped his nature with a sureness grounded on a perception of the
universal seen through the particular. This is his own insight, and he
knows it more authentically and surely than someone who has been
given a definition. This joins the concreteness of r§^fir it^e fin esse to the
science of I'esprit de g^g rnetrie ; it avoids the pitfalls of particularistic
sensitivity, on tfie one hand, and abstractness on the other. Poet and
scientist become one, for the tialents of both are necessary to the attain-
ment of the only end— the truth.
The Platonic dialogues are a representation of the world; they are
a cosmos in themselves. To interpret them, they must be approached as
one would approach the world, bringing with one all one's powers. The
only difference between the dialogues aiid the world is that the
dialogues are so constructed that each part is integrally connected with
every other part; there are no meaningless accidents. Plato reproduced
the essential world as he saw it. Every word has its place and its mean-
ing, and when one cannot with assurance explain any detail, he can
know that his understanding is incomplete. When something seems
boring or has to be explained away as a convention, it means that the
interpreter has given up and has taken his place among the ranks of
those Plato intended to exclude from the center of his thought. It is
always that which strikes us as commonplace or absurd which indi-
cates that we are not open to one of the mysteries, for such sentiments
are the protective mechanisms which prevent our framework from
being shaken.
The dialogues are constructed with an almost unbelievable care
and subtlety. The drama is everywhere, even in what seem to be the
most stock responses or the most purely theoretical disquisitions. In the
discussion of the divided line, for example, the particular illustrations
chosen fit the nature of Socrates' interlocutor; in order to see the whole
problem, the reader must ponder not only the distinction of the kinds
of knowing and being but its particular effect on Glaucon and what Soc-
rates might have said to another man. One is never allowed to sit and
xxu
Preface
passively receive the words of wisdom from the mouth of the master.
And this means that the translation must, insofar as humanly possible,
present all the nuances of the original— the oaths, the repetitions of
words, the slight changes in the fonn of responses, etc.— so that the
reader can look at the progress of the drama with all the perceptiveness
and sharpness of which his nature permits him, which he would bring
to bear on any real situation which concerned him. The translator can-
not hope to have understood it all, but he must not begrudge his possi-
ble moral and intellectual superiors their possibility of insight. It is in
the name of this duty that one risks the ridiculousness of pedan try in
preserving the uncomfortable details which force a sacrifice of the
easygoing charms of a more contemporary style.
I have used the Oxford text of the Republic, edited by John
Burnet. I have deviated from it only rarely and in the important
instances have made mention of it in the notes. Always at my hand was,
of course, James Adam's valuable commentary (New York: Cambridge
University Press, 1963). Schleiermacher's old German version was the
most useful translation I found. Although his text was inferior to ours,
he seems to have had the best grasp of the character and meaning of the
dialogues. Robin's French is also quite careful. The best English
translations are Paul Shorey's (Loeb) and A. D. Lindsay's (Every-
man's). The latter is probably the more useful of the two because it is
so unpretentious and straightforward.
The notes are not intended to be interpretive but merely to pre-
sent necessary information the reader could not be expected to know,
explain difficulties in translation, present the meaning of certain key
terms, and, above all, give the known sources for the citations from
other authors and the changes Plato makes in them. The dialogue is so
rich in connections with other Platonic works and the rest of classical
literature that it would be impossible to begin to supply even the most
important. Moreover, it is the reader's job to discover these things him-
self, not only because it is good for him but also because the editor
might very well be wrong in his emphases. The text is as much as possi-
ble Plato's, to be confronted directly by the reader. 1 have saved my
own opinions for the interpretive essay. The index is also intended to
serve as a glossary; its categories are drawn only from Plato's usage and
not from contemporary interests or problems.
Whatever merit this translation may have is due in large measure
to the help of Seth Benardete and Werner J. Dannhauser. The former
gave me unsparingly of his immense classical learning and insight; the
latter was almost unbelievably generous with his time and brought his
sensitivity and sound judgment to the entire manuscript. I am also
[ xxiii ]
Preface
grateful to Ralph Lemer for his suggestions after a thorough reading of
the text. Walter F. Bems, Jr., Richard H. Kennington, and Myron
Rush were very helpful with the introduction. I wish to thank my stu-
dents, who were the first to use the translation in their studies; par-
ticularly Games Lord, James Nichols, and Marc Plattner for their sug-
gestions and detection of omissions and errors. Mr. Plattner also did
the bulk of the work on the index and deserves the credit for this useful
addition to my translation. The interpretive essay relies heavily on
Leo Strauss' authoritative discussion of the Republic in The City and
Man (Chicago: Rand McNally, 1964).
I must thank the Relm Foundation and Cornell University for
their support. And I must also thank the Centre Universitaire Inter-
national and its staff for the lovely office and the thoughtful assistance
they gave me during my stay in Paris where I did the bulk of this work.
Allan Bloom
Ithaca, New York
July 1968
XXIV
CONTENTS
THE
REPUBLIC
Book I
3
Book II
35
Book III
63
Book IV
97
Book V
127
Book VI
163
Book VII
193
Book VIII
221
Book IX
251
Book X
277
INTERPRETIVE
ESSAY
305
NOTES
437
INDEX
473
THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO
BOOK I
Socrates: I went down to the Piraeus^ yesterday with Glaucon, son of
Ariston,^ to pray to the goddess; and, at the same time, I wanted to ob-
serve how they would put on the festival,^ since they were now hold-
ing it for the first time. Now, in my opinion, the procession of the native
inhabitants was fine; but the one the Thracians conducted was no less
fitting a show. After we had prayed and looked on, we went off toward
town.
Catching sight of us from afar as we were pressing homewards,
Polemarchus, son of Cephalus, ordered his slave boy to run after us and
order us to wait for him. The boy took hold of my cloak from behind
and said, "Polemarchus orders you to wait."
And I turned around and asked him where his master was. "He is
coming up behind," he said, "just wait."
"Of course we'll wait," said Glaucon.
A moment later Polemarchus came along with Adeimantus, Glau-
con's brother, Niceratus, son of Nicias, and some others — apparently
from the procession. Polemarchus said, "Socrates, I guess you two are
hurrying to get away to town."
"That's not a bad guess," I said.
"Well, " he said, "do you see how many of us there are? "
"Of course."
"Well, then," he said, "either prove stronger than these men
or stay here."
[3]
socrates/polemarchus/glaucon/adeimantus/cephalus the RErUBLIC
227 c "Isn't there still one other possibility . . . ," I said, "our per-
suading you that you must let us go?"
"Could you really persuade," he said, "if we don't listen?"
"There's no way," said Glaucon.
"Well, then, think it over, bearing in mind we won't listen."
328 a Then Adeimantus said, "Is it possible you don't know that at sun-
set there will be a torch race on horseback for the goddess?"
"On horseback?" I said. "That is novel. Will they hold torches
and pass them to one another while racing the horses, or what do you
mean?"
"That's it," said Polemarchus, "and, besides, they'll put on an all-
night festival that will be worth seeing. We'll get up after dinner and go
to see it; there we'll be together with many of the young men and we'll
b talk. So stay and do as I tell you."
And Glaucon said, "It seems we must stay."
"Well, if it is so resolved,"^ I said, "that's how we must act."
Then we went to Polemarchus' home; there we found Lysias'^ and
Euthydemus, Polemarchus' brothers, and, in addition, Thrasymachus,^
the Chalcedonian and Charmantides, the Paeanian,^ and Cleito-
phonji** the son of Aristonymus.
Cephalus,!! Polemarchus' father, was also at home; and he
c seemed very old to me, for I had not seen him for some time. He was
seated on a sort of cushioned stool and was crowned with a wreath, for
he had just performed a sacrifice in the courtyard. We sat down beside
him, for some stools were arranged in a circle there. As soon as Ceph-
alus saw me, he greeted me warmly and said:
"Socrates, you don't come down to us in the Piraeus very often,
yet you ought to. Now if I still had the strength to make the trip to
town easily, there would be no need for you to come here; rather we
d would come to you. As it is, however, you must come here more fre-
quently. I want you to know that as the other pleasures, those con-
nected with the body, wither away in me, the desires and pleasures that
have to do with speeches grow the more. Now do as I say: be with these
young men, but come here regularly to us as to friends and your very
own kin."
"For my part, Cephalus, I am really delighted to discuss with the
e very old," I said. "Since they are like men who have proceeded on a
certain road that perhaps we too will have to take, one ought, in my
opinion, to learn from them what sort of road it is — ^whether it is rough
and hard or easy and smooth. From you in particular I should like to
learn how it looks to you, for you are now at just the time of life the
[ 4 ]
Book 1 1 327c-330a socrates/cephalus
poets call 'the threshold of old age.''^ is it a hard time of life, or what 328 c
have you to report of it?"
"By Zeus, I shall tell you just how it looks to me, Socrates," he
said. "Some of us who are about the same age often meet together and 329 a
keep up the old proverb. '^^ Now then, when they meet, most of the
members of our group lament, longing for the pleasures of youth and
reminiscing about sex, about drinking bouts and feasts and all that goes
with things of that sort; they take it hard as though they were deprived
of something very important and had then lived well but are now not
even alive. Some also bewail the abuse that old age receives from b
relatives, and in this key they sing a refrain about all the evils old age
has caused them. But, Socrates, in my opinion these men do not put
their fingers on the cause. For, if this were the cause, I too would have
suffered these same things insofar as they depend on old age and so
would everyone else who has come to this point in life. But as it is, I
have encountered others for whom it was not so, especially Sophocles. I
was once present when the poet was asked by someone, 'Sophocles,
how are you in sex? Can you still have intercourse with a woman?' c
'Silence, man,' he said. 'Most joyfully did I escape it, as though I had
run away from a sort of frenzied and savage master.' I thought at the
time that he had spoken well and I still do. For, in every way, old age
brings great peace and freedom from such things. When the desires
cease to strain and finally relax, then what Sophocles says comes to pass
in every way; it is possible to be rid of very many mad masters. But of d
these things and of those that concern relatives, there is one just
cause: not old age, Socrates, but the character of the human beings. ^4
If they are orderly and content with themselves, ^^ even old age is only
moderately troublesome; if they are not, then both age, Socrates, and
youth alike turn out to be hard for that sort."
Then I was full of wonder at what he said and, wanting him to say
still more, I stirred him up, saying: "Cephalus, when you say these e
things, I suppose that the manyi^ do not accept them from you, but
believe rather that it is not due to character that you bear old age so
easily but due to possessing great substance. They say that for the rich
there are many consolations. '
"What you say is true," he said. "They do not accept them. And
they do have something there, but not, however, quite as much as they
think; rather, the saying of Themistocles holds good. When a Seriphian
abused him — saying that he was illustrious not thanks to himself but 330 a
thanks to the city — he answered that if he himself had been a Seriphian
he would not have made a name, nor would that man have made one
[ 5]
CEPHALUS/SOCRATIES THE REPUBLIC
330 a had he been an Athenian. And the same argument also holds good for
those who are not wealthy and bear old age with difficulty: the decent
man would not bear old age with poverty very easily, nor would the one
who is not a decent sort ever be content with himself even if he were
wealthy."
"Cephalus," I said, "did you inherit or did you earn most of what
you possess?"
b "What do you mean, earned, Socrates!" he said. "As a money-
maker, I was a sort of mean between my grandfather and my father.
For my grandfather, whose namesake I am, inherited pretty nearly as
much substance as I now possess, and he increased it many times over.
Lysanias, my father, used it to a point where it was still less than it is
now. I am satisfied if I leave not less, but rather a bit more than I
inherited, to my sons here."
"The reason I asked, you see," I said, "is that to me you didn't
c seem overly fond of money. For the most part, those who do not make
money themselves are that way. Those who do make it are twice as at-
tached to it as the others. For just as poets are fond of their poems and
fathers of their children, so money-makers too are serious about
money — as their own product; and they also are serious about it for the
same reason other men are — for its use. They are, therefore, hard even
to be with because they are willing to praise nothing but wealth."
"What you say is true," he said.
d "Indeed it is," I said. "But tell me something more. What do you
suppose is the greatest good that you have enjoyed from possessing
great wealth?"
"What I say wouldn't persuade many perhaps. For know well,
Socrates," he said, "that when a man comes near to the realiza-
tion that he will be making an end, fear and care enter him for things to
which he gave no thought before. The tales^^ told about what is in
Hades — that the one who has done unjust deeds^^ here must pay the
e penalty there — at which he laughed up to then, now make his soul twist
and turn because he fears they might be true. Whether it is due to the
debility of old age, or whether he discerns something more of the things
in that place because he is already nearer to them, as it were — he is, at
any rate, now full of suspicion and terror; and he reckons up his ac-
counts and considers whether he has done anything unjust to anyone.
Now, the man who finds many unjust deeds in his life often even wakes
from his sleep in a fright as children do, and lives in anticipation of
evil. To the man who is conscious in himself of no unjust deed, sweet
331 a and good hope is ever beside him — a nurse of his old age, as Pindar
puts it. For, you know, Socrates, he put it charmingly when he said that
whoever lives out a just and holy life
Book 1 1 330a-332a cephalus/socrates/polemarchus
Sweet hope accompanies, 331 a
Fostering his heart, a nurse of his old age,
Hope which most of all pilots
The ever-turning opinion of mortals.
How very wonderfully well he says that. For this I count the possession
of money most wroth-while, not for any man, but for the decent and or-
derly one. The possession of money contributes a great deal to not b
cheating or lying to any man against one's will, and, moreover, to
not departing for that other place frightened because one owes some
sacrifices to a god or money to a human being. It also has many other
uses. But, still, one thing reckoned against another, I wouldn't count
this as the least thing, Socrates, for which wealth is very useful to an in-
telligent man. "
"What you say is very fine'^ indeed, Cephalus," I said. "But as c
to this very thing, justice, shall we so simply assert that it is the truth
and giving back what a man has taken from another, or is to do these
very things sometimes just and sometimes unjust? Take this case as an
example of what I mean: everyone would surely say that if a man takes
weapons from a friend when the latter is of sound mind, and the friend
demands them back when he is mad, one shouldn't give back such
things, and the man who gave them back would not be just, and
moreover, one should not be willing to tell someone in this state the
whole truth. "
"What you say is right," he said. d
"Then this isn't the definition of justice, speaking the truth and
giving back what one takes."
"It most certainly is, Socrates," interrupted Polemarchus, "at least
if Simonides should be believed at all."
"Well, then, " said Cephalus, "I hand down the argument to you,
for it's already time for me to look after the sacrifices. "
"Am I not the heir of what belongs to you?" said Polemarchus. 20
"Certainly," he said and laughed. And with that he went away to
the sacrifices. 21
"Tell me, you, the heir of the argument, " I said, "what was it Si- e
monides said about justice that you assert he said correctly? "
"That it is just to give to each what is owed," he said. "In saying
this he said a fine thing, at least in my opinion. "
"Well, it certainly isn't easy to disbelieve a Simonides,' I said.
"He is a wise and divine man. However, you, Polemarchus, perhaps
know what on earth he means, but I don't understand. For plainly he
doesn't mean what we were just saying — giving back to any man what-
soever something he has deposited when, of unsound mind, he demands
it. And yet, what he deposited is surely owed to him, isn't it?" 332 a
[ 7]
POLEMARCHUS/SOCRATES THE REPUBLIC
332 a "Yes."
"But, when of unsound mind he demands it, it should under no
condition be given back to him?"
"True," he said.
"Then Simonides, it seems, means something different from this
sort of thing when he says that it is just to give back what is owed."
"Of course it's different, by Zeus," he said. "For he supposes that
friends owe it to friends to do some good and nothing bad."
"I understand," I said. "A man does not give what is owed in giv-
ing back gold to someone who has deposited it, when the giving and the
b taking turn out to be bad, assuming the taker and the giver are
friends. Isn't this what you assert Simonides means?"
"Most certainly."
"Now, what about this? Must we give back to enemies whatever is
owed to them?"
"That's exactly it," he said, "just what's owed to them. And I
suppose that an enemy owes his enemy the very thing which is also
fitting: some harm."
"Then, " I said, "it seems that Simonides made a riddle, after the
c fashion of poets, when he said what the just is. For it looks as if he
thought that it is just to give to everyone what is fitting, and to this he
gave the name 'what is owed. "
"What else do you think?" he said.
"In the name of Zeus," I said, "if someone were to ask him,
'Simonides, the ait^ called medicine gives what that is owed and
fitting to which things?' what do you suppose he would answer us?"
"It's plain," he said, "drugs, foods and drinks to bodies."
"The art called cooking gives what that is owed and fitting to
which things? "
d "Seasonings to meats. "
"All right. Now then, the art that gives what to which things
would be called justice?"
"If the answer has to be consistent with what preceded, Socrates,"
he said, "the one that gives benefits and harms to friends and enemies."
"Does he mean that justice is doing good to friends and harm
to enemies?'
"In my opinion."
"With respect to disease and health, who is most able to do good
to sick friends and bad to enemies? "
"A doctor."
[ 8]
Book 1 1 332a-333c socrates/polemarchus
"And with respect to the danger of the sea, who has this power 332 e
over those who are saihng?"
"A pilot."
"And what about the just man, in what action and with respect to
what work is he most able to help friends and harm enemies?"
"In my opinion it is in making war and being an ally in battle."
"All right. However, to men who are not sick, my friend Polemar-
chus, a doctor is useless."
"True."
"And to men who are not sailing, a pilot. "
"Yes."
"Then to men who are not at war, is the just man useless?"
"Hardly so, in my opinion."
"Then is justice also useful in peacetime?"
"It is useful." 333 a
"And so is farming, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"For the acquisition of the fruits of the earth?"
"Yes."
"And, further, is shoemaking also useful?"
"Yes."
"You would say, I suppose, for the acquisition of shoes?"
"Certainly."
"What about justice then? For the use or acquisition of what
would you say it is useful in peacetime?"
"Contracts, Socrates."
"Do you mean by contracts, partnerships, ^^ or something else?"
"Partnerships, of course."
"Then is the just man a good and useful partner in setting down b
draughts, or is it the skilled player of draughts ?"24
"The skilled player of draughts."
"In setting down bricks and stones, is the just man a more useful
and better partner than the housebuilder?"
"Not at all."
"But in what partnership then is the just man a better partner than
the harp player, just as the harp player is better than the just man when
one has to do with notes?"
"In money matters, in my opinion."
"Except perhaps in using money, Polemarchus, when a horse
must be bought or sold with money in partnership; then, I suppose, the
expert on horses is a better partner. Isn't that so? " c
9]
POLEMABCHUS/SOCRATES THE REPUBLIC
333 c "It looks like it."
"And, further, when it's a ship, the shipbuilder or pilot is better?"
"It seems so."
"Then, when gold or silver must be used in partnership, in what
case is the just man more useful than the others?"
"When they must be deposited and kept safe, Socrates."
"Do you mean when there is no need to use them, and they are
left lying?"
"Certainly."
d "Is it when money is useless that justice is useful for it?"
"I'm afraid so."
"And when a pruning hook must be guarded, justice is useful both
in partnership and in private; but when it must be used, vine-cul-
ture."
"It looks like it."
"Will you also assert that when a shield and a lyre must be
guarded and not used, justice is useful; but when they must be used, the
soldier's art and the musician's art are useful?"
"Necessarily."
"And with respect to everything else as well, is justice useless in
the use of each and useful in its uselessness?"
"I'm afraid so."
e "Then justice, my friend, wouldn't be anything very serious, if it
is useful for useless things. Let's look at it this way. Isn't the man who
is cleverest at landing a blow in boxing, or any other kind of fight, also
the one cleverest at guarding against it?"
"Certainly."
"And whoever is clever at guarding against disease is also
cleverest at getting away with producing it?"
"In my opinion, at any rate."
"And, of course, a good guardian of an army is the very same man
334 a who can also steal the enemy's plans and his other dispositions?"
"Certainly."
"So of whatever a man is a clever guardian, he is also a clever
thief?"
"It seems so."
"So that if a man is clever at guarding money, he is also clever at
stealing it?"
"So the argument's indicates at least," he said.
"The just man, then, as it seems, has come to light as a kind of
robber, and I'm afraid you learned this from Homer. For he admires
b Autolycus, Odysseus' grandfather'^ on his mother's side, and says he
[ 10 ]
Book 1 1 333c-335a socrates/polemarchus
surpassed all men 'in stealing and in swearing oaths.' Justice, then, 334 b
seems, according to you and Homer and Simonides, to be a certain art
of stealing, for the benefit, to be sure, of friends and the harm of ene-
mies. Isn't that what you meant?"
"No, by Zeus," he said. "But I no longer know what I did mean.
However, it is still my opinion that justice is helping friends and harming
enemies. "
"Do you mean by friends those who seem to be good to an in- c
dividual, or those who are, even if they don't seem to be, and similarly
with enemies?"
"It's likely, " he said, "that the men one believes to be good, one
loves, while those he considers bad one hates."
"But don't human beings make mistakes about this, so that many
seem to them to be good although they are not, and vice versa? "
"They do make mistakes. "
"So for them the good are enemies and the bad are friends? "
"Certainly."
"But nevertheless it's still just for them to help the bad and harm
the good?" d
"It looks like it."
"Yet the good are just and such as not to do injustice? "
"True."
"Then, according to your argument, it's just to treat badly men who
have done nothing unjust? "
"Not at all, Socrates," he said. "For the argument seems to be
bad."
"Then, after all," I said, "it's just to harm the unjust and help the
just?"
"This looks finer than what we just said."
"Then for many, Polemarchus — all human beings who make
mistakes — it will turn out to be just to harm friends, for their friends e
are bad; and just to help enemies, for they are good. So we shall say the
very opposite of what we asserted Simonides means."
"It does really turn out that way, " he said. "But let's change what
we set down at the beginning. For I'm afraid we didn't set down the
definition of friend and enemy correctly."
"How did we do it, Polemarchus?"
"We set dovwi that the man who seems good is a friend. "
"Now," I said, "how shall we change it?"
"The man who seems to be, and is, good, is a friend," he said,
"while the man who seems good and is not, seems to be but is not a 335 a
friend. And we'll take the same position about the enemy."
[ 11 ]
SOCRATES/POLEMARCHUS THE REPUBLIC
335 a "Then the good man, as it seems, will by this argument be a
friend, and the good-for-nothing man an enemy?"
"Yes."
"You order us to add something to what we said at first about the
just. Then we said that it is just to do good to the friend and bad to
the enemy, while now we are to say in addition that it is just to do good
to the friend, if he is good, and harm to the enemy, if he is bad."
b "Most certainly," he said. "Said in that way it would be fine in my
opinion."
"Is it, then," I said, "the part of a just man to harm any human
being whatsoever?"
"Certainly," he said, "bad men and enemies ought to be harmed."
"Do horses that have been harmed become better or worse?"
"Worse."
"With respect to the virtue^^ of dogs or to that of horses?"
"With respect to that of horses."
"And when dogs are harmed, do they become worse with respect
to the virtue of dogs and not to that of horses?"
"Necessarily."
c "Should we not assert the same of human beings, my comrade —
that when they are harmed, they become worse with respect to human
virtue?"
"Most certainly."
"But isn't justice human virtue?"
"That's also necessary."
"Then, my friend, human beings who have been harmed
necessarily become more unjust. "
"It seems so."
"Well, are musicians able to make men unmusical by music?"
"Impossible."
"Are men skilled in horsemanship able to make men incompetent
riders by horsemanship?"
"That can't be. "
"But are just men able to make others unjust by justice, of all
d things? Or, in sum, are good men able to make other men bad by vir-
tue?"
"Impossible."
"For I suppose that cooling is not the work of heat, but of its op-
posite."
"Yes."
"Nor wetting the work of dryness but of its opposite."
"Certainly,"
[ 12 ]
Book 1 1 335a-336d socrates/polemarchus/thrasymachus
"Nor is harming, in fact, the work of the good but of its opposite." 335 d
"It looks like it."
"And it's the just man who is good?"
"Certainly. "
"Then it is not the work of the just man to harm either a friend or
anyone else, Polemarchus, but of his opposite, the unjust man."
"In my opinion, Socrates," he said, "what you say is entirely
true."
"Then if someone asserts that it's just to give what is owed to each e
man — and he understands by this that harm is owed to enemies by the
just man and help to friends — the man who said it was not wise. For he
wasn't telling the truth. For it has become apparent to us that it is never
just to harm anyone."
"I agree," he said.
"We shall do battle then as partners, you and I," I said, "if
someone asserts that Simonides, or Bias, or Pittacus^ or any other
wise and blessed man said it."
"I, for one," he said, "am ready to be your partner in the battle. "
"Do you know," I said, "to whom, in my opinion, that saying 336 a
belongs which asserts that it is just to help friends and harm ene-
mies?"
"To whom?" he said.
"I suppose it belongs to Periander, or Perdiccas, or Xerxes, or
Ismenias the Theban,^^ or some other rich man who has a high
opinion of what he can do."
"What you say is very true," he said.
"All right," I said, "since it has become apparent that neither
justice nor the just is this, what else would one say they are?"
Now Thrasymachus had many times started out to take over the b
argument in the midst of our discussion, but he had been restrained by
the men sitting near him, who wanted to hear the argument out. But
when we paused and I said this, he could no longer keep quiet;
hunched up like a wild beast, he flung himself at us as if to tear us
to pieces. Then both Polemarchus and I got all in a flutter from fright.
And he shouted out into our midst and said, "What is this nonsense
that has possessed you for so long, Socrates? And why do you act like c
fools making way for one another? If you truly want to know what
the just is, don't only ask and gratify your love of honor by refuting
whatever someone answers — you know that it is easier to ask than to
answer — but answer yourself and say what you assert the just to be.
And see to it you don't tell me that it is the needful, or the helpful, d
or the profitable, or the gainful, or the advantageous; but tell me
[ 13 ]
THHASYMACHUS/SOCRATES THEREPUBLIC
336 d clearly and precisely what you mean, for I ' won't accept it if you say
such inanities."
I was astounded when I heard him, and, looking at him, I was
frightened. I think that if I had not seen him before he saw me, I would
have been speechless.^" As it was, just when he began to be ex-
asperated by the argument, I had looked at him first, so that I was able
e to answer him; and with just a trace of a tremor, I said: "Thrasyma-
chus, don't be hard on us. If we are making any mistake in the con-
sideration of the arguments, Polemarchus and I, know well that we're
making an unwilling mistake. If we were searching for gold we would
never willingly make way for one another in the search and ruin our
chances of finding it; so don't suppose that when we are seeking for
justice, a thing more precious than a great deal of gold, we would ever
foolishly give in to one another and not be as serious as we can be
about bringing it to light. Don't you suppose that, my friend! Rather, as
I suppose, we are not competent. So it's surely far more fitting for us to
337 a be pitied by you clever men than to be treated harshly."
He listened, burst out laughing very scornfully, and said,
"Heracles! Here is that habitual irony of Socrates. I knew it, and I pre-
dicted to these fellows that you wouldn't be willing to answer, that
you would be ironic and do anything rather than answer if someone
asked you something."
"That's because you are wise, Thrasymachus," I said. "Hence you
knew quite well that if you asked someone how much twelve is and in
b asking told him beforehand, 'See to it you don't tell me, you human
being, that it is two times six, or three times four, or six times two, or
four times three; I won't accept such nonsense from you' — it was plain
to you, I suppose, that no one would answer a man who asks in this
way. And if he asked, 'Thrasymachus, what do you mean? Shall I
answer none of those you mentioned before? Even if it happens to be
one of these, shall I say something other than the truth, you surprising
c man? Or what do you mean?' — what would you say to him in re-
sponse?"
"Very well," he said, "as if this case were similar to the other."
"Nothing prevents it from being," I said. "And even granting that
it's not similar, but looks like it is to the man who is asked, do you
think he'll any the less answer what appears to him, whether we forbid
him to or not?"
"Well, is that what you are going to do?" he said. "Are you going
to give as an answer one of those I forbid?"
"I shouldn't be surprised," I said, "if that were my opinion upon
consideration."
[ 14 i
Book I / 336d-338c thrasymachus/socrates/glaucon
"What if I could show you another answer about justice besides 337 d
all these and better than they are?" he said. "What punishment do you
think you would deserve to suffer?"
"What else than the one it is fitting for a man who does not know
to suffer?" I said. "And surely it is fitting for him to learn from the man
who knows. So this is what I think I deserve to suffer."
"That's because you are an agreeable chap!" he said. "But in ad-
dition to learning, pay a fine in money too."
"When I get some," I said.
"He has some," said Glaucon. "Now, for money's sake, speak,
Thrasymachus. We shall all contribute for Socrates."^i
"I certainly believe it," he said, "so that Socrates can get away e
with his usual trick; he'll not answer himself, and when someone else
has answered he gets hold of the argument and refutes it."
"You best of men," I said, "how could a man answer who, in the
first place, does not know and does not profess to know; and who, in
the second place, even if he does have some supposition about these
things, is forbidden to say what he believes by no ordinary man? It's ^
more fitting for you to speak; for you are the one who says he knows 338 a
and can tell. Now do as I say; gratify me by answering and don't be-
grudge your teaching to Glaucon here and the others."
After I said this, Glaucon and the others begged him to do as I
said. And Thrasymachus evidently desired to speak so that he could
win a good reputation, since he believed he had a very fine answer. But
he kept up the pretense of wanting to prevail on me to do the answer-
ing. Finally, however, he conceded and then said:
"Here is the wisdom of Socrates; unwilling himself to teach, he b
goes around learning from others, and does not even give thanks to
them."
"When you say I learn from others," I said, "you speak the truth,
Thrasymachus; but when you say I do not make full payment in thanks,
you lie. For I pay as much as I can. I am only able to praise. I have no
money. How eagerly I do so when I think someone speaks well, you
will well know as soon as you have answered; for I suppose you will
speak well."
"Now Hsten," he said. "I say that the just is nothing other than the c
advantage of the stronger .^2 vVell, why don't you praise me? But you
won't be willing."
"First I must learn what you mean," I said. "For, as it is, I don't
yet understand. You say the just is the advantage of the stronger. What
ever do you mean by that, Thrasymachus? You surely don't assert such
a thing as this: if Polydamas, the pancratiast,^^ is stronger than we are
[ 15 1
socrates/thrasymachus the republic
338 d and beef is' advantageous for his body, then this food is also ad-
vantageous and just for us who are weaker than he is."
"You are disgusting, Socrates," he said. "You take hold of the
argument in the way you can work it the most harm." ,
"Not at all, best of men," I said. "Just tell me more clearly what
you mean."
"Don't you know," he said, "that some cities are ruled tyrannical-
ly, some democratically, and some aristocratically?"
"Of course."
"In each city, isn't the ruling group master?"
"Certainly."
e "And each ruling group sets dovm laws for its own advantage; a
democracy sets down democratic laws; a tyranny, tyrannic laws; and
the others do the same. And they declare that what they have set
dovrai— their own advantage— is just for the ruled, and the man who
departs from it they punish as a breaker of the law and a doer of unjust
339 a deeds. This, best of men, is what I mean: in every city the same thing
is just, the advantage of the established ruling body. It surely is master;
so the man who reasons rightly concludes that everywhere justice is
the same thing, the advantage of the stronger."
"Now," I said, "I understand what you mean. Whether it is true
or not, I'll try to find out. Now, you too answer that the just is the ad-
vantageous, Thrasymachus— although you forbade me to give that
answer. Of course, 'for the stronger' is added on to it."
b "A small addition, perhaps," he said.
"It isn't plain yet whether it's a big one. But it is plain that we
must consider whether what you say is true. That must be considered,
because, while I too agree that the just is something of advantage, you
add to it and assert that it's the advantage of the stronger, and I don't
know whether it's so."
"Go ahead and consider," he said.
"That's what I'm going to do," I said. "Now, tell me; don't you
say though that it's also just to obey the rulers?"
"I do."
c "Are the rulers in their several cities infallible, or are they such as
to make mistakes too?"
"By all means," he said, "they certainly are such as to make
mistakes too."
"When they put their hands to setting down laws, do they set some
down correctly and some incorrectly?"
"I suppose so."
[ 16 ]
Book I I 338d-340b socrates/thrasymachus/polemakchus/cleitophon
"Is that law correct which sets down what is advantageous for 339 c
themselves, and that one incorrect which sets down what is disad-
vantageous?— Or, how do you mean it?"
"As you say."
"But whatever the rulers set down must be done by those who are
ruled, and this is the just?"
"Of course."
"Then, according to your argument, it's just to do not only what is d
advantageous for the stronger but also the opposite, what is disad-
vantageous."
"What do you mean?" he said.
"What you mean, it seems to me. Let's consider it better. Wasn't
it agreed that the rulers, when they command the niled to do some-
thing, sometimes completely mistake what is best for themselves,
while it is just for the ruled to do whatever the rulers command?
Weren't these things agreed upon?"
"I suppose so," he said.
"Well, then," I said, "also suppose that you're agreed that it is just e
to do what is disadvantageous for those who are the rulers and the
stronger, when the rulers unwillingly command what is bad for them-
selves, and you assert it is just to do what they have commanded. In
this case, most wise Thrasymachus, doesn't it necessarily follow that it
is just for the others to do the opposite of what you say? For the weaker
are commanded to do what is doubtless disadvantageous for the
stronger."
"Yes, by Zeus, Socrates," said Polemarchus, "most clearly." 340 a
"If it's you who are to witness for him, Polemarchus," said Cleito-
phon interrupting.
"What need is there of a witness?" he said. "Thrasymachus him-
self agrees that the rulers sometimes command what is bad for them-
selves and that it is just for the others to do these things."
"That's because Thrasymachus set down that to do what the rulers
bid is just, Polemarchus."
"And because, Cleitophon, he also set down that the advantage of
the stronger is just. Once he had set both of these principles down, he b
further agreed that sometimes the stronger order those who are weaker
and are ruled to do what is to the disadvantage of the stronger. On the
basis of these agreements, the advantage of the stronger would be no
more just than the disadvantage."
"But," said Cleitophon, "he said that the advantage of the
stronger is what the stronger believes to be his advantage. This is what
[ 17 ]
cleitophon/polemarchus/socrates/thrasymachus t (^
THE REPUBLIC
MO b must be done by the weaker, and th • the
just." ^^ ^^ what he set down ^s
"That's not what was said," said PqI
c "It doesn't make any difference, p'^^''*^hus. Thra-
symachus says it that way now, let's a ° ^'^^rchus," I said, >* ^
Thrasymachus, was this what you w^m f^* '* from him. Now tel '
to the stronger to be the advantage of u*^ ^^^ *^® J"^* '^' '^^^* *^^ad-
vantageous or not? Shall we assert that th^ stronger, whether i* *f
"Not in the least," he said. "Do y ^^ ^^ *he way you mean i*- , ^
makes mistakes 'stronger' at the rnn ^ ^^PP^se that I call a man "^
takes?" ""^"t when he is making ^>''
"I did suppose you to mean this " t j that
the rulers are not infallible but also m^V ^^^o, "when you agr^e^^
d "That's because you're a sycopJi^ .^^^*^kes in some things- ^
said. "To take an obvious example i ^" arguments, Socrates,
mistakes about the sick a doctor becau ^^^ ^^^^ ^ ^^^ ^^^ k-
ing? Or a man who makes mistakes jr, ^^ ^^T mistake he is
at the moment he is making a mistake • *^^'^tion a skilled calcu a >
I suppose rather that this is just ouj-' ^ ^^ry sense of his m>^
made a mistake, the calculator made ^"^r of speaking — ^the o
But I suppose that each of these men ^ "^'^t^^e, and the &^^^^f^^ ss
e him as, never makes mistakes. Hence' • ^ '^ ^s he is what we a<J
speak precisely, none of the craftsmen P'^^^ise speech, since y^
makes mistakes makes them on accon f ^ ^^ mistakes. The man
is in that respect no craftsman. So n failure in knowledge
makes mistakes at the moment when k '^^i' wise man, or
would say that the doctor made a ^ '^ """ling, although eveO' ^
mistake. What I answered you earlier fU^ ^ ^"^ *he ruler ma
way. But what follows is the most pj-g . ^"' you must also take m
34J a is a ruler, does not make mistakes; anrl^ Way: the ruler, insofar
down what is best for himself. And thi "^* making mistakes, he
is ruled. So I say the just is exactiy ^i "^Ust be done by the man
beginning, to do the advantage of the st "ave been saying from
"All right, Thrasymachus," I sai,^ .^^^^•' , ^
sycophant?" • ' ^o in your opinion I P^^^
"You most certainly do, " he said.
"Do you suppose I ask as I aske^ k do
harm^s to you in the argument?" because I am plotting ^^
"I don't suppose," he said, "I know jf You
b won't get away with doing harm unn .^ ^ ^^t it won't profit yon-
unnoticed, you won't be able to overpQ^^^ ^^^" and, failing to g^*
"Nor would I even try, you blesserl ^ ^^ ^^ *^® argument,
same sort of thing doesn't happen tr. '^^n," 1 said. "But, so tha
"" ^s again ^.v. u .l.«r whether
^gain, make it clear
[ 18 ]
Booh I / 340b-342a socrates/thbasymachus
you meant by the ruler and stronger the man who is such only in com- 341 b
mon parlance or the man who is such in precise speech, whose ad-
vantage you said a moment ago it will be just for the weaker to serve
because he is stronger?"
"The one who is the ruler in the most precise sense," he said. "Do
harm to that and play the sycophant, if you can— I ask for no
favors— but you won't be able to."
"Do you suppose me to be so mad," I said, "as to try to shave a <
lion and play the sycophant with Thrasymachus?"
"At least you tried just now," he said, "although you were a
nonentity at that too."
"Enough of this," I said. "Now tell me, is the doctor in the precise
sense, of whom you recently spoke, a money-maker or one who cares
for the sick? Speak about the man who is really a doctor."
"One who cares for the sick," he said.
"And what about the pilot? Is the man who is a pilot in the cor-
rect sense a ruler of sailors or a sailor?"
"A ruler of sailors."
"I suppose it needn't be taken into account that he sails in the i
ship, and he shouldn't be called a sailor for that. For it isn't because of
sailing that he is called a pilot but because of his art and his rule over
sailors."
"True," he said.
"Is there something advantageous for each of them?"
"Certainly."
"And isn't the art," I said, "naturally directed toward seeking and
providing for the advantage of each?"
"Yes, that is what it is directed toward."
"And is there then any advantage for each of the arts other than to
be as perfect as possible?"
"How do you mean this question?"
"Just as," I said, "if you should ask me whether it's enough for a
body to be a body or whether it needs something else, I would say: 'By
all means, it needs something else. And the art of medicine has now
been discovered because a body is defective,^^ and it won't do for it to
be like that. The art was devised for the purpose of providing what is
advantageous for a body.' Would I seem to you to speak correctly in
saying that or not?"
"You would," he said.
"And what about medicine itself, is it or any other art defective, 342
and does it need some supplementary virtue? Just as eyes need sight
and ears hearing and for this reason an art is needed that will consider
and provide what is advantageous for them, is it also the case that there
[ 19 ]
socrates/thrasymachus the republic
342 a is some defect in the art itself and does each art have need of another
art that considers its advantage, and does the art that considers it need
in its turn another of the same kind, and so on endlessly? Or does each
b consider its own advantage by itself ? Or does it need neither itself nor
another to consider what is advantageous for its defect? Is it that there
is no defect or error present in any art, and that it isn't fitting for an art
to seek the advantage of anything else than that of which it is the art,
and that it is itself without blemish or taint because it is correct so long
as it is precisely and wholly what it is? And consider this in that precise
sense. Is it so or otherwise?"
"That's the way it looks," he said.
c "Then," I said, "medicine doesn't consider the advantage of
medicine, but of the body."
"Yes," he said.
"Nor does horsemanship consider the advantage of horsemanship,
but of horses. Nor does any other art consider its own advantage — ^for
it doesn't have any further need to— but the advantage of that of which
it is the art."
"It looks that way," he said.
"But, Thrasymachus, the arts rule and are masters of that of
which they are arts."
He conceded this too, but with a great deal of resistance.
"Then, there is no kind of knowledge that considers or commands
the advantage of the stronger, but rather of what is weaker and ruled by
d it."
He finally agreed to this, too, although he tried to put up a fight
about it. When he had agreed, I said:
"Then, isn't it the case that the doctor, insofar as he is a doctor,
considers or commands not the doctor's advantage, but that of the sick
man? For the doctor in the precise sense was agreed to be a ruler of
bodies and not a money-maker. Wasn't it so agreed?"
He assented.
"And was the pilot in the precise sense agreed to be a ruler of
sailors and not a sailor?"
e "It was agreed."
"Then such a pilot and ruler will consider or command the benefit
not of the pilot, but of the man who is a sailor and is ruled."
He assented with resistance.
"Therefore, Thrasymachus," I said, "there isn't ever anyone who
holds any position of rule, insofar as he is ruler, who considers or
commands his own advantage rather than that of what is ruled and of
which he himself is the craftsman; and it is looking to this and what is
[ 20 ]
Book 1 1 342a-344a socrates/thrasymachu!
advantageous and fitting for it that he says everything he says and does 342
everything he does."
When we came to this point in the argument and it was evident to 343 i
everyone that the argument about the just had turned around in the op-
posite direction, Thrasymachus, instead of answering, said, "Tell me,
Socrates, do you have a wet nurse?"
"Why this?" I said. "Shouldn't you answer instead of asking such
things?"
"Because," he said, "you know she neglects your sniveling nose
and doesn't give it the wiping you need, since it's her fault you do not
even recognize sheep or shepherd."
"Because of what, in particular?" I said.
"Because you suppose shepherds or cowherds consider the good
of the sheep or the cows and fatten them and take care of them looking
to something other than their masters' good and their own; and so you
also believe that the rulers in the cities, those who truly rule, think
about the ruled differently from the way a man would regard sheep,
and that night and day they consider anything else than how they will
benefit themselves. And you are so far off about the just and justice,
and the unjust and injustice, that you are unaware that justice and the
just are really someone else's good, the advantage of the man who is
stronger and rules, and a personal harm to the man who obeys and
serves. Injustice is the opposite, and it rules the truly simple and just;
and those who are ruled do what is advantageous for him who is
stronger, and they make him whom they serve happy but themselves
not at all. And this must be considered, most simple Socrates: the just
man everywhere has less than the unjust man. First, in contracts, when
the just man is a partner of the unjust man, you will always find that
at the dissolution of the partnership the just man does not have more
than the unjust man, but less. Second, in matters pertaining to the city,
when there are taxes, the just man pays more on the basis of equal proper-
ty, the unjust man less; and when there are distributions, the one makes
no profit, the other much. And, further, when each holds some ruling
office, even if the just man suffers no other penalty, it is his lot to see
his domestic affairs deteriorate from neglect, while he gets no ad-
vantage from the public store, thanks to his being just; in addition to
this, he incurs the ill vidll of his relatives and his acquaintances when he
is unwilling to serve them against what is just. The unjust man's sit-
uation is the opposite in all of these respects. I am speaking of the man
I just now spoke of, the one who is able to get the better^"^ in a big 34<
way. Consider him, if you want to judge how much more to his private
advantage the unjust is than the just. You will learn most easily of all if
[ 21 ]
rHRASYMACHUS/SOCRATES THEREPUBLIC
344 a you turn to the most perfect injustice, which makes the one who does
injustice most happy, and those who suffer it and who would not be
willing to do injustice, most wretched. And that is tyranny, which by
stealth and force takes away what belongs to others, both what is sacred
and profane, private and public, not bit by bit, but all at once. When
b someone does some part of this injustice and doesn't get away with it,
he is punished and endures the greatest reproaches — temple robbers,
kidnappers, housebreakers,^^ defrauders, and thieves are what they
call those partially unjust men who do such evil deeds. But when some-
one, in addition to the money of the citizens, kidnaps and enslaves
them too, instead of these shameful names, he gets called happy and
c blessed, not only by the citizens but also by whomever else hears that
he has done injustice entire. For it is not because they fear doing unjust
deeds, but because they fear suffering them, that those who blame in-
justice do so. So, Socrates, injustice, when it comes into being on a
sufficient scale, is mightier, freer, and more masterful than justice; and,
as I have said from the beginning, the just is the advantage of the
stronger, and the unjust is what is profitable and advantageous for
oneself."
d When Thrasymachus had said this, he had it in mind to go away,
just like a bathman,^'' after having poured a great shower of speech
into our ears all at once. But those present didn't let him and forced
him to stay put and present an argument for what had been said.
And I, too, on my own begged him and said :
"Thrasymachus, you demonic man, do you toss in such an ar-
gument, and have it in mind to go away before teaching us adequately
or finding out whether it is so or not? Or do you suppose you are
e trying to determine a small matter and not a course of life on
the basis of which each of us would have the most profitable ex-
istence?"
"What? Do I suppose it is (Otherwise?" said Thrasyihachus.
"You seemed to," I said, "or else you have no care for us and
aren't a bit concerned whether we shall live worse or better as a result
of our ignorance of what you say you know. But, my good man, make
'45 a an effort to show it to us— it wouldn't be a bad investment for you to
do a good deed for so many as we are. I must tell you that for my part I
am not persuaded; nor do I think injustice is more profitable than
justice, not even if one gives it free rein and doesn't hinder it from
doing what it wants. But, my good man, let there be an unjust man, and
let him be able to do injustice, either by stealth or by fighting out in the
open; nevertheless, he does not persuade me that this is more profitable
b than justice. And perhaps, someone else among us— and not only
[ 22 ]
Book I / 344a-346b socrates/thrasymachus
I— also has this sentiment. So persuade us adequately, you blessed 345 b
man, that we don't deliberate correctly in having a higher regard for
justice than injustice."
"And how," he said, "shall I persuade you? If you're not per-
suaded by what I've just now said, what more shall I do for you? Shall I
take the argument and give your soul a forced feeding?"^*)
"By Zeus, don't you do it," I said. "But, first, stick to what you
said, or if you change what you set down, make it clear that you're
doing so, and don't deceive us. As it is, Thrasymachus, you see
that— still considering what went before — after you had first defined c
the true doctor, you later thought it no longer necessary to keep a pre-
cise guard over the true shepherd. Rather you think that he, insofar as
he is a shepherd, fattens the sheep, not looking to what is best for the
sheep, but, like a guest who is going to be feasted, to good cheer, or in d
turn, to the sale, like a money-maker and not a shepherd. The
shepherd's art surely cares for nothing but providing the best for what
it has been set over. For that the art's own affairs be in the best possible
way is surely adequately provided for so long as it lacks nothing of
being the shepherd's art. And, similarly, I for my part thought just now
that it is necessary for us to agree that every kind of rule, insofar as it is
rule, considers what is best for nothing other than for what is ruled
and cared for, both in political and private rule. Do you think that e
the rulers in the cities, those who truly rule, rule willingly?"
"By Zeus, I don't think it," he said. "I know it well."
"But, Thrasymachus," I said, "what about the other kinds of rule?
Don't you notice that no one wishes to rule voluntarily, but they de-
mand wages as though the benefit from ruling were not for them but for
those who are ruled? Now tell me this much: don't we, at all events, al- 346 a
ways say that each of the arts is different on the basis of having a dif-
ferent capacity? And don't answer contrary to your opinion, you
blessed man, so that we can reach a conclusion."
"Yes," he said, "this is the way they differ."
"And does each of them provide us with some peculiar^J benefit
and not a common one, as the medical art furnishes us with health, the
pilot's art with safety in sailing, and so forth with the others?"
"Certainly."
"And does the wage-earner's art furnish wages? For this is its b
power. Or do you call the medical art the same as the pilot's art? Or, if
you wish to make precise distinctions according to the principle you set
down, even if a man who is a pilot becomes healthy because sailing on
the sea is advantageous to him, nonetheless you don't for that reason
call what he does the medical art?"
"Surely not," he said.
[ 23 ]
socrates/thrasymachus/glaucon the republic
346 b "Nor do you, I suppose, call the wage-earner's art the medical art,
even if a man who is earning wages should be healthy?"
"Surely not," he said.
"And, what about this? Do you call the medical art the wage-
earner's art, even if a man practicing medicine should earn wages?"
c He said that he did not.
"And we did agree that the benefit of each art is peculiar?"
"Let it be," he said.
"Then whatever benefit all the craftsmen derive in common is
plainly derived from their additional use of some one common thing
that is the same for all."
"It seems so," he said.
"And we say that the benefit the craftsmen derive from receiving
wages comes to them from their use of the wage-earner's art in addi-
tion."
He assented with resistance.
d "Then this benefit, getting wages, is for each not a result of his
ov^Ti art; but, if it must be considered precisely, the medical art pro-
duces health, and the wage-earner's art wages; the housebuilder s art
produces a house and the wage-earner's art, following upon it,
wages; and so it is with all the others; each accomplishes its own
work and benefits that which it has been set over. And if pay were
not attached to it, would the craftsman derive benefit from the art?"
e "It doesn't look like it," he said-
"Does he then produce no benefit when he works for nothing?"
"I suppose he does."
"Therefore, Thrasymachus, it is plain by now that no art or kind
of rule provides for its own benefit, but, as we have been saying all
along, it provides for and commands the one who is ruled, considering
his advantage — that of the weaker — and not that of the stronger. It is
for just this reason, my dear Thrasymachus, that 1 said a moment ago
that no one willingly chooses to rule and get mixed up in straightening
out other people's troubles; but he asks for wages, because the man
347 a who is to do anything fine by art never does what is best for himself nor
does he command it, insofar as he is commanding by art, but rather
what is best for the man who is ruled. It is for just this reason, as it
seems, that there must be wages for those who are going to be willing to
rule — either money, or honor, or a penalty if he should not rule."
"What do you mean by that, Socrates?" said Glaucon. "The first
two kinds of wages I know, but I don't understand what penalty you
mean and how you can say it is a kind of wage."
[ 24 ]
Book I / 346b-348a socrates/glaucoi
"Then you don't understand the wages of the best men," I said, 347 1
"on account of which the most decent men rule, when they are wilHng
to rule. Or don't you know that love of honor and love of money are
said to be, and are, reproaches?"
"I do indeed," he said.
"For this reason, therefore," I said, "the good aren't willing to
rule for the sake of money or honor. For they don't wish openly to ex-
act wages for ruling and get called hirelings, nor on their own secretly
to take a profit from their ruling and get called thieves. Nor, again, will
they rule for the sake of honor. For they are not lovers of honor.
Hence, necessity and a penalty must be there in addition for them, if
they are going to be willing to rule— it is likely that this is the source of
its being held to be shameful to seek to rule and not to await
necessity— and the greatest of penalties is being ruled by a worse man
if one is not willing to rule oneself. It is because they fear this, in my
view, that decent men rule, when they do rule; and at that time they
proceed to enter on rule, not as though they were going to something
good, or as though they were going to be well off in it; but they enter on
it as a necessity and because they have no one better than or like them-
selves to whom to turn it over. For it is likely that if a city of good men
came to be, there would be a fight over not ruling, just as there is now
over ruling; and there it would become manifest that a true ruler really
does not naturally consider his own advantage but rather that of the one
who is ruled. Thus everyone who knows would choose to be benefited
by another rather than to take the trouble of benefiting another. So I
can in no way agree with Thrasymachus that the just is the advantage
of the stronger. But this we shall consider again at another time. What
Thrasymachus now says is in my own opinion a far bigger thing— he
asserts that the life of the unjust man is stronger^^ than that of the just
man. Which do you choose, Glaucon," I said, "and which speech is
truer in your opinion?"
"I for my part choose the life of the just man as more profitable."
"Did you hear," I said, "how many good things Thrasymachus
listed a moment ago as belonging to the life of the unjust man?" 348
"I heard," he said, "but I'm not persuaded."
"Then do you want us to persuade him, if we're able to find a way,
that what he says isn't true?"
"How could I not want it?" he said.
"Now," I said, "if we should speak at length against him, setting
speech against speech, telling how many good things belong to being
just, and then he should speak in return, and we again, there'll be need
[ 25 ]
socrates/glaucon/thrasymachus the republic
34a b of counting the good things and measuring how many each of us has in
each speech, and then we'll be in need of some sort of judges^^ who
will decide. But if we consider just as we did a moment ago, coming to
agreement with one another, we'll ourselves be both judges and
pleaders at once."
"Most certainly," he said.
"Which way do you like?" I said.
"The latter," he said.
"Come now, Thrasymachus," I said, "answer us from the begin-
ning. Do you assert that perfect injustice is more profitable than justice
when it is perfect?"
c "1 most certainly do assert it," he said, "and I've said why."
"Well, then, how do you speak about them in this respect? Surely
you call one of them virtue and the other vice?"
"Of course."
"Then do you call justice virtue and injustice vice?"
"That's likely, you agreeable man," he said, "when I also say that
injustice is profitable and justice isn't."
"What then?"
"The opposite," he said.
"Is justice then vice?"
"No, but very high-minded innocence."
d "Do you call injustice corruption ?"44
"No, rather good counsel."
"Are the unjust in your opinion good as well as prudent, Thra-
symachus?"
"Yes, those who can do injustice perfectly," he said, "and are able
to subjugate cities and tribes of men to themselves. You, perhaps, sup-
pose I am speaking of cutpurses. Now, such things, too, are profitable,"
he said, "when one gets away with them; but they aren't worth men-
tioning compared to those I was just talking about."
e "As to that," I said, "I'm not unaware of what you want to say.
But I wondered about what went before, that you put injustice in the
camp of virtue and wisdom, and justice among their opposites?"
"But I do indeed set them do\vn as such."
"That's already something more solid, my comrade," I said, "and
it's no longer easy to know what one should say. For if you had set in-
justice-down as profitable but had nevertheless agreed that it is
viciousness or shameful, as do some others, we would have something
to say, speaking according to customary usage. But as it is, plainly
you'll say that injustice is fair and mighty, and, since you also dared to
set it down in the camp of virtue and wisdom, you'll set down to its ac-
[ 26 ]
Book 1 1 348b-349d socrates/thrasymachus
count all the other things which we used to set down as belonging to the 349 a
just."
"Your divination is very true," he said.
"But nonetheless," I said, "one oughtn't to hesitate to pursue the
consideration of the argument as long as I understand you to say what
you think. For, Thrasymachus, you seem really not to be joking now,
but to be speaking the truth as it seems to you."
"And what difference does it make to you," he said, "whether it
seems so to me or not, and why don't you refute the argument? "
"No difference," I said. "But try to answer this in addition to the b
other things: in your opinion would the just man be willing to get the better
of the just man in anything?"
"Not at all," he said. "Otherwise he wouldn't be the urbane inno-
cent he actually is."
"And what about this: would he be willing to get the better of the just
action?"
"Not even of the Just action, " he said.
"And does he claim he deserves to get the better of the unjust
man, and believe it to be just, or would he not believe it to be so?"
"He'd believe it to be just," he said, "and he'd claim he deserves
to get the better, but he wouldn't be able to."
"That," I said, "is not what I am asking, but whether the just man
wants, and claims he deserves, to get the better of the unjust and not of c
the just man?"
"He does," he said.
"And what about the unjust man? Does he claim he deserves to
get the better of the just man and the just action?"
"How could it be otherwise, " he said, "since he claims he
deserves to get the better of everyone?"
"Then will the unjust man also get the better of the unjust hu-
man being and action, and will he struggle to take most of all for
himself?"
"That's it."
"Let us say it, then, as follows," I said, "the just man does not get
the better of what is like but of what is unhke, while the unjust man
gets the better of like and unlike? " d
"what you said is very good, " he said.
"And," I said, "is the unjust man both prudent and good, while
the just man is neither?"
"That's good too," he said.
"Then," I said, "is the unjust man also like the prudent and the
good, while the just man is not like them? "
[ 27]
THBASYMACHUS/SOCKATES THE REPUBLIC
349 d "How " he said, "could he not be Hke such men, since he is such
as they, while the other is not like them."
"Fine. Then is each of them such as those to whom he is like?"
"What else could they be?" he said,
e "All right, Thrasymachus. Do you say that one man is musical
and that another is unmusical?"
"I do."
"Which is prudent and which thoughtless?"
"Surely the musical man is prudent and the unmusical man
thoughtless."
"Then, in the things in which he is prudent, is he also good, and in
those in which he is thoughtless, bad?"
"Yes."
350 a "And what about a medical man? Is it not the same with him?"
"It is the same."
"Then, you best of men, is any musical man who is tuning a lyre
in your opinion willing to get the better of another musical man in
tightening and relaxing the strings, or does he claim he deserves
more?"
"Not in my opinion."
"But the better of the unmusical man?"
"Necessarily," he said.
"And what about a medical man? On questions of food and drink,
would he want to get the better of a medical man or a medical ac-
tion?"
"Surely not."
"But the better of what is not medical?"
Yes.
"Now, for every kind of knowledge and lack of knowledge, see if
in your opinion any man at all who knows chooses voluntarily to say or
do more than another man who knows, and not the same as the man
who is like himself in the same action."
b "Perhaps," he said, "it is necessarily so."
"And what about the ignorant man? Would he not get the better
of both the man who knows and the man who does not?"
"Perhaps."
"The man who knows is wise?"
"I say so."
"And the wise man is good?"
I say so.
"Then the man who is both good and wise will not want to get the
better of the like, but of the unlike and opposite?"
[ 28 ]
Boo/c I / 349d-351a thrasymachus
"It seems so," he said. 350 b
"But the bad and unlearned will want to get the better of both the
like and the opposite?"
"It looks like it."
"Then, Thrasymachus," I said, "does our unjust man get the bet-
ter of both like and unlike? Weren't you saying that?"
"I was," he said.
"And the just man will not get the better of like but of unlike?" c
"Yes."
"Then," I said, "the just man is like the wise and good, but the
unjust man like the bad and unlearned."
"I'm afraid so."
"But we were also agreed that each is such as the one he is
like."
"We were."
"Then the just man has revealed himself to us as good and wise,
and the unjust man unlearned and bad."
Now, Thrasymachus did not agree to all of this so easily as I tell it
now, but he dragged his feet and resisted, and he produced a wonderful c
quantity of sweat, for it was summer. And then I saw what I had not
yet seen before — ^Thrasymachus blushing. At all events, when we had
come to complete agreement about justice being virtue and wisdom,
and injustice both vice and lack of learning, I said, "All right, let that
be settled for us; but we did say that injustice is mighty as well. Or
don't you remember, Thrasymachus?"
"I remember," he said. "But even what you're saying now doesn't
satisfy me, and I have something to say about it. But if I should speak,
I know well that you would say that I am making a public harangue. So e
then, either let me say as much as I want; or, if you want to keep on
questioning, go ahead and question, and, just as with old wives who tell
tales, I shall say to you, 'All right,' and I shall nod and shake my
head."
"Not, in any case, contrary to your own opinion," I said.
"To satisfy you," he said, "since you won't let me speak. What
else do you want?"
"Nothing, by Zeus," I said, "but if that's what you are going to
do, go ahead and do it. And I'll ask questions."
"Then ask."
"I ask what I asked a moment ago so that we can in an orderly
fashion make a thorough consideration of the argument about the 351 ,
character of justice as compared to injustice. Surely it was said that in-
justice is more powerful and mightier than justice. But now," I said.
[ 29 ]
socrates/thbasymachus the republic
351 a "if justice is indeed both wisdom and virtue, I believe it will easily
come to light that it is also mightier than injustice, since injustice is
lack of learning— no one could still be ignorant of that. But, Thrasy-
machus, I do not desire it to be so simply considered, but in this
h way: would you say that a city is unjust that tries to enslave other
cities unjustly, and has reduced them to slavery, and keeps many
enslaved to itself?"
"Of course," he said. "And it's this the best city will most do, the
one that is most perfectly unjust."
"I understand," I said, "that this argument was yours, but I am
considering this aspect of it: will the city that becomes stronger than
another have this power without justice, or is it necessary for it to have
this power with justice?"
c "If," he said, "it's as you said a moment ago, that justice is
wisdom — ^with justice. But if it's as I said — with injustice."
"I am full of wonder, Thrasymachus," I said, "because you not
only nod and shake your head, but also give very fine answers."
"It's because I am gratifying you," he said.
"It's good of you to do so. But gratify me this much more and tell
me: do you believe that either a city, or an army, or pirates, or robbers,
or any other tribe which has some common unjust enterprise would be
able to accomplish anything, if its members acted unjustly to one
another?"
d "Surely not," he said.
"And what if they didn't act unjustly? Wouldn't they be more able
to accomplish something?"
"Certainly," he said.
"For surely, Thrasymachus, it's injustice that produces factions,
hatreds, and quarrels among themselves, and justice that produces
unanimity and friendship. Isn't it so?"
"Let it be so, so as not to differ with you."
"And it's good of you to do so, you best of men. Now tell me this:
if it's the work of injustice, wherever it is, to implant hatred, then,
when injustice comes into being, both among free men and slaves, will
it not also cause them to hate one another and to form factions, and to
e be unable to accomplish anything in common with one another?"
"Certainly."
"And what about when injustice comes into being between two?
Will they not differ and hate and be enemies to each other and to just
men?"
"They will," he said.
"And if, then, injustice should come into being within one man.
[ 30 ]
Book I / 351a-352d socrates/thrasymachus
you surprising fellow, will it lose its power or will it remain undimin-
ished?"
"Let it remain undiminished," he said.
"Then does it come to light as possessing a power such that,
wherever it comes into being, be it in a city, a clan, an army, or
whatever else, it first of all makes that thing unable to accomplish any-
thing together with itself due to faction and difference, and then it 352 a
makes that thing an enemy both to itself and to everything opposite and
to the just? Isn't it so?"
"Certainly."
"And then when it is in one man, I suppose it will do the same
thing which it naturally accomplishes. First it will make him unable to
act, because he is at faction and is not of one mind with himself, and,
second, an enemy both to himself and to just men, won't it?"
"Yes."
"And the gods, too, my friend, are just?"
"Let it be," he said. b
"Then the unjust man will also be an enemy to the gods, Thra-
symachus, and the just man a friend."
"Feast yourself boldly on the argument," he said, "for I won't op-
pose you, so as not to irritate these men here."
"Come, then," I said, "fill out the rest of the banquet for me by
answering just as you have been doing. I understand that the just come
to light as wiser and better and more able to accomplish something,
while the unjust can't accomplish anything with one another—for we
don't speak the complete truth about those men who we say vigorously c
accomplished some common object with one another although they
were unjust; they could never have restrained themselves with one
another if they were completely unjust, but it is plain that there was a
certain justice in them which caused them at least not to do injustice to
one another at the same time that they were seeking to do it to others;
and as a result of this they accomplished what they accomplished, and
they pursued unjust deeds when they were only half bad from injustice,
since the wholly bad and perfectly unjust are also perfectly unable to
accomplish anything— I say that I understand that these things are so d
and not as you set them down at first. But whether the just also live bet-
ter than the unjust and are happier, which is what we afterwards pro-
posed for consideration, must be considered. And now, in my opinion,
they do also look as though they are, on the basis of what we have said.
Nevertheless, this must still be considered better: for the argument is
not about just any question, but about the way one should live."
"Well, go ahead and consider," he said.
[ 31 ]
socbates/thrasymachus the republic
352 d "I shall," I said. "Tell me, in your opinion is there some work that
belongs to a horse?"
e "Yes."
"Would you take the work of a horse or of anything else what-
soever to be that which one can do only with it, or best with it?"
"I don't understand," he said.
"Look at it this way: is there anything with which you could see
other than eyes?"
"Surely not."
"And what about this? Could you hear with anything other than
ears?"
"By no means."
"Then wouldn't we justly assert that this is the work of each?"
"Certainly."
353 a "And what about this: you could cut a slip from a vine with a dag-
ger or a leather-cutter or many other things?"
"Of course."
"But I suppose you could not do as fine a job with anything other
than a pruning knife made for this purpose."
Irue.
"Then shall we take this to be its work?"
"We shall indeed."
"Now I suppose you can understand better what I was asking a
moment ago when I wanted to know whether the work of each thing is
what it alone can do, or can do more finely than other things."
"Yes, I do understand," he said, "and this is, in my opinion, the
b work of each thing."
"All right," I said, "does there seem to you also to be a virtue for
each thing to which some work is assigned? Let's return again to the
same examples. We say that eyes have some work?"
"They do."
"Is there then a virtue of eyes, too?"
"A virtue, too."
"And what about ears? Wasn't it agreed that they have some
work?"
"Yes."
"And do they have a virtue, too?"
"Yes, they do."
"And what about all other things? Aren't they the same?"
They are.
"Stop for a moment. Could eyes ever do a fine job of their work if
[ 32 ]
Book I / 352d-354a socrates/thrasymachus
they did not have their proper virtue but, instead of the virtue, 353 c
vice?"
"How could they?" he said. "For you probably mean blindness
instead of sight."
"Whatever their virtue may be," I said. "For I'm not yet asking
that, but M'hether their work, the things to be done by them, will be
done well with their proper virtue, and badly with vice."
"What you say is true," he said.
"Will ears, too, do their work badly when deprived of their vir-
tue?"
"Certainly." d
"Then, shall we include everything else in the same argument?"
"In my opinion, at least."
"Come, let's consider this now: is there some work of a soul that
you couldn't ever accomplish with any other thing that is? For exam-
ple, managing, ruling, and deliberating, and all such things — could we
justly attribute them to anything other than a soul and assert that they
are peculiar to it?"
"To nothing else."
"And, further, what about living? Shall we not say that it is the
work of a soul?"
"Most of all," he said.
"Then, do we say that there is also some virtue of a soul?"
"We do."
"Then, Thrasymachus, will a soul ever accomplish its work well if e
deprived of its virtue, or is that impossible?"
"Impossible."
"Then a bad soul necessarily rules and manages badly while a
good one does all these things well."
"Necessarily."
"Didn't we agree that justice is virtue of soul, and injustice,
vice?"
"We did so agree."
"Then the just soul and the just man will have a good life, and the
unjust man a bad one."
"It looks like it," he said, "according to your argument."
"And the man who lives well is blessed and happy, and the man 354 a
who does not is the opposite."
"Of course."
"Then the just man is happy and the unjust man wretched."
"Let it be so," he said.
[ 33 ]
socrates/thbasymachus the republic
354 a "But it is not profitable to be wretched; rather it is profitable to be
happy."
"Of course "
"Then, my blessed Thrasymachus, injustice is never more
profitable than justice."
"Let that," he said, "be the fill of your banquet at the festival of
Bendis,45 Socrates."
"I owe it to you, Thrasymachus," I said, "since you have grown
gentle and have left off being hard on me. However, I have not had a
h fine banquet, but it's my own fault, not yours. For in my opinion, I am
just like the gluttons who grab at whatever is set before them to get a
taste of it, before they have in proper measure enjoyed what went
before. Before finding out what we were considering at first— what the
just is— I let go of that and pursued the consideration of whether it is
vice and lack of learning, or wisdom and virtue. And later, when in its
turn an argument that injustice is more profitable than justice fell in my
way, I could not restrain myself from leaving the other one and going
after this one, so that now as a result of the discussion I know nothing.
c So long as I do not know what the just is, I shall hardly know whether it
is a virtue or not and whether the one who has it is unhappy or
happy."
[ 34]
BOOK II
Now, when I had said this, I thought I was freed from argument. 357 a
But after all, as it seems, it was only a prelude. For Glaucon is always
most courageous in everything, and so now he didn't accept Thra-
symachus' giving up but said, "Socrates, do you want to seem to have
persuaded us, or truly to persuade us, that it is in every way better to be b
just than unjust?"
"I would choose to persuade you truly," I said, "if it were up to
me."
"Well, then," he said, "you're not doing what you want. Tell me,
is there in your opinion a kind of good that we would choose to have
not because we desire its consequences, but because we delight in it for
its own sake — such as enjoyment and all the pleasures which are
harmless and leave no after effects Other than the enjoyment in
having them?"
"In my opinion, at least," I said, 'there is a good of this kind."
"And what about this? Is there a kind we like both for its own c
sake and for what comes out of it, such as thinking and seeing and
being healthy? Surely we delight in such things on both accounts."
"Yes, " I said.
"And do you see a third form^ of good, which includes gymnastic
exercise, medical treatment when sick as well as the practice of
medicine, and the rest of the activities from which money is made? We
[ 35 ]
glaucon/socrates Irllli ixllirUBLIC
357 c would say that they are drudgery but beneficial to us; and we would not
d choose to have them for themselves but for the sake of the wages and
whatever else comes out of them."
"Yes, there is also this third " I said, "but what of it?"
"In which of them," he said, "would you include justice?"
358 a "I, for my part, suppose," I said, "that it belongs in the finest
kind, which the man who is going to be blessed should like both for
itself and for what comes out of it."
"Well, that's not the opinion of the many," he said, "rather it
seems to belong to the form of drudgery, which should be practiced for
the sake of wages and the reputation that comes from opinion;^ but all
by itself it should be fled from as something hard."
"I know this is the popular opinion," I said, "and a while ago
justice, taken as being such, was blamed by Thrasymachus while in-
justice was praised. But I, as it seems, am a poor learner."
b "Come, now," he said, "hear me too, and see if you still have the
same opinion. For it looks to me as though Thrasymachus, like a snake,
has been charmed more quickly than he should have been; yet to my
way of thinking there was still no proof about either. For I desire to
hear what each is and what power it has all alone by itself when it is in
the soul— dismissing its wages and its consequences. So I shall do it
c this way, if you too consent: I'll restore Thrasymachus' argument, and
first I'll tell what kind of thing they say justice is and where it came
from; second, that all those who practice it do so unwillingly, as
necessary but not good; third, that it is fitting that they do so, for the
life of the unjust man is, after all, far better than that of the just man, as
they say. For, Socrates, though that's not at all my own opinion, I am at
a loss: I've been talked deaf by Thrasymachus and countless others,
while the argument on behalf of justice — that it is better than in-
d justice— I've yet to hear from anyone as I want it. I want to hear it ex-
tolled all by itself, and I suppose I would be most likely to learn that
from you. That's the reason why I'll speak in vehement praise of the
unjust life, and in speaking I'll point out to you how I want to hear you,
in your turn, blame injustice and praise justice. See if what I'm saying
is what you want."
"Most of all," I said. "What would an intelligent man enjoy talk-
ing and hearing about more again and again?"
e "What you say is quite fine," he said. "Now listen to what I said I
was going to tell first— what justice is and where it came from.
"They say that doing injustice is naturally good, and suffering in-
justice bad, but that the bad in suffering injustice far exceeds the good
in doing it; so that, when they do injustice to one another and suffer it
[ 36 ]
Book II / 357c-360a glaucon
and taste of both, it seems profitable— to those who are not able to 358 e
escape the one and choose the other— to set down a compact among 359 a
themselves neither to do injustice nor to suffer it. And from there they
began to set down their own laws and compacts and to name what the
law commands lawful and just. And this, then, is the genesis and being
of justice; it is a mean between what is best — doing injustice without
paying the penalty— and what is worst— suffering injustice without
being able to avenge oneself. The just is in the middle between these
two, cared for not because it is good but because it is honored due to a
want of vigor in doing injustice. The man who is able to do it and is b
truly a man would never set down a compact with anyone not to do in-
justice and not to suffer it. He'd be mad. Now the nature of justice is
this and of this sort, and it naturally grows out of these sorts of things.
So the argument goes.
"That even those who practice it do so unwillingly, from an in-
capacity to do injustice, we would best perceive if we should in thought
do something like this: give each, the just man and the unjust, license to c
do whatever he wants, while we follow and watch where his desire will
lead each. We would catch the just man red-handed going the same way
as the unjust man out of a desire to get the better; this is what any
nature naturally pursues as good, while it is law^ which by force per-
verts it to honor equality. The license of which I speak would best be
realized if they should come into possession of the sort of power that it
is said the ancestor of Gyges,* the Lydian, once got. They say he was a d
shepherd toiling in the service of the man who was then ruling Lydia.
There came to pass a great thunderstorm and an earthquake; the earth
cracked and a chasm opened at the place where he was pasturing.
He saw it, wondered at it, and went down. He saw, along with other
quite wonderful things about which they tell tales, a hollow bronze
horse. It had windows; peeping in, he saw there was a corpse inside
that looked larger than human size. It had nothing on except a gold ring
on its hand; he slipped it off and went out. When there was the usual e
gathering of the shepherds to make the monthly report to the king
about the flocks, he too came, wearing the ring. Now, while he was sit-
ting with the others, he chanced to turn the collet of the ring to himself,
toward the inside of his hand; when he did this, he became invisible to
those sitting by him, and they discussed him as though he were away. 360 a
He wondered at this, and, fingering the ring again, he twisted the collet
toward the outside; when he had twisted it, he became visible. Think-
ing this over, he tested whether the ring had this power, and that was
exactly his result: when he turned the collet inward, he became invisi-
ble, when outward, visible. Aware of this, he immediately contrived to
[ 37]
GLAucoN THE REPUBLIC
360 a be one of the messengers to the king. When he arrived, he committed
b adultery with the king's wife and, along with her, set upon the king and
killed him. And so he took over the rule.
"Now if there were two such rings, and the just man would put
one on, and the unjust man the other, no one, as it would seem, would
be so adamant as to stick by justice and bring himself to keep away
from what belongs to others and not lay hold of it, although he had li-
cense to take what he wanted from the market without fear, and to go
into houses and have intercourse with whomever he wanted, and to
^ slay orrelease from bonds whomever he wanted, and to do other things
as an equal to a god among humans. And in so doing, one would act no
differently from the other, but both would go the same way. And yet,
someone could say that this is a great proof that no one is willingly just
but only when compelled to be so. Men do not take it to be a good for
them in private, since wherever each supposes he can do injustice, he
does it. Indeed, all men suppose injustice is far more to their private
d profit than justice. And what they suppose is true, as the man who
makes this kind of an argument will say, since if a man were to get hold
of such license and- were never willing to do any injustice and didn't lay
his hands on what belongs to others, he would seem most wretched to
those who were aware of it, and most foolish too, although they would
praise him to each others' faces, deceiving each other for fear of suffer-
ing injustice. So much for that.
e "As to the judgment itself about the life of these two of whom we
are speaking, we'll be able to make it correctly if we set the most just
man and the most unjust in opposition; if we do not, we won't be able
to do so. What, then, is this opposition? It is as follows: we shall take
away nothing from the injustice of the unjust man nor from the justice
of the just man, but we shall take each as perfect in his own pursuit. So,
first, let the unjust man act like the clever craftsmen. An outstanding
pilot or doctor is aware of the difference between what is impossible in
361 a his art and what is possible, and he attempts the one, and lets the other
go; and if, after all, he should still trip up in any way, he is competent
to set himself aright. Similarly, let the unjust man also attempt unjust
deeds correctly, and get away with them, if he is going to be extremely
unjust. The man who is caught must be considered a poor chap. For the
extreme of injustice is to seem to be just when one is not. So the per-
fectly unjust man must be given the most perfect injustice, and nothing
must be taken away; he must be allowed to do the greatest injustices
while having provided himself with the greatest reputation for justice.
h And if, after all, he should trip up in anything, he has the power to set
himself aright; if any of his unjust deeds should come to light, he is
[ 38 ]
w
Book 11 / 360a-362c glaucon/socbates
capable both of speaking persuasively and of using force, to the extent 361 I
that force is needed, since he is courageous and strong and since he has
provided for friends and money. Now, let us set him down as such, and
put beside him in the argument the just man in his turn, a man simple
and noble, who, according to Aeschylus,^ does not wish to seem, but
rather to be, good. The seeming must be taken away. For if he should
seem just, there would be honors and gifts for him for seeming to be c
such. Then it wouldn't be plain whether he is such for the sake of the
just or for the sake of the gifts and honors. So he must be stripped of
everything except justice, and his situation must be made the opposite
of the first man's. Doing no injustice, let him have the greatest reputa-
tion for injustice, so that his justice may be put to the test to see if it is
softened by bad reputation and its consequences. Let him go un-
changed till death, seeming throughout life to be unjust although he is d
just, so that when each has come to the extreme — ^the one of justice, the
other of injustice — ^they can be judged as to which of the two is hap-
pier."
"My, my," I said, "my dear Glaucon, how vigorously you polish
up each of the two men—just like a statue — ^for their judgment."
"As much as I can," he said. "With two such men it's no longer
hard, I suppose, to complete the speech by a description of the kind of
life that awaits each. It must be told, then. And if it's somewhat (
rustically told, don't suppose that it is I who speak, Socrates, but rather
those who praise injustice ahead of justice. They'll say that the just man
who has such a disposition will be whipped; he'll be racked; he'll be
bound; he'll have both his eyes burned out; and, at the end, when he 362 c
has undergone every sort of evil, he'll be crucified and know that one
shouldn't wish to be, but to seem to be, just. After all, Aeschylus' say-
ing applies far more correctly to the unjust man. For really, they will
say, it is the unjust man, because he pursues a thing dependent on truth
and does not live in the light of opinion, who does not wish to seem un-
just but to be unjust.
Reaping a deep furrow in his mind
From which trusty plans bear fruit. ^ h
First, he'-rules in the city because he seems to be just. Then he takes in
marriage from whatever station he wants and gives in marriage to
whomever he wants; he contracts and has partnerships with whomever
he wants, and, besides benefiting himself in all this, he gains because he
has no qualms about doing injustice. So then, when he enters contests,
both private and public, he wins and gets the better of his enemies. In
getting the better, he is wealthy and does good to friends and harm to c
[ 39 ]
glaucon/adeimantus/socrates the republic
362 c enemies. To the gods he makes sacrifices and sets up votive offerings,
adequate and magnificent, and cares for the gods and those human
beings he wants to care for far better than the just man. So, in all
hkehhood, it is also more appropriate for him to be dearer to the gods
than is the just man. Thus, they say, Socrates, with gods and with hu-
mans, a better life is provided for the unjust man than for the just
man."
d When Glaucon had said this, I had it in mind to say something to
it, but his brother Adeimantus said in his turn, "You surely don't
believe, Socrates, that the argument has been adequately stated?"
"Why not?" I said.
"What most needed to be said has not been said," he said.
"Then," I said, "as the saying goes, 'let a man stand by his
brother."' So, you too, if he leaves out anything, come to his defense.
And yet, what he said was already enough to bring me to my knees and
make it impossible to help out justice."
e And he said, "Nonsense. But still hear this too. We must also go
through the arguments opposed to those of which he spoke, those that
praise justice and blame injustice, so that what Glaucon in my opinion
wants will be clearer. No doubt, fathers say to their sons and exhort
363 a them, as do all those who have care of anyone, that one must be just.
However, they don't praise justice by itself but the good reputations
that come from it; they exhort their charges to be just so that, as a
result of the opinion, ruling offices and marriages will come to the one
who seems to be just, and all the other things that Glaucon a moment
ago attributed to the just man as a result of his having a good reputa-
tion. And these men tell even more of the things resulting from the
opinions. For by throwing in good reputation with the gods, they can
tell of an inexhaustible store of goods that they say gods give to the
holy. And in this way they join both the noble Hesiod and Homer.
The former says that for the just the gods make the oaks
b Bear acorns on high, and bees in the middle.
And the fleecy sheep heavily laden with wool^
and many other very good things connected with these. And the other
has pretty much the same to tell, as when he says.
As for some blameless king who in fear of the gods
c Upholds justice, the black earth bears
Barley and wheat, the trees are laden with fruit.
The sheep bring forth without fail, and the
sea provides fish.^
And Musaeus and his son give the just even headier goods than these
from the gods. In their speech they lead them into Hades and lay them
[ 40 ]
Book 11 / 362c-364e adeimantus
down on couches; crowning them, they prepare a symposium of the 363 c
holy, and they then make them go through the rest of time drunk, in the
behef that the finest wage of virtue is an eternal drunk.^" Others ex- d
tend the wages from the gods yet further than these. For they say that a
holy and oath-keeping man leaves his children's children and a whole
tribe behind him. So in these and like ways they extol justice. And, in
turn, they bury the unholy and unjust in mud in Hades and compel
them to carry water in a sieve; and they bring them into bad reputation
while they are still alive. Thus, those penalties that Glaucon described e
as the lot of the just men who are reputed to be unjust, these people
say are the lot of the unjust. But they have nothing else to say. This
then is the praise and blame attached to each.
"Furthermore, Socrates, consider still another form of speeches
about justice and injustice, spoken in prose^^ and by poets. With one
tongue they all chant that moderation and justice are fair, but hard and 364 a
full of drudgery, while intemperance and injustice are sweet and easy to
acquire, and shameful only by opinion and law. They say that the un-
just is for the most part more profitable than the just; and both in
public and in private, they are ready and willing to call happy and to
honor bad men who have wealth or some other power and to dishonor
and overlook those who happen in some way to be weak or poor, al-
though they agree they are better than the others. But the most won- b
derful of all these speeches are those they give about gods and virtue.
They say that the gods, after all, allot misfortune and a bad life to many
good men too, and an opposite fate to opposite men. Beggar priests and
diviners go to the doors of the rich man and persuade him that the gods
have provided them with a power based on sacrifices and incantations.
If he himself, or his ancestors, has committed some injustice, they can c
heal it with pleasures and feasts; and if he wishes to ruin some enemies
at small expense, he will injure just and unjust alike with certain evoca-
tions and spells. They, as they say, persuade the gods to serve them.
And they bring the poets forward as witnesses to all these arguments
about vice, and they present it as easy, saying that.
Vice in abundance is easy to choose, d
The road is smooth and it lies very near.
While the gods have set sweat before virtue,
And it is a long road, rough and steep. '^
And they use Homer as a witness to the perversion of the gods by hu-
man beings because he too said:
The very gods can be moved by prayer too. ^
With sacrifices and gentle vows and
[ 41 ]
ADEIMANTUS THE REPUBLIC
304 e The odor of burnt and drink offerings, human beings
turn them aside with their prayers.
When someone has transgressed and made a mistake.^^
And they present a babble of books by Musaeus and Orpheus, off-
spring of the Moon and the Muses, as they say, according to whose
prescriptions they busy tliemselves about their sacrifices. They per-
suade not only private persons, but cities as well, that through sacrifices
and pleasurable games there are, after all, deliverances and purifica-
365 a tions from unjust deeds for those still living. And there are also rites for
those who are dead. These, which they call initiations,^'* deliver us
from the evils in the other place; while, for those who did not sacrifice,
terrible things are waiting.
"My dear Socrates," he said, "with all these things being said— of
this sort and in this quantity — about virtue and vice and how human
beings and gods honor them, what do we suppose they do to the souls
of the young men who hear them? I mean those who have good natures
and have the capacity, as it were, to fly to all the things that are said
and gather from them what sort of man one should be and what way
b one must follow to go through life best. In all likelihood he would say
to himself, after Pindar, will I 'with justice or with crooked deceits
scale the higher wall' where I can fortify myself all around and live out
my life? For the things said indicate that there is no advantage in my
being just, if I don't also seem to be, while the labors and penalties in-
volved are evident. But if I'm unjust, but have provided myself with a
reputation for justice, a divine life is promised. Therefore, since as the
c wise make plain to me, 'the seeming overpowers even the truth'^^ and
is the master of happiness, one must surely turn wholly to it. As facade
and exterior I must draw a shadow painting^® of virtue all around me,
while behind it I must trail the wily and subtle fox of the most wise Ar-
chilochus.^'' 'But,' says someone, 'it's not always easy to do bad and get
d away with it unnoticed.' 'Nothing great is easy,' we'll say. 'But at all
events, if we are going to be happy we must go where the tracks of the
arguments lead. For, as to getting away with it, we'll organize secret so-
cieties and clubs; and there are teachers of persuasion who offer the
wisdom of the public assembly and the court. On this basis, in some
things we'll persuade and in others use force; thus we'll get the better
and not pay the penalty.' 'But it surely isn't possible to get away from
the gods or overpower them.' 'But, if there are no gods, or if they have
no care for human things, why should we care at all about getting
e away? And if there are gods and they care, we know of them or have
heard of them from nowhere else than the laws^^ and the poets who
have given genealogies; and these are the very sources of our being told
that they are such as to be persuaded and perverted by sacrifices, sooth-
[ 42 I
Book 11 / 364e-367a adeimantus
ing vows, and votive offerings. Either both things must be believed or '^^^ ^
neither. If they are to be beheved, injustice must be done and sacrifice
offered from the unjust acquisitions. For if we are just, we won't be "^^^ ^
punished by the gods. That is all. And we'll refuse the gains of in-
justice. But if we are unjust, we shall gain and get off unpunished as
well, by persuading the gods with prayers when we transgress and make
mistakes.' 'But in Hades we'll pay the penalty for our injustices here,
either we ourselves or our children's children.' 'But, my dear,' will say
the man who calculates, 'the initiations and the delivering gods have
great power, as say the greatest cities and those children of gods who ^
have become poets and spokesmen of the gods and reveal that this is
the case.'
"Then, by what further argument could we choose justice before
the greatest injustice? For, if we possess it with a counterfeited seemly
exterior, we'll fare as we are minded with gods and human beings both
while we are living and when we are dead, so goes the speech of both
the many and the eminent. After all that has been said, by what device,
Socrates, will a man who has some power— of soul, money, body or c
family— be made willing to honor justice and not laugh when he hears
it praised? So, consequently, if someone can show that what we have
said is false and if he has adequate knowledge that justice is best, he
undoubtedly has great sympathy for the unjust and is not angry with
them; he knows that except for someone who from a divine nature can-
not stand doing injustice or who has gained knowledge and keeps away
from injustice, no one else is willingly just; but because of a lack of d
courage, or old age, or some other weakness, men blame injustice be-
cause they are unable to do it. And that this is so is plain. For the first
man of this kind to come to power is the first to do injustice to the best
of his ability. And there is no other cause of all this than that which
gave rise to this whole argument of his and mine with you, Socrates.
We said, 'You surprising man, of all you who clairn to be praisers of e
justice— beginning with the heroes^^ at the beginning (those who have
left speeches) up to the human beings of the present— there is not one
who has ever blamed injustice or praised justice other than for the
reputations, honors, and gifts that come from them. But as to what each
itself does with its own power when it is in the soul of a man who
possesses it and is not noticed by gods and men, no one has ever, in
poetry or prose, adequately developed the argument that the one is the
greatest of evils a soul can have in it, and justice the greatest good. For
if all of you had spoken in this way from the beginning and persuaded 367 a
us, from youth onwards, we would not keep guard over each other for
fear injustice be done, but each would be his own best guard, afraid
that in doing injustice he would dwell with the greatest evil.'
[ 43 ]
ADEIMANTUS/SOCRATES THEKEPUBLlC
367 a "This, Socrates, and perhaps yet more than this, would Thrasyma-
chus and possibly someone else say about justice and injustice, vulgarly
turning their powers upside down, in my opinion at least. But I— for I
b need hide nothing from you— out of my desire to hear the opposite
from you, speak as vehemently as I can. Now, don't only show us by
the argument that justice is stronger^^ than injustice, but show what
each in itself does to the man who has it that makes the one bad and the
other good. And take away the reputations, as Glaucon told you to. For
if you don't take the true reputation from each and attach the false one
to it, we'll say that you aren't praising the just but the seeming, nor
c blaming being unjust but the seeming; and that you're exhorting one to
be unjust and to get away with it; and that you agree with Thrasyma-
chus that the just is someone else's good, the advantage of the stronger,
while the unjust is one's own advantage and profitable, but disadvan-
tageous to the weaker. Now, since you agreed that justice is among the
greatest goods— those that are worth having for what coines from them
but much more for themselves, such as seeing, hearing, thinking, and,
d of course, being healthy and all the other goods that are fruitful by their
own nature and not by opinion — upraise this aspect of justice. Of what
profit is justice in itself to the man who possesses it, and what harm does
injustice do? Leave wages and reputations to others to praise. I could
endure other men's praising justice and blaming injustice in this way,
extolling and abusing them in tenns of reputations and wages; but from
you I couldn't, unless you were to order me to, because you have spent
e your whole life considering nothing other than this. So, don't only show
us by the argument that justice is stronger than injustice, but show what
each in itself does to the man who has it — whether it is noticed by gods
and human beings or not— that makes the one good and the other
bad."
I listened, and although I had always been full of wonder at the
nature of Glaucon and Adeimantus, at this time I was particularly
368 a delighted and said, "That wasn't a bad beginning, you children of that
man,2i that Glaucon's lover made to his poem about your distinguish-
ing yourselves in the battle at Megara:
Sons of Ariston,^^ divine offspring of a fiimous man.
That, my friends, in my opinion is good. For something quite divine
must certainly have happened to you, if- you are remaining unper-
suaded that injustice is better than justice when you are able to speak
b that way on its behalf. Now you truly don't seem to me to be being per-
suaded. I infer it from the rest of your character, since, on the basis of
the arguments themselves, I would distrust you. And the more I trust
you, the more I'm at a loss as to what I should do. On the one hand, I
[ 44 ]
Book II / 367a-369b socrates/adeimantu
can't help out. For in my opinion I'm not capable of it; my proof is that 368 i
when I thought I showed in what I said to Thrasymachus that justice is
better than injustice, you didn't accept it from me. On the other hand, I
can't not help out. For I'm afraid it might be impious to be here when
justice is being spoken badly of and give up and not bring help while I c
am still breathing and able to make a sound. So the best thing is to suc-
cour her as I am able."
Glaucon and the others begged me in every way to help out and
not to give up the argument, but rather to seek out what each is and the
truth about the benefit of both. So I spoke my opinion.
"It looks to me as though the investigation we are undertaking is
no ordinary thing, but one for a man who sees sharply. Since we're not
clever men," I said, "in my opinion we should make this kind of d
investigation of it: if someone had, for example, ordered men who
don't see very sharply to read little letters from afar and then someone
had the thought that the same letters are somewhere else also, but big-
ger and in a bigger place, I suppose it would look like a godsend to be
able to consider the littler ones after having read these first, if, of
course, they do happen to be the same."
"Most certainly," said Adeimantus. "But, Socrates, what do you
notice in the investigation of the just that's like this?" t
"I'll tell you," I said. "There is, we say, justice of one man; and
there is, surely, justice of a whole city too?"
"Certainly," he said.
"Is a city bigger^^ than one man?"
"Yes, it is bigger;" he said.
"So then, perhaps there would be more justice in the bigger and it
would be easier to observe closely. If you want, first we'll investigate
what justice is like in the cities. Then, we'll also go on to consider it in 369 a
individuals, considering the likeness of the bigger in the ideaP-'^ of the
littler?"
"What you say seems fine to me," he said.
"If we should watch a city coming into being in speech," I said,
"would we also see its justice coming into being, and its injustice?"
"Probably," he said.
"When this has been done, can we hope to see what we're looking
for more easily?" h
"Far more easily."
"Is it resolved^s that we must try to carry this out? I suppose it's
no small job, so consider it."
"It's been considered," said Adeimantus. "Don't do anything
else."
"Well, then," I said, "a city, as I believe, comes into being be-
[ 45 ]
socrates/adeimantus the republic
369 b cause each of us isn't self-sufficient but is in need of much. Do you
believe there's another beginning to the founding of a city?"
"None at all," he said.
c "So, then, when one man takes on another, for one need and
another for another need, and, since many things are needed, many
men gather in one settlement as partners and helpers, to this common
settlement we give the name city, don't we?"
"Most certainly."
"Now, does one man give a share to another, if he does give a
share, or take a share, in the belief that it's better for himself?"
"Certainly."
"Come, now," I said, "let's make a city in speech from the begin-
ning. Our need, as it seems, will make it. "
"Of course. "
d "Well, now, the first and greatest of needs is the provision of food
for existing and living. "
"Certainly."
"Second, of course, is housing, and third, clothing, and such."
"That's so."
"Now wait," I said. "How will the city be sufficient to provide for
this much? Won't one man be a farmer, another the housebuilder, and
still another, a weaver? Or shall we add to it a shoemaker or some other
man who cares for what has to do with the body?"
"Certainly."
"The city of utmost necessity^^ would be made of four or five
men."
e "It looks like it."
"Now, what about this? Must each one of them put his work at
the disposition of all in common — for example, must the farmer, one
man, provide food for four and spend four times as much time and
labor in the provision of food and then give it in common to the others;
or must he neglect them and produce a fourth part of the food in a
370 a fourth part of the time and use the other three parts for the provision of
a house, clothing,^^ and shoes, not taking the trouble to share in com-
mon with others, but minding his own business for himself? '
And Adeimantus said, "Perhaps, Socrates, the latter is easier
than the former. "
"It wouldn't be strange, by Zeus, " I said. "I myself also had the
thought when you spoke that, in the first place, each of us is naturally
not quite like anyone else, but rather differs in his nature; different
b men are apt for the accomplishment of difiFerent jobs. Isn't that your
opinion?"
"It is."
46
Book 11 / 369b-371a socrates/adeimantus
"And, what about this? Who would do a finer job, one man prac- 370 b
ticing many arts, or one man one art?"
"One man, one art," he said.
"And, further, it's also plain, I suppose, that if a man lets the cru-
cial moment in any work pass, it is completely ruined."
"Yes, it is plain."
"I don't suppose the thing done is willing to await the leisure of
the man who does it; but it's necessary for the man who does it to
follow close upon the thing done, and not as a spare-time occupation." c
"It is necessary."
"So, on this basis each thing becomes more plentiful, finer, and
easier, when one man, exempt from other tasks, does one thing accord-
ing to nature and at the crucial moment."
"That's entirely certain."
"Now, then, Adeimantus, there's need of more citizens than four
for the provisions of which we were speaking. For the farmer, as it
seems, won't make his own plow himself, if it's going to be a fine one,
or his hoe, or the rest of the tools for farming; and the housebuilder d
won't either— and he needs many too. And it will be the same with the
weaver and the shoemaker, won't it?"
True.
"So, carpenters, smiths, and many other craftsmen of this sort be-
come partners in our little city, making it into a throng."
"Most certainly."
"But it wouldn't be very big yet, if we added cowherds, shepherds,
and the other kinds of herdsmen, so that the farmers would have oxen
for plowing, the housebuilders teams to use with the farmers for e
hauling, and the weavers and cobblers hides and wool."
"Nor would it be a little city," he said, "when it has all this."
"And, further," I said, "just to found the city itself in the sort of
place where there will be no need of imports is pretty nearly impossi-
ble."
"Yes, it is impossible."
"Then, there will also be a need for still other men who will bring
to it what's needed from another city."
"Yes, they will be needed."
"Now, if the agent comes empty-handed, bringing nothing needed
by those from whom they take what they themselves need, he'll go 377 a
away empty-handed, won't he?"
"It seems so to me."
"Then they must produce at home not only enough for themselves
but also the sort of thing and in the quantity needed by these others of
whom they have need."
[ 47 ]
ADEIMANTUS/SOCRATES THE REPUBLIC
371 a "Yes, they must."
"So our city needs more farmers and other craftsmen."
"It does need more."
"And similarly, surely, other agents as well, who will import and
export the various products. They are merchants, aren't they?"
Yes.
"Then, we'll need merchants too."
"Certainly."
"And if the commerce is carried on by sea, there will also be need
b of throngs of other men who know the business of the sea."
"Throngs, indeed."
"Now what about this? In the city itself, how will they exchange
what they have produced with one another? It was for just this that we
made a partnership and founded the city."
"Plainly," he said, "by buying and selling."
"Out of this we'll get a market^^ and an established currency^^
as a token for exchange."
"Most certainly."
c "If the farmer or any other craftsman brings what he has pro-
duced to the market, and he doesn't arrive at the same time as those
who need what he has to exchange, will he sit in the market idle, his
craft unattended?"
"Not at all," he said. "There are men who see this situation and
set themselves to this service; in rightly governed cities they are usually
those whose bodies are weakest and are useless for doing any other job.
d They must stay there in the market and exchange things for money with
those who need to sell something and exchange, for money again, with
all those who need to buy something."
"This need, then, produces tradesmen in our city," I said. "Don't
we call tradesmen those men who are set up in the market to serve in
buying and selling, and merchants those who wander among the
cities?"
"Most certainly."
g "There are, I suppose, still some other sei'vants who, in terms of
their minds, wouldn't be quite up to the level of partnership, but whose
bodies are strong enough for labor. They sell the use of their strength
and, because they call their price a wage, they are, I suppose, called
wage earners, aren't they?"
"Most certainly."
"So the wage earners too, as it seems, go to fill out the city."
"It seems so to me."
"Then has our city already grown to completeness, Adeimantus?"
[ 48 ]
Book II / 37Ia-373a adeimantus/socrates/glaugon
"Perhaps." 371 g
"Where in it, then, would justice and injustice be? Along with
which of the things we considered did they come into being?"
"I can't think, Socrates," he said, "unless it's somewhere in 372 a
some need these men have of one another."
"Perhaps what you say is fine," I said. "It really must be con-
sidered and we mustn't back away. First, let's consider what manner of
life men so provided for will lead. Won't they make bread, wine, cloth-
ing, and shoes? And, when they have built houses, they will work in the
summer, for the most part naked and without shoes, and in the winter
adequately clothed and shod. For food they will prepare barley meal h
and wheat flour; they will cook it and knead it. Setting out noble loaves
of barley and wheat on some reeds or clean leaves, they will stretch out
on rushes strewn with yew and myrtle and feast themselves and their
children. Afterwards they will drink wine and, crowned with wreathes,
sing of the gods. So they will have sweet intercourse with one another,
and not produce children beyond their means, keeping an eye out
against poverty or war." c
And Glaucon interrupted, saying: "You seem to make these men
have their feast without relishes."
"What you say is true," I said. "I forgot that they'll have relishes,
too — it's plain they'll have salt, olives, cheese; and they will boil onions
and greens, just as one gets them in the country. And to be sure, we'll
set desserts before them— figs, pulse and beans; and they'll roast myrtle-
berries and acorns before the fire and drink in measure along with it. d
And so they will live out their lives in peace with health, as is likely,
and at last, dying as old men, they will hand down other similar lives to
their offspring."
And he said, "If you were providing for a city of sows, Socrates,
on what else would you fatten them than this?"
"Well, how should it be, Glaucon?" I said.
"As is conventional," he said. "I suppose men who aren't going to
be wretched recline on couches^*' and eat from tables and have rel-
ishes and desserts just like men have nowadays." g
"All right," I said. "I understand. We are, as it seems, considering
not only how a city, but also a luxurious city, comes into being. Perhaps
that's not bad either. For in considering such a city too, we could
probably see in what way justice and injustice naturally grow in cities.
Now, the true^i city is in my opinion the one we just described— a
healthy city, as it were. But, if you want to, let's look at a feverish city,
too. Nothing stands in the way. For these things, as it seems, won't
satisfy some, or this way of life, but couches, tables, and other furniture 373 ^^
[ 49]
sochates/glaucon there public
373 a will be added, and, of course, relishes, perfume, incense, courtesans
and cakes— all sorts of all of them. And, in particular, we can't still
postulate the mere necessities we were talking about at first— houses,
clothes, and shoes; but painting and embroidery must also be set in mo-
tion; and gold, ivory, and everything of the sort must be obtained. Isn't
that so?"
h "Yes," he said.
"Then the city must be made bigger again. This healthy one isn't
adequate any more, but must already be gorged with a bulky mass of
things, which are not in cities because of necessity— all the hunters and
imitators, many concerned with figures and colors, many with music;
and poets and their helpers, rhapsodes, actors, choral dancers, con-
tractors, and craftsmen of all sorts of equipment, for feminine adom-
c ment as well as other things. And so we'll need more servants too. Or
doesn't it seem there will be need of teachers, wet nurses, governesses,
beauticians, barbers, and, further, relish-makers and cooks? And,
what's more, we're in addition going to need swineherds. This animal
wasn't in our earlier city— there was no need— but in this one there
will be need of it in addition. And there'll also be need of very many
other fatted beasts if someone will eat them, won't there?"
"Of course."
d "Won't we be in much greater need of doctors if we follow this
way of life rather than the earlier one?"
"Much greater."
"And the land, of course, which was then sufficient for feeding the
men who were then, will now be small although it was sufficient. Or
how should we say it?"
"Like that," he said.
"Then must we cut off a piece of our neighbors' land, if we are
going to have sufficient for pasture and tillage, and they in turn from
ours, if they let themselves go to the unlimited acquisition of money,
overstepping the boundary of the necessary?"
g "Quite necessarily, Socrates," he said.
"After that won't we go to war as a consequence, Glaucon? Or
how will it be?"
"Like that," he said.
"And let's not yet say whether war works evil or good," I said,
"but only this much, that we have in its turn found the origin of
war— in those things whose presence in cities most of all produces evils
both private and public."
"Most certainly."
"Now, my friend, the city must be still bigger, and not by a small
374 a number but by a whole army, which will go out and do battle with in-
[ 50 ]
Book 11 / 373a-374e socRATEs/GLAuco^
vaders for all the wealth and all the things we were just now talking 374 c
about."
"What," he said, "aren't they adequate by themselves?"
"Not if that was a fine agreement you and all we others made
when we were fashioning the city," I said. "Surely we were in agree-
ment, if you remember, that it's impossible for one man to do a fine job
in many arts."
"What you say is true," he said.
"Well then," I said, "doesn't the struggle for victory in war seem i
to be a matter for art?"
"Very much so," he said.
"Should one really care for the art of shoemaking more than for
the art of war?"
"Not at all."
"But, after all, we prevented the shoemaker from trying at the
same time to be a farmer or a weaver or a housebuilder; he had to stay
a shoemaker just so the shoemaker's art would produce fine work for
us. And in the same way, to each one of the others we assigned one
thing, the one for which his nature fitted him, at which he was to work
throughout his life, exempt from the other tasks, not letting the crucial
moments pass, and thus doing a fine job. Isn't it of the greatest impor-
tance that what has to do with war be well done? Or is it so easy that a
farmer or a shoemaker or a man practicing any other art whatsoever
can be at the same time skilled in the art of war, while no one could be-
come an adequate draughts or dice player who didn't practice it frorri
childhood on, but only gave it his spare time? Will a man, if he picks
up a shield or any other weapon or tool of war, on that very day be an
adequate combatant in a battle of heavy-armed soldiers,^^ or any other
kind of battle in war, even though no other tool if picked up will make
anyone a craftsman or contestant, nor will it eyen be of use to the man
who has not gained knowledge of it or undergone adequate train-
mg?
"In that case," he said, "the tools would be worth a lot."
"Then," I said, "to the extent that the work of the guardians is
more important, it would require more leisure time than the other tasks
as well as greater art and diligence."
"I certainly think so," he said.
"And also a nature fit for the pursuit?"
"Of course."
"Then it's our job, as it seems, to choose, if we're able, which are
the natures, and what kind they are, fit for guarding the city."
"Indeed it is our job."
"By Zeus," I said, "it's no mean thing we've taken upon our-
[ 51 ]
socrates/glaucon the republic
374 e selves. But nevertheless, we mustn't be cowardly, at least as far as it's in
our power."
375 a "No," he said, "we mustn't."
"Do you suppose," I said, "that for guarding there is any dif-
ference between the nature of a noble puppy and that of a well-bom
young man?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, surely both of them need sharp senses, speed to catch what
they perceive, and, finally, strength if they have to fight it out with what
they have caught."
"Yes, indeed," he said, "both need all these things."
"To say nothing of courage, if they are to fight well."
"Of course."
"Then, will horse or dog— or any other animal whatsoever — be
willing to be courageous if it's not spirited? Haven't you noticed how
b irresistible and unbeatable spirit^^ is, so that its presence makes every
soul fearless and invincible in the face of everything?"
"Yes, I have noticed it."
"As for the body's characteristics, it's plain how the guardian
must be."
"Yes."
"And as for the soul's— that he must be spirited."
"That too."
"Glaucon," I said, "with such natures, how will they not be
savage to one another and the rest of the citizens?"
"By Zeus," he said, "it won't be easy."
c "Yet, they must be gentle to their own and cruel to enemies. If
not, they'll not wait for others to destroy them, but they'll do it them-
selves beforehand."
"True," he said.
"What will we do?" I said. "Where will we find a disposition at
the same time gentle and great-spirited? Surely a gentle nature is op-
posed to a spirited one. "
"It looks like it."
"Yet, if a man lacks either of them, he can't become a good
guardian. But these conditions resemble impossibilities, and so it fol-
d lows that a good guardian is impossible."
"I'm afraid so," he said.
I too was at a loss, and, looking back over what had gone before, I
said, "It is just, my friend, that we're at a loss. For we've abandoned
the image we proposed."
"How do you mean?"
"We didn't notice that there are, after all, natures such as we
[ 52 ]
Book JI / 374e-376c socorates/glaucon
thought impossible, possessing these opposites." 375 d
"Where, then?"
"One could see it in other animals too, especially, however, in the
one we compared to the guardian. You know, of course, that by nature e
the disposition of noble dogs is to be as gentle as can be with their
familiars and people they know and the opposite with those they don't
know."
"I do know that."
"Then," I said, "it is possible, after all; and what we're seeking for
in the guardian isn't against nature."
"It doesn't seem so."
"In your opinion, then, does the man who will be a fit guardian
need, in addition to spiritedness, also to be a philosopher in his
nature?"**
"How's that?" he said. "I don't understand." 376 a
"This, too, you'll observe in dogs," I said, "and it's a thing in the
beast worthy of our wonder."
"What?"
"When it sees someone it doesn't know, it's angry, although it
never had any bad experience with him. And when it sees someone it
knows, it greets him warmly, even if it never had a good experience
with him. Didn't you ever wonder about this before?"
"No, I haven't paid very much attention to it up to now. But it's
plain that it really does this."
"Well, this does look like an attractive affection of its nature and
truly philosophic." b
"In what way?"
"In that it distinguishes friendly from hostile looks by nothing
other than by having learned the one and being ignorant of the other," I
said. "And so, how can it be anything other than a lover of learning
since it defines what's its own and what's alien by knowledge and
ignorance?"
"It surely couldn't be anything but," he said.
"Well," I said, "but aren't love of learning and love of wisdom the
same?"
"Yes, the same," he said.
"So shall we be bold and assert that a human being too, if he is
going to be gentle to his own and those known to him, must by nature c
be a philosopher and a lover of learning?"
"Yes," he said, "let's assert it."
"Then the man who's going to be a fine and good^s guardian of
the city for us will in his nature be philosophic, spirited, swift, and
strong."
[ 53 ]
glaucon/sochates/adeimantus the republic
376 c "That's entirely certain," he said.
"Then he would be of this sort to begin with. But how, exactly,
will they be reared and educated by us? And does our considering this
contribute anything to our goal of discerning that for the sake of which
d we are considering all these things — ^in what way justice and injustice
come into being in a city? We don't want to scant the argument, but we
don't want an overlong one either."
And Glaucon's brother said, "I most certainly expect that this
present consideration will contribute to that goal."
"By Zevis," I said, "then, my dear Adeimantus, it mustn't be given
up even if it turns out to be quite long."
"No, it mustn't."
"Come, then, like men telling tales in a tale and at their leisure,
let's educate the men in speech."
e "We must."
"What is the education? Isn't it difficult to find a better one than
that discovered over a great expanse of time? It is, of course, gymnastic
for bodies and music^^ for the soul."
"Yes, it is."
"Won't we begin educating in music before gymnastic?"
"Of course."
"You include speeches in music, don't you?" I said.
"I do."
"Do speeches have a double form, the one true, the other false?"
"Yes."
377 a "Must they be edvicated in both, but first in the false?"
"I don't understand how you mean that," he said.
"Don't you understand," I said, "that first we tell tales to chil-
dren? And surely they are, as a whole, false, though there are true
things in them too. We make use of tales with children before exer-
cises."
"That's so."
"That's what I meant by saying music must be taken up before
gymnastic."
"That's right," he said.
"Don't you know that the beginning is the most important part of
h every work and that this is especially so with anything young and ten-
der? For at that stage it's most plastic, and each thing assimilates itself to
the model whose stamp anyone wishes to give to it."
"Quite so."
"Then shall we so easily let the children hear just any tales
fashioned by just anyone and take into their souls opinions for the most
[ .54 ]
Book II 1 376c-378b socrates/adeimantus
part opposite to those we'll suppose they must have when they are 377 b
grown up?"
"In no event will we permit it."
"First, as it seems, we must supervise the makers of tales; and if
they make-*'^ a fine tale, it must be approved, but if it's not, it must be c
rejected. We'll persuade nurses and mothers to tell the approved tales
to their children and to shape their souls with tales more than their
bodies with hands. Most of those they now tell must be thrown out."
"Which sort?" he said.
"In the greater tales we'll also see the smaller ones," I said. "For
both the greater and the smaller must be taken from the same model
and have the same power. Don't you suppose so?" d
"I do," he said. "But I don't grasp what you mean by the greater
ones."
"The ones Hesiod and Homer told us, and the other poets too.
They surely composed false tales for human beings and used to tell
them and still do tell them."
"But what sort," he said, "and what do you mean to blame in
them?"
"What ought to be blamed first and foremost," I said, "especially
if the lie a man tells isn't a fine one."
"What's that?"
"When a man in speech makes a bad representation of what gods e
and heroes are like, just as a painter who paints something that doesn't
resemble the things whose likeness he wished to paint."
"Yes, it's right to blame such things," he said. "But how do we
mean this and what sort of thing is it?"
"First," I said, 'the man who told the biggest lie about the biggest
things didn't tell a fine lie — how Uranus did what Hesiod says he did,
and how Cronos in his turn took revenge on him.^^ And Cronos' deeds 378 a
and his sufferings at the hands of his son,^^ not even if they were true
would I suppose they should so easily be told to thoughtless young
things; best would be to keep quiet, but if there were some necessity to
tell, as few as possible ought to hear them as unspeakable secrets, after
making a sacrifice, not of a pig but of some great offering that's hard to
come by, so that it will come to the ears of the smallest possible num-
ber."
"These speeches are indeed harsh, " he said.
"And they mustn't be spoken in our city, Adeimantus," I said. b
"Nor must it be said within the hearing of a young person that in doing
the extremes of injustice, or that in punishing the unjust deeds of his
father in every way, he would do nothing to be wondered at, but would
[ 55]
socrates/adeimantus THE REPUBLIC
378 b be doing only what the first and the greatest of the gods did."
"No, by Zeus," he said. "To say this doesn't seem fitting to me
either."
"Above all," I said, "it mustn't be said that gods make war on
c gods, and plot against them and have battles with them— for it isn't
even true — ^provided that those who are going to guard the city for us
must consider it most shameful^"* to be easily angry with one another.
They are far from needing to have tales told and embroideries woven^i
about battles of giants and the many diverse disputes of gods and
hei"oes with their families and kin. But if we are somehow going to per-
suade them that no citizen ever was angry with another and that to be
so is not holy, it's just such things that must be told the children right
d away by old men and women; and as they get older, the poets must be
compelled to make up speeches for them which are close to these. But
Hera's bindings by her son,'*^ and Hephaestus' being cast out by his
father when he was about to help out his mother who was being
beaten,43 ^^^j ^w ^^g battles of the gods Homer^^ made, must not be
accepted in the city, whether they are made with a hidden sense or
without a hidden sense. A young thing can't judge what is hidden sense
and what is not; but what he takes into his opinions at that age has a
e tendency to become hard to eradicate and unchangeable. Perhaps it's
for this reason that we must do everything to insure that what they hear
first, with respect to virtue, be the finest told tales for them to hear."
"That's reasonable," he said. "But if someone should at this point
ask us what they are and which tales we mean, what would we say?"
And I said, "Adeimantus, you and I aren't poets right now but
379 a founders of a city. It's appropriate for founders to know the models ac-
cording to which the poets must tell their tales. If what the poets pro-
duce goes counter to these models, founders must not give way;
however, they must not themselves make up tales."
"That's correct," he said. "But, that is just it; what would the
models for speech about the gods^^ be."
"Doubtless something like this," I said. "The god must surely al-
ways be described such as he is, whether one presents him in epics,
lyrics, or tragedies."
"Yes, he must be."
b "Then, is the god reallv good, and, hence, must he be said to be
so?"
"Of course."
"Well, but none of the good things is hannful,,is it?"
"Not in my opinion."
"Does that which isn't harmful do hann?"
"In no way."
[ 56 ]
Book 11 / !^8b-380a sockates/adeimantus
"Does that which does not harm do any evil?" 379 b
"Not that, either."
"That which does no evil would not be the cause of any evil?"
"How could it be?"
"What about this? Is the good beneficial?"
"Yes."
"Then it's the cause of doing well?"
"Yes."
"Then the good is not the cause of everything; rather it is the
cause of the things that are in a good way, while it is not responsible for
the bad things."
"Yes," he said, "that's entirely so." c
"Then," I said, "the god, since he's good, wouldn't be the cause of
everything, as the many say, but the cause of a few things for human
beings and not responsible for most. For the things that are good for us
are far fewer than those that are bad; and of the good things, no one
else must be said to be the cause; of the bad things, some other causes
must be sought and not the god."
"What you say," he said, "is in my opinion very true."
"Then," I said, "we mustn't accept Homer's — or any other
poet's— foolishly making this mistake about the gods and saying that d
Two jars stand on Zeus's threshold
Full of dooms — the one of good,
the other of wretched;
and the man to whom Zeus gives a mixture of both.
At one time he happens on evil,
at another good;
but the man to whom he doesn't give a mixture, but the second pure.
Evil misery, drives him over the divine
earth;46
nor that Zeus is the dispenser to us e
Of good and evil alike.'*^
And, as to the violation of the oaths and truces that Pandarus com-
mitted, if someone says Athena and Zeus were responsible for its hap-
pening,'*8 we'll not praise him; nor must the young be allowed to hear
that Themis and Zeus were responsible for strife and contention among 380 a
the gods,^^ nor again, as Aeschylus says, that
God plants the cause in mortals
When he wants to destroy a house utterly.
[ 57]
scx^haWaohiman^s THEREPUBLIG'
380 a And if someone produces a 'Sorrows of Niobe,'^" the work where
these iambics are, or a 'Sorrows of the Pelopidae,' or the 'Trojan Sor-
rows,' or anything else of the sort, either he mustn't be allowed to say
that they are the deeds of a god, or, if of a god, he must find a speech
for them pretty much like the one we're now seeking; and he must say
b the god's works were just and good, and that these people profited by
being punished. But the poet mustn't be allowed to say that those who
pay the penalty are wretched and that the one who did it was a god. If,
however, he should say that the bad men were wretched because they
needed punishment and that in paying the penalty they were benefited
by the god, it must be allowed. As for the assertion that a god, who is
good, is the cause of evil to anyone, great exertions must be made
against anyone's saying these things in his owti city, if its laws are going
to be well observed, or anyone's hearing them, whether he is younger or
c older, whether the tale is told in meter or without meter. For these are
to be taken as sayings that, if said, are neither holy, nor advantageous
for us, nor in harmony with one another."
"I give my vote to you in support of this law," he said, "and it
pleases me."^^
"Now, then," I said, "this would be one of the laws and models
concerning the gods, according to which those who produce speeches
will have to do their speaking and those who produce poems will have
to do their making: the god is not the cause of all things, but of the
good."
"And it's very satisfactory," he said.
d "Now, what about this second one? Do you suppose the god is a
wizard, able treacherously to reveal himself at different times in dif-
ferent ideas, at one time actually himself changing and passing from his
own form into many shapes, at another time deceiving us and making us
think such things about him? Or is he simple and does he least of all
things depart from his own idea?"
"On the spur of the moment, I can't say," he said.
"What about this? Isn't it necessary that, if something steps out of
e its own idea, it be changed either by itself or something else?"
"Yes, it is necessary."
"Are things that are in the best condition least altered and moved
by something else— for example, a body by food, drink, and labor, and
all plants by the sun's heat, winds, and other affections of the sort;
381 a aren't the healthiest and strongest least altered?"
"Of course."
"And a soul that is most courageous and most prudent, wouldn't
an externa] affection least trouble and alter it?"
Yes.
[ 58]
pook II / 380a-381e sochates/adeimantus
"And, again, the same argiunent surely also holds for all com- 381 a
posites, implements, houses, and clothing; those that are well made and
in good condition are least altered by time and the other affections."
"That's so." j
"Hence everything that's in fine condition, whether by nature or b
art or both, admits least transformation by anything else."
"It seems so."
"Now, the god and what belongs to the god are in every way in the
best condition."
"Of course."
"So, in this way, the god would least of all have many shapes."
"Least of all, surely."
"But would he be the one to transform and alter himself?"
"It's plain," he said, "if he's altered at all."
"Does he transform himself into what's better and fairer, or what's
worse and uglier than himself?"
"Necessarily into what's worse," he said, "if he's altered at all. c
For surely we won't say that the god is wanting in beauty or virtue."
"What you say is very right," I said. "And, if this is so, in your
opinion, Adeimantus, does anyone, either god or human being,
willingly make himself worse in any way at all?"
"It's impossible," he said.
"Then it's impossible," I said, "for a god to want to alter himself,
but since, as it seems, each of them is as fair and as good as possible, he
remains forever simply in his o-wn shape."
"That's entirely necessary, in my opinion at least," he said.
"Then, you best of men," I said, "let none of the poets tell us d
that
The gods, like wandering strangers.
Take on every sort of shape and visit
the cities^^
and let none tell lies about Proteus and Thetis^^ or bring on an altered
Hera, either in tragedies or the other kinds of poetry, as a priestess
Making a collection for the life-giving children
of Inachus, Argos' river^*
and let them not lie to us in many other such ways. Nor should the e
mothers, in their turn, be convinced by these things and frighten the
children with tales badly told— that certain gods go around nights look-
ing like all sorts of strangers— lest they slander the gods while at the
same time making the children more cowardly."
"No, they shouldn't," he said.
"But," I said, "while the gods themselves can't be transformed, do
[ 59 ]
sockates/adeimantus THE REPUBLIC
381 e they make us think they appear in all sorts of ways, deceiving and
bewitching us?"
"Perhaps," he said.
382 a "What?" I said. "Would a god want to lie, either in speech or
deed by presenting an illusion?"
"I don't know," he said.
"Don't you know," I said, "that all gods and human beings hate
the true lie, if that expression can be used?"
"What do you mean?" he said.
"That surely no one," I said, "voluntarily wishes to lie about the
most sovereign things to what is most sovereign in himself. Rather, he
fears holding a lie there more than anything."
"I still don't understand," he said.
b "That's because you suppose I mean something exalted," I said.
"But I mean that to lie and to have lied to the soul about the things that
are, and to be unlearned, and to have and to hold a lie there is what
everyone would least accept; and that everyone hates a lie in that place
most of all."
"Quite so," he said.
"Now what I was just talking about would most correctly be
called truly a lie— the ignorance in the soul of the man who has been
lied to. For the lie in speeches is a kind of imitation of the affection in
the soul, a phantom of it that comes into being after it, and not quite an
c unadulterated lie. Isn't that so?"
"Most certainly."
"So the real lie is hated not only by gods, but also by human
beings."
"Yes, in my opinion."
"Now, what about the one in speeches? When and for whom is it
also useful, so as not to deserve hatred? Isn't it useful against enemies,
and, as a preventive, like a drug, for so-called friends when from
madness or some folly they attempt to do something bad? And, in the
d telling of the tales we were just now speaking about — those told be-
cause we don't know where the truth about ancient things lies — liken-
ing the lie to the truth as best we can, don't we also make it useful?"
"It is very useful in such cases,' he said.
"Then in which of these cases is a lie useful to the god? Would he
lie in making likenesses because he doesn't know ancient things?"
"That," he said, "would be ridiculous."
"Then there is no lying poet in a god?"
"Not in my opinion."
"Would he lie because he's frightened of enemies?"
[ 60 ]
goofc 11 1 381e-383c adeimantus/socrates
"Far from it." 382 e
"Because of the folly or madness of his intimates?"
"None of the foolish or the mad is a friend of the gods," he said.
"Then, there's nothing for the sake of which a god would lie?"
"There is nothing."
"Then the demonic^ and the divine are wholly free from lie."
"That's cxjmpletely certain," he said.
"Then the god is altogether simple and true in deed and speech,
and he doesn't himself change or deceive others by illusions, speeches,
or the sending of signs either in waking or dreaming. "
"That's how it looks to me too when you say it," he said.
"Do you then agree," I said, "that this is the second model ac- 383 a
cording to which speeches and poems about gods must be made; they
are neither wizards who transform themselves, nor do they mislead us
by lies in speech or in deed?"
"I do agree."
"So, although we praise much in Homer, we'll not praise Zeus'
sending the dream to Agamemnon,^ nor Thetis' saying in Aeschylus
that Apollo sang at her wedding, foretelling good things for her off-
spring, b
Free from sickness and living long lives.
Telling all that the friendship of the gods
would do for my fortunes.
He sang the paean, gladdening my spirit.
And I expected Phoebus' divine mouth
To be free of lie, full with the diviner's art.
And he, he who sang, who was at this feast, who
said this, he is the one who slew my son.
When someone says such things about gods, we'll be harsh and not pro- c
vide a chorus;^''' and we'll not let the teachers use them for the educa-
tion of the young, if our guardians are going to be god-revering and
divine insofar as a human being can possibly be."
"I am in complete agreement with these models," he said, "and
would use them as laws."
[ 6i ]
BOOK
"About gods, then," I said, "such, it seems, are the things that 386 a
should and should not be heard, from childhood on, by men who would
honor gods and ancestors and not take lightly their friendship with each
other."
"And I," he said, '^'suppose our impression is right."
"And what if they are to be courageous? Mustn't they also be told
things that will make them fear death least? Or do you believe that
anyone who has this terror in him would ever become courageous?" b
"By Zeus, I don't," he said.
"What about this? Do you suppose anyone who believes Hades'
domain exists and is full of terror will be fearless in the face of death
and choose death in battles above defeat and slavery?"
"Not at all."
"Then, concerning these tales too, it seems we must supervise
those who undertake to tell them and ask them not simply to disparage
Hades' domain in this way but rather to praise it, because what they
say is neither true nor beneficial for men who are to be fighters." c
"Indeed, we must," he said.
"Then, we'll expunge all such things," I said, "beginning with
this verse:
I would rather be on the soil, a serf to another,
To a man without lot whose means of life are not great.
Than rule over all the dead who have perished'
[ 63 ]
socbates/adeimantus the republic
386 c and this,
d [Lest] his house appear to mortals and immortals.
Dreadful, moldy, and even the gods hate it^
and.
and this.
and.
387 a and this.
and.
Oh woe, so there is in Hades' house, too,
Both soul and phantom, but no mind in it at all^
He alone possesses understanding; the others are
fluttering shadows*
The soul flew from his limbs and went to
Hades,
Wailing his fate, leaving manliness and the bloom
of youth^
Under the earth, like smoke.
Went the gibbering soul®
Like bats who in a comer of an enchanted cave
Fly gibbering when one falls off
The cluster hanging from the rock, and
Rise holding on to each other.
So they went together gibberingJ
"We'll beg Homer and the other poets not to be harsh if we
strike out these and all similar things. It's not that they are not poetic
and sweet for the many to hear, but the more poetic they are, the less
should they be heard by boys and men who must be free and ac-
customed to fearing slavery more than death."
"That's entirely certain."
"And we must, further, also throw out all those terrible and fear-
ful names applied to this domain: Cocytus, Styx, 'those below,' 'the
withered dead,' and all the other names that are part of this model and
which make all those who hear them shiver, as is thought.^ Perhaps
they're good for something else, but we fear that our guardians, as a
result of such shivers, will get hotter and softer than they ought."
"And," he said, "our fear is right."
"Then they must be deleted?"
"Yes."
[ 64 ]
Book in / 386C-388b SOCRATES/ADiaMANTUS
"Must the model opposite to these be used in speaking and writ- 387 c
ing?"
"Plainly."
"Will we then take out the laments and wailings of famous men, d
too?"
"If," he said, "what went before was necessary, so is this."
"Now, consider whether we'll be right in taking them out or not,"
I said. "We surely say that a decent^ man will believe that for the de-
cent man— who happens to be his comrade— being dead is not a terri-
ble thing."
"Yes, we do say that."
"Then, he wouldn't lament him as though he had suffered some-
thing terrible."
"Surely not."
"Moreover, we also say that such a man is most of all sufficient
unto himself for living well and, in contrast to others, has least need of
another." e
"True," he said.
"Then for him it is least terrible to be deprived of a son, or a
brother, or money, or of anything else of the sort."
"Yes, least of all."
"Then he laments the least and bears it most gently when some
such misfortune overtakes him."
"Quite so."
"So, we'd be right in taking out the wailings of renowned men and
we'd give them to women— and not to the serious ones, at that — and to
all the bad men. Thus the men we say we are rearing for the guard- 388 a
ianship of the country won't be able to stand doing things similar to
those such people do."
"Yes," he said, "we would be right."
"Then, again, we'll ask Homer and the other poets not to make
Achilles, son of a goddess,
Now lying on his side, now again
On his belly, and now on his side.
Then standing upright, roaming distraught along the
shore of the unharvested sea"^
nor taking black ashes in both hands and pouring them over his b
head,!^ nor crying and lamenting as much as, or in the ways. Homer
made him do; nor Priam, a near offspring of the gods, entreating and
Rolling around in dung.
Calling out to each man by name.'^
[ 65 ]
socrates/adeimantus the republic
388 b And yet far more than this, we'll ask them under no condition to make
gods who lament and say,
c Ah me, wretched me, ah me, unhappy mother of the
best man. ^3
But, if they do make gods so, at least they shouldn't dare to make so
unlikely an imitation of the greatest of the gods as when he says.
Ah woe, dear is the man I see with my own eyes being
Chased around the town, and my heart is grievedi^
and.
Oh, oh, Sarpedon, dearest of men to me, is fated
To be vanquished by Patroclus, Menoetius' son.'^
For, my dear Adeimantus, if our young should seriously hear such
things and not laugh scornfully at them as unworthy speeches, it's not
very likely that any one of them would believe these things to be un-
worthy of himself, a hximan being, and would reproach himself for
them, if it should enter into his head to say or do any such thing.
Rather, with neither shame nor endurance, he would chant many dirges
and laments at the slightest sufferings."
e "What you say is very true," he said.
"But that mustn't be, as the argument was just indicating to us.
We must be persuaded by it until someone persuades us with another
and finer one."
"No, it mustn't be."
"Further, they shouldn't be lovers of laughter either. For when a
man lets himself go and laughs mightily, he also seeks a mighty change
to accompany his condition."
"That's my opinion," he said.
"If, then, someone makes noteworthy human beings overpowered
389 a by laughter, it mustn't be accepted, far less if they are gods."
"Indeed," he said, "that is far less acceptable."
"So, we won't accept from Homer such things about the gods as.
Unquenchable laughter rose among the immortal gods.
When they saw Hephaestus hastening breathlessly
through the halls. '^
They mustn't be accepted according to your argument."
"If you want to consider it mine," he said. "At any rate, it mustn't
b be accepted."
[ 66 ]
pook III / 388b-389e socrates/adeimantus
"Further, truth must be taken seriously too. For if what we were 389 h
just saying was correct, and a lie is really useless to gods and useful to
human beings as a form of remedy, it's plain that anything of the sort
must be assigned to doctors while private men*^ must not put their
hands to it."
"Yes," he said, "it is plain."
"Then, it's appropriate for the rulers, if for anyone at all, to lie for
the benefit of the city in cases involving enemies or citizens, while all
the rest must not put their hands to anything of the sort. We'll say that
for a private man to lie to such rulers is a fault the same as, and even c
greater than, for a sick man or a man in training not to tell the truth
about the affections of his body to the doctor or the trainer, or for a
man not to say to the pilot the things that are^^ concerning the ship
and the sailors, lying about how he himself or his fellow sailors are far-
ing.
"Very true," he said.
"Then, if he*^ catches anyone else in the city lying, d
Anyone of those who are craftsmen,
Whether diviner or doctor of sickness
or carpenter of woodj^"
he'll punish him for introducing a practice as subversive and de-
structive of a city as of a ship."
"That is, at least," he said, "if deeds are to fulfill speech."
"And what about this? Won't our youngsters need modera-
tion?"2i
"Of course."
"Aren't these the most important elements of moderation for the
multitude: being obedient to the rulers, and being themselves rulers of e
the pleasures of drink, sex, and eating?"
"They are, at least in my opinion."
"So I suppose we'll assert that it's fine to say the sort of thing
Diomede says in Homer,
Friend, keep quiet, and obey my word^^
and what's connected with this.
Breathing might the Achaeans went.
In silence, afraid of their leaders,^^
and everything else of the sort."
"Yes, these things are fine."
"And what about this?
[ 67 ]
socbates/adeimantus the republic
389 e Heavy with wine, with eyes of a dog and heart of
a deer.24
390 a And what comes right after, and all the rest of the youthful insolence of
private men to rulers that anyone has ever said in speech or in poem
are they fine things to say?"
"No, they are not fine."
"1 don't suppose they're fit for the young to hear, so far as
moderation is concerned. But, if they provide some other pleasure, it's
no surprise. How does it look to you?"
"As you say," he said.
"And what about making the wisest of men say that, in his
opinion, the finest of all things is when
The tables are full of bread and meat
h And the wine bearer draws wine from the bowl
And brings it to pour in the goblets?^^
Do you think that's fit for a young man to hear for his self-mastery? Or
this:
Hunger is the most pitiful way to die and find one's fate?^^
N
Or Zeus, alone and awake, making plans while the other gods and men
'^ sleep, easily forgetting all of them because of sexual desire, and so
struck when he sees Hera that he isn't even willing to go into the house,
but wants to have intercourse right there on the ground, saying that he
wasn't so full of desire even when they first went unto one another,
'unbeknownst to their dear parents?'^'' Nor is Hephaestus' binding of
Ares and Aphrodite fit, for similar reasons.''^^
"No, by Zeus," he said, "it doesn't look fit to me."
"But," I said, "if there are any speeches and deeds of endurance
by famous men in the face of everything, surely they must be seen and
heard, such as.
Smiting his breast, he reproached his heart with word.
Endure, heart; you have endured worse before.^^
"That's entirely certain," he said.
"Of course the men mustn't be allowed to be receivers of gifts or
lovers of money."
"Not at all."
"Nor must it be sung to them that
Gifts persuade gods, gifts persuade venerable kings.^''
Nor must Achilles' teacher. Phoenix, be praised for making a sen-
[ 68 ]
Book 111 1 389e-391e socrates/adeimantus
sible-'^ speech in advising him to come to the aid of the Achaeans pro- 390 e
vided he gets gifts, but faihng gifts not to desist from wrath. Nor should
we think it worthy of Achilles himself. Nor shall we agree that he was
such a lover of money as to take gifts from Agamemnon, or, again, to
give up a corpse when getting paid for it, but otherwise not to be
willing. "32 391 a
"It's not just, in any case," he said, "to praise such things."
"And, for Homer's sake," I said, "I hesitate to say that it's not
holy to say these things against Achilles and to believe them when said
by others; or, again, to believe that he said to Apollo,
You've hindered me, Far-Darter, most destructive of
all gods.
And I would revenge myself on you, if I had the
power;-'-'
and that he was disobedient to the river, who was a god, and ready to b
do battle with it;34 ^nd that he said about the locks consecrated to
another river, Spercheius,
To the hero Patroclus I would give my hair
To take with him,-*^
although he was a corpse. It must not be believed that he did. The drag-
ging of Hector around Patroclus' tomb, the slaughter in the fire of the
men captured alive: we'll deny that all this is truly told. And we'll not
let our men believe that Achilles — the son of a goddess and Peleus, a c
most moderate man and third from Zeus, Achilles who was reared by
the most wise Chiron — was so full of confrision as to contain within
himself two diseases that are opposite to one another — illiberality ac-
companying love of money, on the one hand, and arrogant disdain for
gods and human beings, on the other."
"What you say is correct," he said.
"Then let's not believe it," I said, "and let us not believe, or let it
be said, that Theseus, Poseidon's son, and Perithous, Zeus' son, so
eagerly undertook terrible rapes, or that any other child of a god and d
himself a hero would have dared to do terrible and impious deeds such as
the current lies accuse them of Rather we should compel the poets to deny
either that such deeds are theirs, or that they are children of gods, but not
to say both, nor to attempt to persuade our youngsters that the gods
produce evil and that heroes are no better than human beings. For, as
we were saying before, these things are neither holy nor true. For,
surely, we showed that it's impossible for evil to be produced by e
gods."
[ 69 ]
ADEIMANTOS/SOCRATES THE REPUBLIC
391 e ' "Of course."
"And, further, they are harmful to those who hear them. Everyone
will be sympathetic with himself when he is bad, persuaded that after
all similar things are done and were done even by
The close relations of gods.
Near to Zeus, whose altar to patriarchal Zeus
Is on Ida's peak in the ether
and
In them the blood of demons has not yet faded.^s
On that account such tales must cease, for fear that they sow a strong
3Q2 a proclivity for badness in our young."
"Entirely so," he said.
"So," I said, "what form of speeches still remains for which we
are to define the sort of thing that must and must not be said? It has
been stated how gods must be spoken about, and demons and heroes,
and Hades' domain."
"Most certainly."
"Wouldn't it be human beings who remain?"
"Plainly."
"Well, my friend, it's impossible for us to arrange that at present."
"Why?"
"Because I suppose we'll say that what both poets and prose
h writers^'' say concerning the most important things about human beings
is bad— that many happy men are unjust, and many wretched ones
just, and that doing injustice is profitable if one gets away with it, but
justice is someone else's good and one's own loss. We'll forbid them
to say such things and order them to sing and to tell tales about the op-
posites of these things. Or don't you suppose so?"
"I know it quite well," he said.
"Then, if you were to agree that what J say is correct, wouldn't I
say you've agreed about what we've been looking for all along?"
"Your supposition is correct," he said,
c "Won't we come to an agreement that such speeches must be
made about human beings when we find out what sort of a thing justice
is and how it by nature profits the man who possesses it, whether he
seems to be just or not?"
"Very true," he said.
"So then let that be the end of what has to do with speeches. After
this, I suppose, style^^ must be considered, and then we'll have made a
[ 70 ]
Book III / 391e-393c . socrates/adeimantus
complete consideration of what must be said and how it must be 392 c
said."
And Adeimantus said, "I don't understand what you mean." d
"But, you just have to," I said. "Perhaps you'll grasp it better in
this way. Isn't everything that's said by tellers of tales or poets a nar-
rative of what has come to pass, what is, or what is going to be?"
"What else could it be?" he said.
"Now, don't they accomplish this with a narrative that is either
simple or produced by imitation, or by both together?"
"I need," he said, "a still clearer understanding of this as well."
"I seem to be a ridiculous teacher, and an unclear one," I said.
"So, just like men who are incompetent at speaking, instead of speak-
ing about the whole in general, I'll cut off a part and with it attempt to e
make plain to you what I want. Tell me, do you know the first things in
the Ilia(P^ where the poet tells of Chryses' begging Agamemnon to
ransom his daughter, and Agamemnon's harshness, and Chryses'
calling down curses from the god on the Achaeans when he failed?" 393 a
"I do."
"Then you know that up to these lines.
And he entreated all the Achaeans,
But especially Atreus' two sons, the marshallers of
the host,40
the poet himself speaks and doesn't attempt to turn our thought else-
where, as though someone other than he were speaking. But, in what
follows, he speaks as though he himself were Chryses and tries as hard
as he can to make it seem to us that it's not Homer speaking, but the b
priest, an old man. And in this way he made pretty nearly all the rest of
the narrative about the events in Ilium as well as about those in Ithaca
and the whole Odyssey."
"Most certainly," he said.
"Isn't it narrative when he gives all the speeches and also what
comes between the speeches?"
"Of course."
"But, when he gives a speech as though he were someone else, c
won't we say that he then likens his own style as much as possible to
that of the man he has announced as the speaker?"
"We'll say that, surely."
"Isn't likening himself to someone else, either in voice or in looks,
the same as imitating the man he likens himself to?"
"Surely."
"Then, in this case, it seems, he and the other poets use imitation
in making their narrative."
[ 71 ]
ADEIMANTUS/SOCHATES THE REPUBLIQ
393 c "Most certainly."
"If *he poet nowhere hid himself, his poetic work and narrative as
d a whole would have taken place without imitation. So that you won't
say you don't understand again, I'll tell you how this would be. If
Homer said that Chryses came bringing ransom for his daughter and as
a suppliant to the Achaeans, especially to the kings, and after that
didn't speak as though he had become Chryses but still as Homer, you
know that it wouldn't be imitation but simple narrative. It would be
something like this— I'll speak without meter; I'm not poetic: The
e priest came and prayed that the gods grant them the capture of Troy
and their own safety, and that they accept compensation and free his
daughter out of reverence for the god. When he had said this, the others
there showed pious respect and consented, but Agamemnon was angry
and ordered him to leave immediately and not to come back again or
else his scepter and the god's chaplets wouldn't protect him. Before his
daughter would be freed, he said she'd grow old with him in Argos. He
ordered him to go away and not provoke him if he wished to get home
394 a safely. The old man heard and was frightened; he went away in silence.
But when he had withdrawn from the camp, he made a great prayer to
Apollo, calling upon the god with his special names,'*^ reminding him
and asking a return if anything he had ever given had been pleasing,
whether it was in the building of temples or the sacrifice of victims. In
return for them he called down the god's arrows on the Achaeans in
payment for his tears. That, my comrade, " I said, "is the way simple
b narrative without imitation comes to pass."
"I understand," he said.
"Now," I said, "understand that the opposite of this comes to pass
when someone takes out the poet's connections between the speeches
and leaves the exchanges. '
"That I understand, too," he said. "That's the way it is with trage-
dies."
"Your supposition is most correct," I said. "And now I suppose I
can make plain to you what I couldn't before. Of poetry and tale-
c telling, one kind proceeds wholly by imitation — as you say, tragedy
and comedy; another, by *^be poet's own report — this, of course, you
would find especially in dithyrambs; and still another by both — this is
found in epic poetry and many other places too, if you understand
me.
"Now," he said, "I grasp what you wanted to say then."
"And remember, too, that before this we asserted that what must
be said had already been stated, but that how it must be said had still to
be considered."
[ 72 ]
Book 111 1 393c-395c adeimantvs/socrates
"I do remember." 394 c
"Now this is exactly what I meant: we must come to an agreement d
as to whether we'll let the poets make their narratives for us by imita-
tion; or whether they are to imitate some things and not others, and
what sort belongs to each group; or whether they are not to imitate at
all."
"I divine," he said, "that you're considering whether we'll admit
tragedy and comedy into the city or not. "
"Perhaps," I said, "and perhaps something still more than this.
You see, I myself really don't know yet, but wherever the argument,
like a wind, tends, thither must we go."
"What you say is fine," he said.
"Now, Adeimantus, reflect on whether our guardians ought to be e
imitators or not. Or does this follow from what went before — that each
one would do a fine job in one activity, but not in many, and if he
should try to put his hand to many, he would surely fail of attaining
fame in all? "
"Of course that's what would happen."
"Doesn't the same argument also hold for imitation — the same
man isn't able to imitate many things as well as one?"
"No, he isn't."
"Then, he'll hardly pursue any of the noteworthy activities while 395 a
at the same time imitating many things and being a skilled imitator.
For even in two kinds of imitation that seem close to one another, like
writing comedy and tragedy, the same men aren't capable of producing
good imitations in both at the same time. Weren't you just calling these
two imitations? "
"I was, and what you say is true. The same men aren't capable of
doing both."
"Nor are they able to be rhapsodes and actors at the same time."
"True."
"Nor are the same actors, you know, even able to do both comic
and tragic poets. But all these are imitations, aren't they?" b
"Yes, they are imitations. "
"Human nature, Adeimantus, looks to me to be minted in even
smaller coins than this, so that it is unable either to make a fine imita-
tion of many things or to do the things themselves of which the imita-
tions are in fact only likenesses."
"Very true," he said.
"If, then, we are to preserve the first argument — that our guard-
ians must give up all other crafts and very precisely be craftsmen of
the city's freedom and practice nothing other than what tends to c
[73]
socrates/adeimantus THEREPUBLIc
395 c it — they also mustn't do or imitate anything else. And if they do
imitate, they must imitate what's appropriate to them from childhood;
men who are courageous, moderate, holy, free, and everything of the
sort; and what is slavish, or anything else shameftil, they must neither
do nor be clever at imitating, so that they won't get a taste for the being
d from its imitation. Or haven't you observed that imitations, if they are
practiced continually from youth onwards, become established as
habits and nature, in body and sounds and in thought?"
"Quite so," he said.
"So then," I said, "we won't allow those whom we claim we care
for and who must themselves become good men to imitate wom-
en — since they are men — either a young woman or an older one, or
one who's abusing her husband, or one who's striving with gods and
e boasting because she supposes herself to be happy, or one who's caught
in the grip of misfortune, mourning and wailing. And we'll be far from
needing one who's sick or in love or in labor. "
"That's entirely certain, " he said.
"Nor must they in any event imitate slaves, women or men, who
are doing the slavish things."
"No, they mustn't."
"Nor, as it seems, bad men who are cowards and doing the op-
posite of what we just now said, insulting and making fun of one
another, and using shameful language, drunk or sober, or committing
396 a the other faults that such men commit against themselves and others in
speeches and deeds. Nor do I suppose they should be accustomed to
likening themselves to madmen in speeches or in deeds. For, although
they must know both mad and worthless men and women, they must
neither do nor imitate anything of theirs."
"Very true," he said.
"And what about this," I said. "Should they imitate smiths at
work, or men exercising any other craft, or men rowing triremes or
b calling time to those who do, or anything that has to do with these
things?"
"How could that be," he said, "since they won't even be permitted
to pay attention to any of these things?"
"And what about this? Horses neighing, bulls lowing, the roaring
of rivers, the crashing of the sea, thunder, and everything of the
sort — will they imitate them?"
"But, " he said, "they're forbidden to be mad or to liken them-
selves to the mad."
"Then, if I understand what you mean, " I said, "there is a certain
form of style and narrative in which the real gentleman^^ narrates
c whenever he must say something, and, again, another form, unlike this
[74 ]
Book III 1 395c-397c socrates/adeimani
one, in the man who is by nature and rearing the opposite of this 39i
other, always keeps and in which he narrates."
"Which are they?" he said.
"In my opinion," I said, "when the sensible man comes in his nar-
rative to some speech or deed of a good man, he will be willing to
report it as though he himself were that man and won't be ashamed of
such an imitation. He will imitate the good man most when he is acting
steadily and prudently; less, and less willingly, when he's unsteadied by
diseases, loves,^^ drink, or some other misfortune. But when he meets
with someone unworthy of himself, he won't be willing seriously to rep-
resent himself as an inferior, unless, of course, it's brief, when the
man does something good; rather, he'll be ashamed, both because he's
unpracticed at imitating such men and because he can't stand forming
himself according to, and fitting himself into, the models of worse men.
In his mind he despises this, unless it's done in play."
"It's likely," he said.
"Then, won't he use a narration like the one we described a little
while ago concerning Homer's verses, and won't his style participate in
both imitation and the other kind of narrative, but there'll be a little bit
of imitation in a great deal of speech? Or am I talking nonsense?"
"That, " he said, "is just the way the model of such a speaker must
be."
"Now, then," I said, "as for the man who's not of this sort, the
more common he is, the more he'll narrate everything and think noth- 397
ing unworthy of himself; hence he'll undertake seriously to imitate in
the presence of many everything we were just mentioning — thunder,
the noises of viinds, hailstorms, axles and pulleys, the voices of
trumpets, flutes, and all the instruments, and even the sound of dogs,
sheep, and birds. And this man's whole style will be based on imitation
of voice and looks, or else include only a bit of narrative."
"That," he said, "is also the way it must be."
"Well, then," I said, "these are the two forms of style I meant."
"So they are," he said.
"Then, of the two, one involves only small changes, and, if
someone assigns the appropriate harmonic mode and rhythm^^ to the
style, it turns out that the man who speaks correctly speaks mostly in
the same style and in one mode, for the changes are small, and likewise
in a similar rhythm."
"That's exactly the way it is, " he said.
"And what about the form of the other? Doesn't it need the op-
posites — all modes and all rhythms — if it's going to be spoken in its
own way, because it involves all species of changes? "
"Yes, indeed, that's very much the way it is."
[ 75]
dcrates/adeimantus the republic
397 c "Do all the poets and the men who say anything fall into one of
these patterns of style or the other, or make some mixture of them
both?"
"Necessarily," he said.
d "What will we do then?" I said. "Shall we admit all of them into
the city, or one of the unmixed, or the one who is mixed?"
"If my side wins," he said, "it will be the unmixed imitator of the
decent."
"However, Adeimantus, the man who is mixed is pleasing; and
by far the most pleasing to boys and their teachers, and to the great mob
too, is the man opposed to the one you choose."
"Yes," he said, "he is the most pleasing."
"But," I said, "perhaps you would say he doesn't harmonize with
e our regime because there's no double man among us, nor a manifold
one, since each man does one thing."
"No, he doesn't harmonize."
"Isn't it for this reason that it's only in such a city that we'll find
the shoemaker a shoemaker, and not a pilot along with his shoemaking,
and the farmer a farmer, and not a judge along with his farming, and
the skilled warrior a skilled warrior, and not a moneymaker along with his
warmaking, and so on with them all?"
"True," he said.
398 a "Now, as it seems, if a man who is able by wisdom to become
every sort of thing and to imitate all things should come to our city,
wishing to make a display of himself and his poems, we would fall on
our knees before him as a man sacred, wonderful, and pleasing; but we
would say that there is no such man among us in the city, nor is it
lawful^ for such a man to be bom there. We would send him to an-
other city, with myrrh poured over his head and crowned with wool,
while we ourselves would use a more austere and less pleasing poet and
b teller of tales for the sake of benefit, one who would imitate the
style of the decent man and would say what he says in those models
that we set down as laws at the beginning, when we undertook to edu-
cate the soldiers."
"Indeed that is what we would do," he said, "if it were up to us."
"Now, my friend," I said, "it's likely we are completely finished
with that part of music that concerns speeches and tales. What must be
told and how it must be told have been stated."
"That's my opinion too, " he said.
c "After that," I said, "doesn't what concerns the manner of song
and melody remain?"
"Plainly."
[ 76]
Book III 1 397c-399b socrates/glaucon
"Couldn't everyone by now discover what we have to say about 398 c
how they must be if we're going to remain in accord with what has
already been said?"
And Glaucon laughed out and said, "I run the risk of not being
included in everyone. At least I'm not at present capable of suggesting
what sort of things we must say. However, I've a suspicion."
"At all events," I said, "you are, in the first place, surely capable d
of saying that melody is composed of three things — speech, harmonic
mode, and rhythm."
"Yes," he said, "that I can do."
"What's speech in it surely doesn't differ from the speech that
isn't sung insofar as it must be spoken according to the same models
we prescribed a while ago and in the same way."
"True," he said.
"And, further, the harmonic mode and the rhythm must follow
the speech."
"Of course."
"Moreover, we said there is no further need of wailing and lainen-
tations in speeches."
"No, there isn't."
"What are the wailing modes? Tell me, for you're musical." e
"The mixed Lydian," he said, "and the 'tight' Lydian and some
similar ones."
"Aren't they to be excluded?" I said. "They're useless even for
women who are to be decent, let alone for men."
"Certainly."
"Then again, drunkenness, softness, and idleness are most un-
seemly for guardians. '
"Of course."
"What modes are soft and suitable for symposia?"^^
"There are some Ionian, " he said, "and some Lydian, too, which
are called 'slack.'"
"Could you, my friend, use them for war-making men?" 399 a
"Not at all," he said. "So, you've probably got the Dorian and the
Phrygian left."
"I don't know the modes," I said. "Just leave that mode which
would appropriately imitate the sounds and accents of a man who is
courageous in warlike deeds and every violent work, and who in failure
or when going to face wounds or death or falling into some other b
disaster, in the face of all these things stands up firmly and patiently
against chance. And, again, leave another mode for a man who per-
forms a peaceful deed, one that is not violent but voluntary, either per-
[ 77 ]
socrates/glaucon the republic
399 b suading someone of something and making a request— whether a god
by prayer or a human being by instruction and exhortation— or, on the
contrary, holding himself in check for someone else who makes a re-
quest or instructs him or persuades him to change, and as a result act-
ing intelligently, not behaving arrogantly, but in all these things acting
c moderately and in measure and being content with the consequences.
These two modes — a violent one and a voluntary one, which will pro-
duce the finest imitation of the sounds of unfortunate and fortunate,
moderate and courageous men — leave these."
"You're asking me to leave none other than those I was just
speaking of."
"Then," I said, "there'll be no need of many-toned or panhar-
monic instruments for our songs and melodies."
"It doesn't look like it to me," he said.
"Then we'll not support the craftsmen who make lutes, harps, and
d all the instruments that are many-stringed and play many modes."
"It doesn't look like we will," he said.
"And what about this? Will you admit flutemakers and flutists in-
to the city? Or, isn't the flute the most many-stringed of all, and aren't
the panharmonic instruments themselves imitations of it?"
"Plainly," he said.
"The lyre and the cither are left you as useful for the city," I said.
"And, further, for the country, there'd be a sort of pipe for the
herdsmen."
"At least so our argument indicates," he said.
e "It's nothing new we're doing, my friend," I said, "in choosing
Apollo and Apollo's instruments ahead of Marsyas and his instru-
ments."'*''
"No, by Zeus," he said. "We don't look to me as though we
were."
"And, by the dog," I said, "unawares we've again purged the city
that a while ago we said was luxurious."
"That's a sign of our moderation," he said.
"Come, then," I said, "and let's purge the rest. Now, following on
harmonic modes would be our rule about rhythms: we mustn't seek
subtle ones nor all sorts of feet, but we'll see which are the rhythms of
an orderly and courageous life; and when we have seen them, we'll
compel the foot and the tune to follow the speech of such a man, rather
400 a than the speech following the foot and the tune. Whatever these
rhythms might be is your job to tell, just as with the harmonic
modes."
"But, by Zeus, I can't say," he said. "There are three forms out of
[ 78 ]
Book III / 399b-401a glaucon/socrates
which the feet are woven, just as there are four for sounds from which 400 a
all the modes are compounded— this I've observed and could tell. But
as to which sort are imitations of which sort of life, I can't say/'^s
"We'll consult with Damon^^ too," I said, "about which feet are b
appropriate for illiberality and insolence or madness and the rest of
vice, and which rhythms must be left for their opposites. I think I
heard him, but not clearly, naming a certain enoplion foot, which is a
composite, and a dactyl and an heroic— I don't know how, but he ar-
ranged it and presented it so that it's equal up and down, passing into a
short and a long; and, I think, he named one iambic and another
trochaic and attached longs and shorts to them. With some of these I c
think he blamed and praised the tempo of the foot no less than the
rhythms themselves, or it was the two together— I can't say. But, as I
said, let these things be turned over to Damon. To separate them out^"
is no theme for a short argument. Or do you think so?"^^
"Not I, by Zeus."
"But you are able to determine that grace and gracelessness^^ ac-
company rhythm and lack of it?"
"Of course."
"Further, rhythm and lack of it follow the style, the one likening d
itself to a fine style, the other to its opposite; and it's the same with har-
mony and lack of it, provided, that is, rhythm and harmonic mode
follow speech, as we were just saying, and not speech them."
"But, of course," he said, "they must accompany speech."
"What about the manner of the style and the speech?" I said.
"Don't they follow the disposition of the soul?"
"Of course."
"And the rest follow the style?"
"Yes."
"Hence, good speech, good harmony, good grace, and good
rhythm accompany good disposition,^^ not the folly that we endear- e
ingly call 'good disposition,' but that understanding truly trained to a
good and fair disposition."
"That's entirely certain," he said.
"Mustn't the young pursue them everywhere if they are to do their
own work?"
"Indeed they must be pursued."
"Surely painting is full of them, as are all crafts of this sort; weav- 401 a
ing is full of them, and so are embroidery, housebuilding, and also all
the crafts that produce the other furnishings; so, furthermore, is the
nature of bodies and the rest of what grows. In all of them there is
grace or gracelessness. And gracelessness, clumsiness, inhar-
[ 79 ]
socrates/glaucon the republic
401 a moniousness, are akin to bad speech and bad disposition, while their
opposites are akin to, and imitations of, the opposite — moderate and
good disposition."
"Entirely so," he said.
b "Must we, then, supervise only the poets and compel them to im-
press the image of the good disposition on their poems or not to make
them among us? Or must we also supervise the other craftsmen and
prevent them from impressing this bad disposition, a licentious,
illiberal, and graceless one, either on images of animals or on houses or
on anything else that their craft produces? And the incapable craftsman
we mustn't permit to practice his craft among us, so that our guardians
c won't be reared on images of vice, as it were on bad grass, every day
cropping and grazing on a great deal little by little from many places,
and unawares put together some one big bad thing in their soul?
Mustn't we, rather, look for those craftsmen whose good natural en-
dowments make them able to track down the nature of what is fine and
graceful, so that the young, dwelling as it were in a healthy place, will
be benefited by everything; and from that place something of the fine
works will strike their vision or their hearing, like a breeze bringing
d health from good places; and beginning in childhood, it will, without
their awareness, with the fair speech lead them to likeness and friendship
as well as accord?"
"In this way," he said, "they'd have by far the finest rearing."
"So, Glaucon," I said, "isn't this why the rearing in music is most
sovereign? Because rhythm and harmony most of all insinuate them-
selves into the inmost part of the soul and most vigorously lay hold of it
in bringing grace with them; and they make a man graceful if he is cor-
e rectly reared, if not, the opposite. Furthermore, it is sovereign because
the man properly reared on rhythm and harmony would have the
sharpest sense for what's been left out and what isn't a fine product of
craft or what isn't a fine product of nature. And, due to his having the
right kind of dislikes, he would praise the fine things; and, taking
pleasure in them and receiving them into his soul, he would be reared
402 a on them and become a gentleman. He would blame and hate the ugly in
the right way while he's still young, before he's able to grasp reasonable
speech. And when reasonable speech comes, the man who's reared in
this way would take most delight in it, recognizing it on account of its
being akin?"
"In my opinion, at least," he said, "it's for such reasons that
there's rearing in music. "
"Then," I said, "just as we were competent at reading only when
the few letters there are didn't escape us in any of the combinations in
b which they turn up, and we didn't despise them as not needing to be
\ 80
Book III 1 401a-403a socrates/glaucon
noticed in either small writing or large, but were eager to make them 402 b
out everywhere, since we wouldn't be skilled readers before we could
do so — "
True.
"Now isn't it also true that if images of writings should appear
somewhere, in water or in mirrors, we wouldn't recognize them before
we knew the things themselves, but both belong to the same art and
discipline?"
"That's entirely certain. "
"So, in the name of the gods, is it as I say: we'll never be
musical — either ourselves or those whom we say we must educate to be c
guardians — ^before we recognize the forms of moderation, courage,
liberality, magnificence, and all their kin, and, again, their opposites,
everywhere they turn up, and notice that they are in whatever they are
in, both themselves and their images, despising them neither in little nor
big things, but believing that they all belong to the same art and
discipline?"
"Quite necessarily," he said.
"Then," I said, "if the fine dispositions that are in the soul and d
those that agree and accord with them in the form should ever coincide
in anyone, with both partaking of the same model, wouldn't that be the
fairest sight for him who is able to see?"
"By far."
"Now the fairest is the most lovable?"
"Of course."
"It's the musical man who would most of all love such human
beings, while if there were one who lacked harmony, he wouldn't love
him."
"No, he wouldn't," he said, "at least if there were some defect in the
soul. If, however, there were some bodily defect, he'd be patient and
would willingly take dehght in him." e
"I understand," I said. "You have, or had, such a boy and I con-
cede your point. But tell me this: does excessive pleasure have anything
in common with moderation?"
"How could it," he said, "since it puts men out of their minds no
less than pain? "
"But, then, with the rest of virtue?"
"Nothing at all." 403 a
"But with insolence and licentiousness? "
"Most of all."
"Can you tell of a greater or keener pleasure than the one con-
nected with sex?"
"I can't," he said, 'nor a madder one either."
[ 81 ]
socrates/glaucon the REPUBLI QhM
403 a "Is the naturally right kind of love to love in a moderate and
musical way what's orderly and fine?"
"Quite so," he said. [hej^i
"Nothing that's mad or akin to licentiousness must approach the
right kind of love? "
"No, it mustn't." stead
b "Then this pleasure mustn't approach love, and lover and boysleen
who love and are loved in the right way mustn't be partner to it?" Ufg i
"By Zeus, no, Socrates," he said, "this pleasure certainly mustn't
approach love. '
"So then, as it seems, you'll set dovsTi a law in the city that's being bata
founded: that a lover may kiss, be with, and touch his boy as though he shaf
were a son, for fair purposes, if he persuades him; but, as for the rest, wati
his intercourse with the one for whom he cares will be such that their for j
c relationship will never be reputed to go further than this. If not, he'll be
subject to blame as unmusical and inexperienced in fair things."
"Just so," he said. desi
"Does it look to you too as though our argument concerning
music has reached an end? " I said. "At least it's ended where it ought
to end. Surely musical matters should end in love matters that concern of ^
the fair."
"I am in accord," he said.
"Now, after music, the youths must be trained in gymnastic." thii
"Of course." hei
"In this too they must then receive a precise training from child- thf
d hood throughout life. And it would, I believe, be something like this; wo
and you consider it too. It doesn't look to me as though it's a sound evi
body that by its virtue makes the soul good, but the opposite: a good an
soul by its own virtue makes the body as good as it can be. How does it look
to you?"
"It looks that way to me too," he said. ev
"If we gave adequate care to the intellect and turned over to it the it
concern for the precise details about the body, while we, so as not to
e talk too much, showed the way only to the models, would we be doing a^
the right thing?"
"Most certainly. " ^i
"Now we said that they must keep away from drunkenness. Surely
it's more permissible for anyone, other than a guardian, to be drunk
and not to know where on earth he is." ^
"It's ridiculous, " he said, "if the guardian needs a guardian."
"Now, what about food? For the men are champions in the greatest
contest, aren't they?"
82 ]
Book III / 403a-404d glaucon/socrates
"Yes." 403 e
"Then would the habit of the ordinary athletes be proper for 404 a
them?"
"Perhaps."
"But," I said, "this is a sort of sleepy habit and not a very
steady one so far as health is concerned. Or don't you see that they
sleep their life away; and if they depart a bit from their fixed way of
life, these athletes get very critically ill?"
"I do see that."
"There's need then," I said, "for a subtler exercise for these com-
batants in war, since they must be sleepless like hounds, see and hear as
sharply as possible, and in their campaigns undergo many changes of
water, food, the sun's heat, and winds without being too highly tuned b
for steadiness in health."
"It looks like it to me."
"Would the best gymnastic be a kin of the simple music we were
describing a little while ago?"
"How do you mean?"
"A simple and decent g)Tnnastic, of course, especially in matters
of war."
"How would it be?"
"From Homer too," I said, "one could learn things very much of
this sort. For you know that, during the campaign, at the feasts of the
heroes, he doesn't feast them on fish— and that, although they are by
the sea at the Hellespont— nor on boiled meats but only roasted, which c
would be especially easy for soldiers to come by; for, so to speak,
everywhere it's easier to come by the use of fire alone than to carry pots
around."
"Quite so."
"Nor does Homer, I believe, ever make mention of sweets. Don't
even the other athletes know that if a body is going to be in good shape
it must keep away from everything of the sort?"
"Yes," he said, "and they are right in knowing it and keeping
away."
"My friend, you don't seem to recommend a Syracusan table and d
Sicilian refinement at cooking, if you think this is right."
"No, I think not."
"Then you also blame a Corinthian girl's being the mistress of
men who are going to have good bodies."
"That's entirely certain."
"And the reputed joys of Attic cakes?"
"Necessarily."
[ 83 ]
scxieiatjes/glaucon the republic
404 d "In likening such food and such a way of life as a whole to melo-
dies and songs written in the panharmonic mode and with all rhythms
e we would make a correct likeness, I suppose."
"Of course."
"Just as refinement there gave birth to licentiousness, does it give
birth to illness here? And just as simplicity in music produced modera-
tion in souls, does it in gymnastic produce health in bodies?"
"That's very true," he said.
405 a "When licentiousness and illness multiply in a city, aren't many
courts and hospitals opened, and aren't the arts of the law court and
medicine full of pride when even many free men take them very
seriously?"
"How could it turn out differently?"
"Will you be able to produce a greater sign of a bad and base
education in a city than its needing eminent doctors and judges not
only for the common folk and the manual artisans but also for those
who pretend to have been reared in a free fashion? Or doesn't it
b seem base, and a great sign of lack of education, to be compelled—
because of a shortage at home— to use a justice imported from others
who are thus masters and umpires?"
"Certainly," he said, "basest of all."
"In your opinion, is this really baser," I said, "than when some-
one not only wastes most of his life in courtrooms defending and ac-
cusing, but, from inexperience in fair thmgs, is also persuaded to pride
himself on this very thing, because he is clever at doing injustice and
c competent at practicing every dodge, escaping through every loophole
by writhing and twisting and thereby not paying the penalty, and all
this for the sake of little and worthless things; ignorant of how much
finer and better it is to arrange his life so as to have no need of a dozing
judge?"
"No," he said, "but this case is even baser than the other one."
"And," I said, "needing medicine, not because one has met with
wounds or some of the seasonal maladies, but as a result of idleness and
d a way of life such as we described, full of humors and winds like a
marsh, compelling the subtle Asclepiads^'* to give names like 'flatu-
lences' and 'catarrhs' to diseases, doesn't that seem base?"
"Quite so," he said. "How truly new and strange are these names
for diseases."
"Such," I said, "as didn't exist in the time of Asclepius, as I sup-
e pose. 1 infer this from the fact that at Troy his sons didn't blame the
woman who gave the wounded Eurypylus Pramneian wine to drink
406 a with a great deal of barley and grated cheese sprinkled on it; and it's
[ 84 ]
Book in / 404d-407a socrates/glauco
just these that are thought to be inflammatory; nor did they criticize 406
Patroclus who was heaHng."^^
"But for all of that," he said, "the drink is certainly strange for
one in that condition."
"No, it isn't," I said, "if only you recognize that this current art of
medicine which is an education in disease was not used by the Ascle-
piads of former times, or so they say, until Herodicus came on the
scene. He was a gymnastic master and became sickly; so 'he mixed
gymnastic with medicine, and he first and foremost worried himself
to death, then many others afterwards."
"In what way?" he said.
"He drew out his death," I said. "Attending the mortal disease, he
wasn't able to cure it, I suppose, and spent his whole life treating it
with no leisure for anything else, mightily distressed if he departed a bit
from his accustomed regimen. So, finding it hard to die, thanks to his
wisdom, he came to an old age."
"Well," he said, "that was a fine prize^^ he won for his art."
"Such as is fitting," I said, "for one who didn't know that it wasn't
from ignorance or inexperience in this form of medicine that Asclepius
didn't reveal it to his offspring, but rather because he knew that for all
men obedient to good laws a certain job has been assigned to each in
the city at which he is compelled to work, and no one has the leisure to
be sick throughout life and treat himself. It's laughable that we
recognize this for the craftsmen, while for the rich and reputed happy
we don't."
"How's that?" he said.
"A carpenter," I said, "when he's sick, thinks fit to drink some
medicine from the doctor and vomit up his disease or have it purged
out from below, or submit to burning or cutting and be rid of it. If
someone prescribes a lengthy regimen for him, putting bandages
around his head and what goes with them, he soon says that he has
no leisure to be sick nor is a life thus spent — paying attention to a
disease while neglecting the work at hand— of any profit. And, with
that, he says goodbye to such a doctor and returns to his accus-
tomed regimen; regaining his health, he lives minding his own busi-
ness; if his body is inadequate to bearing up under it, he dies and is
rid of his troubles."
"For this kind of man at least," he said, "it's thought proper to
use medicine in this way."
"Is it," I said, "because he had a definite job, and if he couldn't do 407 1
it, it would be of no profit to go on living?"
"Plainly," he said.
[ 85 ]
socrates/glaucon the republic
407 a "While the rich man, as we claim, has no such job at hand that
makes his life unlivable if he's compelled to keep away from it."
"At least there's not said to be."
"That," I said, "is because you don't listen to how
Phocylides^'^ says that when someone already has a livelihood he
must practice virtue."
"I, for my part," he said, "suppose he must also do so before that."
"Let's not fight with him about that," I said. "But let's instruct
ourselves as to whether the rich man must practice it and whether life is
b unlivable for the one who doesn't practice it, or whether care of
sickness is a hindrance in paying attention to carpentry and the other
arts, but doesn't hinder Phocylides' exhortation."
"Yes, by Zeus," he said, "this excessive care of the body, if it's
over and above gymnastic, hinders it just about more than anything.
And it's troublesome in the management of a household, on a cam-
paign, and in sedentary offices in the city."
"But most important of all, surely, is that it also makes any kind
c of learning, thought, or meditation by oneself hard; it is always on the
lookout for tensions and spinning in the head and holds philosophy to
blame. So that wherever virtue is practiced and made to undergo scru-
tiny in this way, this care of the body is in every way a hindrance. It al-
ways makes one suppose he's sick and never cease to take pains about
,his body."
"Quite likely," he said.
"Then won't we say that Asclepius, top, knew this and revealed, an
art of medicine for those whose bodies are by nature and regimen in a
healthy condition but have some distinct and definite disease in them?
His medicine is for these men and this condition; with drugs and cut-
ting to drive out the diseases, he prescribed their customary regimen so
as not to harm the city's affairs. But with bodies diseased through and
through, he made no attempt by regimens— drawing off a bit at one
time, pouring in a bit at another— to make a lengthy and bad life for a
human being and have him produce offspring likely to be such as he;
he didn't think he should care for the man who's not able to live in his
established round, on the grounds that he's of no profit to himself or to
e the city."
"You speak," he said, "of a statesmanlike Asclepius."^^
"Plainly," I said. "And don't you see that his sons, because he was
408 a like that, both showed themselves to be good men in the war at Troy
and made use of the art of medicine in the way I say? Or don't you re-
member that as well from the wound Pandarus inflicted on Menelaus,
They sucked out the blood and sprinkled gentle drugs on it^^
[ 86 ]
BooJi III / 407a-409a socrates/glaucon
and that after this they didn't prescribe what he must drink or eat 408 a
any more than with Eurypylus, beUeving the drugs to be sufficient
to cure men who before their wounds were healthy and orderly in
their regimen, even if they should happen to take a drink mixed with b
barley, cheese, and wine right away? And, as for those with a naturally
sickly and licentious body, they thought that living is of no profit
either to themselves or others, that the art shouldn't be applied to
them, and that they mustn't be treated— not even if they were richer
than Midas."
"You speak," he said, "of quite subtle sons of Asclepius."
"It's appropriate," I said. "And yet it's in just this that the tragic
poets as well as Pindar^** don't obey us. Although they claim Ascle-
pius was the son of Apollo, they also say he was persuaded by gold to
cure a rich man who was as good as dead and it's for this that he was
struck with a thunderbolt. But we, in accord with what was said before, c
won't believe both things from them; rather if he was a god's son, we'll
say he wasn't basely greedy, and if he was basely greedy, he wasn't a
god's son."
"Quite right in that," he said. "But what do you say about this,
Socrates? Won't we need to get good doctors in the city? And, of
course, those who have handled the most healthy men and the most d
sick ones would be the best, and the best judges, similarly, would be
those who have been familiar with all sorts of natures."
"Yes indeed, I mean good ones," I said. "But do you know whom I
consider to be such?"
"I would, if you'd tell me," he said.
"Well, I'll try," I said. "However you asked about dissimilar mat-
ters in the same speech."
"How's that?" he said.
"Doctors," I said, "would prove cleverest if, beginning in child-
hood, in addition to learning the art, they should be familiar with very
many and very bad bodies and should themselves suffer all diseases and e
not be quite healthy by nature. For I don't suppose they care for a body
with a body— in that case it wouldn't be possible for the bodies them-
selves ever to be, or to have been, bad— but for a body with a soul; and
it's not possible for a soul to have been, and to be, bad and to care for
anything well."
"Correct," he said.
"A judge, on the other hand, my friend, rules a soul with a soul, 409 a
and it's not possible for it to have been reared and been familiar with
bad souls from youth on, and to have gone through the list of all unjust
deeds and to have committed them itself so as to be sharp at inferring
from itself the unjust deeds of others like diseases in the body. Rather,
[ 87 ]
socrates/glaucon the republic
409 a it must have been inexperienced and untainted by bad dispositions
when it was young, if, as a fine and good soul, it's going to make
healthy judgments about what is just. This is exactly why decent men
when they are young, look as though they were innocents^^ and easily
h deceived by unjust men, because they have in themselves no patterns of
affections similar to those of bad men. "
"Yes, indeed," he said, "this is the very thing that happens to
them."
"That, you see, is why," I said, "the good judge must not be young
but old, a late learner of what injustice is; he must not have become
aware of it as kindred, dwelling in his own soul. Rather, having studied
it as something alien in alien souls, over a long time, he has become
thoroughly aware of how it is naturally bad, having made use of
knowledge, not his own personal experience."
"Well," he said, "a judge who's like that seems to be most noble."
"And good, too," I said, "which is what you asked. The man who
has a good soul is good. That clever and suspicious man, the one who
has himself done many unjust things and supposes he's a master crim-
inal and wise, looks clever, because he is on his guard, when he keeps
company with his likes — taking his bearings by the patterns within
himself. But when he has contact with good men who are older, he now
d looks stupid, distrustful out of season, and ignorant of a healthy
disposition, because he does not possess a pattern for such a man. But
since he meets bad men more often than good ones, he seems to be
rather more wise than unlearned, both to himself and to others."
"That is," he said, "quite certainly true."
"Then it's not in such a man that the good and wise judge must be
looked for but in the former," I said. "For badness would never know
virtue and itself, while virtue in an educated nature will in time gain a
e knowledge of both itself and badness simultaneously. This man, in my
opinion, and not the bad one, becomes wise."
"And I,'' he said, "share your opinion."
"Will you set down a law in the city providing as well for an art of
medicine such as we described along with such an art of judging, which
410 a will care for those of your citizens who have good natures in body and
soul; while as for those who haven't, they'll let die the ones whose bod-
ies are such, and the ones whose souls have bad natures and are in-
curable, they themselves will kill?"
"Well," he said, "that's the way it looked best for those who un-
dergo it and for the city."
"Then your young," I said, "will plainly beware of falling into
need of the judge's art, since they use that simple music which we claimed
engenders moderation."
[ 88 ]
Book III / 409a-411a socrates/glaucon
"Of course," he said. 410 a
"Won't the musical man hunt for a gymnastic by following these b
same tracks, and, if he wishes, catch it, so that he will require no art of
medicine except in case of necessity?"
"That's my opinion."
"Moreover, he'll undergo these very exercises and labors looking
less to strength than to the spirited part of his nature and for the purpose
of arousing it, unlike the other kinds of contestants who treat diets and
labors as means to force."
"Quite right," he said.
"Then, Glaucon," I said, "did those who established an education
in music and gymnastic do so for other reasons than the one supposed c
by some, that the latter should care for the body and the former for the
soul?"
"For what else, then?" he said.
"It's likely," I said, "that they established both chiefly for the
soul."
"How's that?"
"Don't you notice," I said, "the turn of mind of those who main-
tain a lifelong familiarity with gymnastic but don't touch music; or,
again, that of those who do the opposite?"
"What are you talking about?" he said.
"Savageness and hardness on the one hand," I said, "softness and c
tameness on the other."
"I do notice," he said, "that those who make use of unmixed gym-
nastic turn out more savage than they ought, while those who make use
of music become in their turn softer than is fine for them."
"And, surely," I said, "the savage stems from the spirited part of
their nature, which, if rightly trained, would be courageous; but, if
raised to a higher pitch than it ought to have, would be likely to be-
come cruel and harsh."
"That is my opinion," he said.
"And what about this? Wouldn't the philosophic nature have the
tame; and if it is relaxed somewhat more, would it be softer than it
ought to be, while if it is finely reared, it would be tame and orderly?"
"That's so."
"And we do say that the guardians must have both of these two
natures."
"Yes, they must."
"Then mustn't they be harmonized with one another?"
"Of course."
"And the soul of the man thus harmonized is moderate and
courageous?" ^-^ ^
[ 89 ]
GLAUCON/sOCaftATES THE REPUBLIC
411a "Certainly."
"And that of the inharmonious man is cowardly and crude?"
"Of course."
"Then, when a man gives himself to music and lets the flute play
and pour into his soul through his ears, as it were into a funnel— using
those sweet, soft, wailing harmonies we were just speaking of— and
spends his whole life humming and exulting in song, at first, whatever
spiritedness he had, he softened like iron and made useful from having
b been useless and hard. But when he keeps at it without letting up and
charms his spirit, he, as the next step, already begins to melt and li-
quefy his spirit, until he dissolves it completely and cuts out, as it were,
the sinews from his soul and makes it 'a feeble warrior.' "^^
"Most certainly," he said.
"And," I said, "if from the start he got a spiritless soul from
nature, he accomplishes this quickly. But if it's spirited, the spirit is
weakened and made temperamental, quickly inflamed by little things
and quickly extinguished. Thus these men have become quick-
c tempered and irritable from having been spirited, and they are filled
with discontent."
"Quite so."
"Now what about the man who labors a great deal at gymnastic
and feasts himself really well but never touches music and philosophy?
At first, with his body in good condition, isn't he filled with high
thought and spirit, and doesn't he become braver than himself?"
"Very much."
"But what about when he does nothing else and never communes
d with a Muse? Even if there was some love of learning in his soul, be-
cause it never tastes of any kind of learning or investigation nor par-
takes in speech or the rest of music, doesn't it become weak, deaf, and
blind because it isn't awakened or trained and its perceptions aren't
purified?"
"That's so," he said.
"Then, I suppose, such a man becomes a misologist^^ and un-
musical. He no longer makes any use of persuasion by means of speech
e but goes about everything with force and savageness, like a wild beast;
and he lives ignorantly and awkwardly without rhythm or grace."
"Exactly," he said, "that's the way it is."
"Now I, for one, would assert that some god gave two arts to hu-
man beings for these two things, as it seems — music and gymnastic for
the spirited and the philosophic — not for soul and body, except inci-
dentally, but rather for these two. He did so in order that they might be
':12 a harmonized with one another by being tuned to the proper degree of
tension and relaxation."
[ 90 ]
pook III / 411a^412d glaucon/socrates
"Yes, it does seem so," he said. 412 a
"Then the man who makes the finest mixture of gymnastic with
music and brings them to his soul in the most proper measure is the one
of whom we would most correctly say that he is the most perfectly
musical and well harmonized, far more so than of the man who tunes
the strings to One another."
"That's fitting, Socrates," he said.
"Won't we also always need some such man as overseer in the
city, Glaucon, if the regime is going to be saved?"
"Indeed, we will need him more than anything." b
"These, then, would be the models of education and rearing. Why
should one go through the dances of such men and the hunts, chases,
gymnastic contests, and horseraces? It's pretty plain, surely, that they
must follow these models, and they are no longer difficult to dis-
cover."
"Perhaps," he said, "they aren't."
"All right," I said. "After that, what would it be that we must
determine? Isn't it who among these men will rule and who be
ruled?"
"Of course." c
"That the rulers must be older and the ruled younger is plain, isn't
it?"
"Yes, it is."
"And that they must be the best among them?"
"That's plain, too."
"And the best of the farmers, aren't they the most skillful at fann-
ing?"
"Yes."
"Now since they must be the best of the guardians, mustn't they
be the most skillful at guarding the city?"
"Yes."
"Mustn't they, to begin with, be prudent in such matters as well as
powerful, and, moreover, mustn't they care for the city?"
"That's so." d
"A man would care most for that which he happened to love."
"Necessarily."
"And wouldn't he surely love something most when he believed
that the same things are advantageous to it and to himself, and when he
supposed that if it did well, he too himself would do well along with it,
and if it didn't, neither would he?"
"That's so," he said.
"Then we must select from the other guardians the sort of men
who, upon our consideration, from everything in their lives, look as if
[ 91 ]
socrates/gi^ucon the republic
412 e they were entirely eager to do what they beheve to be advantageous to
the city and would in no way be willing to do what is not."
"Yes," he said, "they would be suitable."
"Then, in my opinion, they must be watched at every age to see if
they are skillful guardians of this conviction^* and never under the
influence of wizardry or force forget and thus banish the opinion that
one must do what is best for the city."
"What do you mean by 'banishment'?" he said.
"I'll tell you," I said. "It looks to me as though an opinion departs
from our minds either willingly or unwillingly; the departure of the
false opinion from the man who learns otherwise is willing, that of
413 a every true opinion is unwilling."
"I understand the case of the willing departure," he said, "but I
need to learn about the unwilling."
"What?" I said. "Don't you too believe that human beings are un-
willingly deprived of good things and willingly of bad ones? Or isn't
being deceived about the truth bad, and to have the truth good? Or isn't
it your opinion that to opine the things that are, is to have the truth?"
"What you say is correct," he said, "and in my opinion men are
unwillingly deprived of true opinion."
b "Don't they suffer this by being robbed, bewitched by wizards, or
forced?"
"Now I don't understand again," he said.
"I'm afraid I am speaking in the tragic way," I said. "By the
robbed I mean those who are persuaded to change and those who
forget, because in the one case, time, in the other, speech, takes
away their opinions unawares. Now you surely understand?"
"Yes."
"And, then, by the forced I mean those whom some grief or pain
causes to change their opinions."
"I understand that too," he said, "and what you say is correct."
c "And, further, the bewitched you too, I suppose, would say are
those who change their opinions either because they are charmed by
pleasure or terrified by some fear."
"Yes," he said, "that's because everything that deceives seems to
bewitch."
"Now then, as I said a while ago, we must look for some men who
are the best guardians of their conviction that they must do what on
each occasion seems best for the city. So we must watch them straight
from childhood by setting them at tasks in which a man would most
likely forget and be deceived out of such a conviction. And the man
who has a memory and is hard to deceive must be chosen, and the one
d who's not must be rejected, mustn't he?"
[ 92 ]
Book III / 412e-414d glaucon/socrates
"Yes." 413 d
"And again, they must be set to labors, pains, and contests in
which these same things must be watched."
"Correct," he said.
"Then," I said, "we must also make them a competition for the
third form, wizardry, and we must look on. Just as they lead colts to
noises and confosions and observe if they're fearfol, so these men when
they are young must be brought to terrors and then cast in turn into
pleasures, testing them far more than gold in fire. If a man appears e
hard to bewitch and graceful in everything, a good guardian of himself
and the music he was learning, proving himself to possess rhythm and
harmony on all these occasions— such a man would certainly be most
useful to himself and the city. And the one who on each occasion,
among the children and youths and among the men, is tested and comes
through untainted, must be appointed ruler of the city and guardian; 414 a
and he must be given honors, both while living and when dead, and
must be allotted the greatest prizes in burial and the other memorials.
And the man who's not of this sort must be rejected. The selection and
appointment of the rulers and guardians is, in my opinion, Glaucon," I
said, "something like this, not described precisely, but by way of a
model."
"That," he said, "is the way it looks to me too."
"Isn't it then truly most correct to call these men complete guard- b
ians? They can guard over enemies from without and friends from
within— so that the ones will not wish to do harm and the others will
be unable to. The young, whom we were calling guardians up to now,
we shall call auxiliaries and helpers of the rulers' convictions."
"In my opinion," he said, "that is what they should be called."
"Could we," I said, "somehow contrive one of those lies that
come into being in case of need, of which we were just now speaking,
some one noble^^ lie to persuade, in the best case, even the rulers, c
but if not them, the rest of the city?"
"What sort of a thing?" he said.
"Nothing new," I said, "but a Phoenician thing,®® which has
already happened in many places before, as the poets assert and have
caused others to believe, but one that has not happened in our
time— and I don't know if it could— one that requires a great deal of
persiiasion."
"How like a man who's hesitant to speak you are," he said.
"You'll think my hesitation quite appropriate, too," I said, "when
I do speak."
"Speak," he said, "and don't be afraid."
"I shall speak— and yet, I don't know what I'll use for daring or d
[ 93]
socrates/glaucon the republic
414 d speeches in telling it — and I'll attempt to persuade first the rulers and
the soldiers, then the rest of the city, that the rearing and education we
gave them were like dreams; they only thought they were undergoing
all that was happening to them, while, in truth, at that time they
were under the earth within, being fashioned and reared themselves,
e and their arms and other tools being crafted. When the job had been
completely finished, then the earth, which is their mother, sent them
up. And now, as though the land they are in were a mother and nurse,
they must plan for and defend it, if anyone attacks, and they must think
of the other citizens as brothers and born of the earth."
"It wasn't, " he said, "for nothing that you were for so long
ashamed to tell the lie."
415 a "It was indeed appropriate," I said. "All the same, hear out the
rest of the tale. 'All of you in the city are certainly brothers,' we shall
say to them in telling the tale, 'but the god, in fashioning those of you
who are competent to rule, mixed gold in at their birth; this is why they
are most honored; in auxiliaries, silver; and iron and bronze in the farm-
ers and the other craftsmen. So, because you're all related, although for
the most part you'll produce offspring like yourselves, it sometimes hap-
b pens that a silver child will be bom from a golden parent, a golden
child from a silver parent, and similarly all the others from each other.
Hence the god commands the rulers first and foremost to be of nothing
such good guardians and to keep over nothing so careful a watch as the
children, seeing which of these metals is mixed in their souls. And, if a
child of theirs should be bom with an admixture of bronze or iron, by
c no manner of means are they to take pity on it, but shall assign the
proper value to its nature and thrust it out among the craftsmen or the
farmers; and, again, if from these men one should naturally grow who
has an admixture of gold or silver, they will honor such ones and lead
them up, some to the guardian group, others to the auxiliary, believ-
ing that there is an oracle that the city will be destroyed when an iron
or bronze man is its guardian.' So, have you some device for per-
suading them of this tale?"
d "None at all," he said, "for these men themselves; however for
their sons and their successors and the rest of the human beings who
come afterwards."
"Well, even that would be good for making them care more for
the city and one another, " I said. "For I understand pretty much what
you mean.
"Well, then, this will go where the report^^ of men shall lead it.
And when we have armed these earth-bom men, let's bring them forth
led by the rulers. When they've come, let them look out for the fairest
94
Book III / 414d-416e socrates/glaucon
place in the city for a military camp, from which they could most con- 415 d
trol those within, if anyone were not willing to obey the laws, and ward e
off those from without, if an enemy, like a wolf, should attack the
flock. When they have made the camp and sacrificed to whom they
ought, let them make sleeping places. Or how should it be?"
"Like that," he said.
"Won't these places be such as to provide adequate shelter in both
winter and summer?"
"Yes, of course," he said. "For you seem to me to mean houses."
"Yes," I said, "those of soldiers, not moneymakers."
"How," he said, "do you mean to distinguish the one from the 416 a
other?"
"I shall try to tell you," I said. "Surely the most terrible and
shameful thing of all is for shepherds to rear dogs as auxiliaries for the
flocks in such a way that due to licentiousness, hunger or some other
bad habit, they themselves undertake to do harm to the sheep and in-
stead of dogs become like wolves."
"Terrible," he said. "Of course."
"Mustn't we in every way guard against the auxiliaries doing any- ly
thing like that to the citizens, since they are stronger than they, becom-
ing like savage masters instead of well-meaning allies?"
"Yes," he said, "we must."
"And wouldn't they have been provided with the greatest
safeguard if they haye been really finely educated?"
"But they have been," he said.
And I said, "It's not fit to be too sure about that, my dear Glau-
con. However, it is fit to be sure about what we were saying a while
ago, that they must get the right education, whatever it is, if they're c
going to have what's most important for being tame with each other
and those who are guarded by them."
"That's right," he said.
"Now, some intelligent man would say that, in addition to this
education, they must be provided with houses and other property such
as not to prevent them from being the best possible guardians and not
to rouse them up to do harm to the other citizens." d
"And hell speak the truth."
"Well, then," I said, "see if this is the way they must live and be
housed if they're going to be such men. First, no one will possess any
private property except for what's entirely necessary. Second, no one
will have any house or storeroom into which everyone who wishes can-
not come. The sustenance, as much as is needed by moderate and
courageous men who are champions of war, they'll receive in fixed ^
[ 95 ]
socrates/glaucon THEREPUBLIQ
416 e installments from the other citizens as a wage for their guarding; in
such quantity that there will be no surplus for them in a year and no
lack either. They'll go regularly to mess together^ like soldiers in a
camp and live a life in common. We'll tell them that gold and silver of a
divine sort from the gods they have in their soul always and have no
further need of the human sort; nor is it holy to pollute the possession
of the former sort by mixing it with the possession of the mortal sort
because many unholy things have been done for the sake of the currency
417 a of the many, while theirs is untainted. But for them alone of those in the
city it is not lawful to handle and to touch gold and silver, nor to go
under the same roof wth it, nor to hang it from their persons, nor to
drink from silver or gold. And thus they would save themselves as well
as save the city. Whenever they'll possess private land, houses, and cur-
rency, they'll be householders and farmers instead of guardians, and
h they'll become masters and enemies instead of allies of the other
citizens; hating and being hated, plotting and being plotted against,
they'll lead their whole lives far more afraid of the enemies within than
those without. Then they themselves as well as the rest of the city are
already rushing toward a destruction that lies very near. So, for all
these reasons," I said, "let's say that the guardians must be provided
with houses and the rest in this way, and we shall set this doMm as a law,
shall we not?"
"Certainly," said Glaucon.
[ 96 ]
BOOK IV
And Adeimantus interrupted and said, "What would your 419 a
apologyi be, Socrates, if someone were to say that you're hardly mak-
ing these men happy, and further, that it's their own fault — they to
whom the city in truth belongs but who enjoy nothing good from the
city as do others, who possess lands, and build fine big houses, and
possess all the accessories that go along with these things, and make
private sacrifices to gods, and entertain foreigners, and, of course, also
acquire what you were just talking about, gold and silver and all that's
conventionally held to belong to men who are going to be blessed? But,
he would say, they look exactly like mercenary auxiliaries who sit in
the city and do nothing but keep watch." 420 a
"Yes," I said, "and besides they do it for food alone; they get no
wages beyond the food, as do the rest. So, if they should wish to make a
private trip away from home, it won't even be possible for them, or
give gifts to lady companions, or make expenditures wherever else they
happen to wish, such as those made by the men reputed to be happy.
You leave these things and a throng of others like them out of the ac-
cusation."
"Well," he said, "let them too be part of the accusation."
"You ask what our apology will then be?" b
"Yes."
[ 97
ADEIMANTUS/SOCRATES THEREPUBLIq|
420 b "Making our way by the same road," I said, "I suppose we'll find
what has to be said. We'll say that it wouldn't be surprising if these
men, as they are, are also happiest. However, in founding the city we
are not looking to the exceptional happiness of any one group among
us but, as far as possible, that of the city as a whole. We supposed we
would find justice most in such a city, and injustice, in its turn, in the
c worst-governed one, and taking a carefiil look at them, we would judge
what we've been seeking for so long. Now then, we suppose we're
fashioning the happy city — a whole city, not setting apart a happy few
and putting them in it. We'll consider its opposite presently. Just as if we
were painting statues^ and someone came up and began to blame
us, saying that we weren't putting the fairest colors on the fairest parts
of the animal — ^for the eyes, which are fairest, had not been painted
d purple but black — ^we would seem to make a sensible apology to him
by saying: 'You surprising man, don't suppose we ought to paint eyes so
fair that they don't even look like eyes, and the same for the other parts;
but observe whether, assigning what's suitable to each of them, we
make the whole fair. So now too, don't compel us to attach to the
guardians a happiness that will turn them into everything except guard-
e ians. We know how to clothe the fanners in fine robes and hang gold on
them and bid them work the earth at their pleasure, and how to make
the potters recline before the fire, drinking in competition from left to
right^ and feasting, and having their wheel set before them as often as
they get a desire to make pots, and how to make all the others blessed
in the same way just so the city as a whole may be happy. But
don't give us this kind of advice, since, if we were to be persuaded by
421 a you, the fanner won't be a fanner, nor the potter a potter, nor will
anyone else assume any of those roles that go to make up a city. The
argument has less weight for these others. That men should become
poor menders of shoes, corrupted and pretending to be what they're
not, isn't so terrible for a city. But you surely see that men who are not
guardians of the laws and the city, but seem to be, utterly destroy an
entire city, just as they alone are masters of the occasion to govern it
well and to make it happy.' Now if we're making true guardians, men
b least likely to do harm to the city, and the one who made that speech is
making some farmers and happy banqueters, like men at a public
festival and not like members of a city, then he must be speaking of
something other than a city. So we have to consider whether we are
establishing the guardians looking to their having the most happiness.
Or else, whether looking to this happiness for the city as a whole, we
must see if it comes to be in the city, and must compel and persuade
c these auxiliaries and guardians to do the same, so that they'll be the
best possible craftsmen at their jobs, and similarly for all the others,
and, with the entire city growing thus and being fairly founded, we
[ 98 ]
^oofc IV / 420b-422b socrates/adeimantus
must let nature assign to each of the groups its share of happiness." 421 c
"You seem to me," he said, "to speak finely."
"Then, will I," I said, "also seem to you to speak sensibly if I say
what is akin to that?"
"What exactly?"
"Take the other craftsmen again and consider whether these things d
corrupt them so as to make them bad."
"What are they?"
"Wealth and poverty," I said.
"How?"
"Like this: in your opinion, will a potter who's gotten rich still be
willing to attend to his art?"
"Not at all," he said.
"And will he become idler and more careless than he was?"
"By far."
"Doesn't he become a worse potter then?"
"That, too, by far," he said.
"And further, if from poverty he's not even able to provide him-
self with tools or anything else for his art, he'll produce shoddier works,
and he'll make worse craftsmen of his sons or any others he teaches." e
"Of course."
"Then from both poverty and wealth the products of the arts are
worse and the men themselves are worse."
"It looks like it."
"So, as it seems, we've found other things for the guardians to
guard against in every way so that these things never slip into the city
without their awareness."
"What are they?"
"Wealth and poverty," 1 said, "since the one produces luxury, 422 a
idleness, and innovation, while the other produces illiberality and
wrongdoing as well as innovation."
"Most certainly," he said. "However, Socrates, consider this: how-
will our city be able to make war when it possesses no money, espe-
cially if it's compelled to make war against a wealthy one?"
"It's plain," I said, "that against one it would be harder, but
against two of that sort it would be easier." b
"How do you mean?" he said.
"Well," I said, "in the first place, if the guardians should have to
fight, won't it be as champions in war fighting with rich men?"
"Yes," he said, "that's so."
"Now, then, Adeimantus," I said, in your opinion, wouldn't one
boxer with the finest possible training in the art easily fight with two
rich, fat nonboxers?"
"Perhaps not at the same time," he said.
[ 99 ]
socrates/adeimantus the REPUBLIp
422 h "Not even if it were possible for him to withdraw a bit," I said
c "and turning on whichever one came up first, to strike him, and if he
did this repeatedly in sun and stifling heat? Couldn't such a man handle
even more of that sort?"
"Undoubtedly," he said, "that wouldn't be at all surprising."
"But don't you suppose the rich have more knowledge and ex-
perience of boxing than of the art of war?"
"I do," he said.
"Then in all likelihood our champions will easily fight with two or
three times their number."
"I'll grant you that," he said, "for what you say is right in my
opinion."
d "What if they sent an embassy to the other city and told the truth?
'We make use of neither gold nor silver, nor is it lawful for us, while it
is for you. So join us in making war and keep the others' property.' Do
you suppose any who hear that will choose to make war against solid,
lean dogs^ rather than with the dogs against fat and tender sheep?"
"Not in my opinion," he said. "But if the money of the others is
e gathered into one city, look out that it doesn't endanger the city that
isn't rich."
"You are a happy one," I said, "if you suppose it is fit to call 'city'
another than such as we have been equipping."
"What else then?" he said.
"The others ought to get bigger names," I said. "For each of them
is very many cities but not a city, as those who play say.^ There are
423 a two, in any case, warring with each other, one of the poor, the other of
the rich. And within each of these there are very many. If you ap-
proach them as though they were one, you'll be a complete failure; but
if you approach them as though they were many, offering to the ones
the money and the powers or the very persons of the others, you'll al-
ways have the use of many allies and few enemies. And as long as your
city is moderately governed in the way it was just arranged, it will be
biggest; I do not mean in the sense of good reputation but truly biggest,
even if it should be made up of only one thousand defenders. You'll not
easily find one city so big as this, either among the Greeks or the bar-
h barians, although many seem to be many times its size. Or do you sup-
pose otherwise?"
"No, by Zeus," he said.
"Therefore," I said, "this would also be the fairest boundary for
our rulers; so big must they make the city, and, bounding off enough
land so that it will be of that size, they must let the rest go."
"What boundary?" he said.
[ loo ]
pook IV / 422b-424b socrates/adeimantus
"I suppose this one," I said, "up to that point in its growth at 423 b
which it's wilHng to be one, let it grow, and not beyond."
"That's fine," he said. c
"Therefore, well also set this further command on the guardians,
to guard in every way against the city's being little or seemingly big;
rather it should be sufficient and one."
"This is," he said, "perhaps a slight task we will impose on them."
"And still slighter than that," I said, "is what we mentioned
earlier when we said that if a child of slight ability were bom of the
guardians, he would have to be sent off to the others, and if a serious
one were bom of the others, he would have to be sent off to the d
guardians. This was intended to make plain that each of the other
citizens too must be brought to that which naturally suits him — one
man, one job — so that each man, practicing his own, which is one,
will not become many but one; and thus, you see, the whole city
will naturally grow to be one and not many."
"This is indeed," he said, "a lesser task than the other."
"Yet, my good Adeimantus," I said, "these are not, as one might
think, many great commands we are imposing on them, but they are all
slight if, as the saying goes, they guard the one great — or, rather than e
great, sufficient— thing."
"What's that?" he said.
"Their education and rearing," I said. "If by being well educated
they become sensible men, they'll easily see to all this and everything
else we are now leaving out — that the possession of women, marriage,
and procreation of children must as far as possible be arranged ac-
cording to the proverb that friends have all things in common." 424 a
"Yes," he said, "that would be the most correct way."
"And hence," I said, "the regime, once well started, will roll on
like a circle in its growth. For sound rearing and education, when they
are preserved, produce good natures; and sound natures, in their turn
receiving such an education, grow up still better than those before
them, for procreation as well as for the other things, as is also the case
with the other animals." j,
"It's likely," he said.
"Now, to state it briefly, the overseers of the city must cleave to
this, not letting it be corrupted unawares, but guarding it against all
comers: there must be no innovation in gymnastic and music contrary
to the established order; but they will guard against it as much as they
can, fearing that when someone says
Human beings esteem most that song
Which floats newest irom the singer^
[ loi ]
socrates/adeimantus the REPUBLIp
424 c someone might perchance suppose the poet means not new songs, but a
new way of song, and praises that. Snch a saying shouldn't be praised
nor should this one be taken in that sense. For they must beware of change
to a strange fomn of music, taking it to be a danger to the whole
For never are the ways'' of music moved without the greatest political
laws being moved, as Damon says, and I am persuaded."
"Include me, too," said Adeimantus, "among those who are per-
suaded."
d "So it's surely here in music, as it seems," I said, "that the guard-
ians must build the guardhouse."
"At least," he said, "this kind of lawlessness* easily creeps in
unawares."
"Yes," I said, "since it's considered to be a kind of play and to do
no harm."
"It doesn't do any, either," he said, "except that, establishing it-
self bit by bit, it flows gently beneath the surface into the dispositions
and practices, and from there it emerges bigger in men's contracts with
one another; and it's from the contracts, Socrates, that it attacks laws
e and regimes with much insolence until it finally subverts everything
private and public."
"Well, well," I said. "Is that so?"
"In my opinion," he said.
"Then, as we were saying at the beginning, mustn't our boys take
part in more lawful play straight away, since, if play becomes lawless
itself and the children along with it, it's not possible that they'll grow
425 a up to be law-abiding, good men?"
"Of course, they must," he said.
"It's precisely when the boys make a fine beginning at play and
receive lawfulness from music that it— as opposed to what happened in
the former case— accompanies them in everything and grows, setting
right anything in the city that may have previously been neglected."
"Quite true," he said.
"Then, these men," I said, "will also find out the seemingly small
conventions that were all destroyed by their predecessors."
"What kind of things?"
b "Such as the appropriate silence of younger men in the presence
of older ones, making way for them and rising, care of parents; and
hair-dos, clothing, shoes, and, as a whole, the bearing of the body, and
everything else of the sort. Or don't you think so?"
"I do."
"But to set them down as laws is, I believe, foolish.^ Surely they
[ 102 ]
Book IV 1 424c-426a socrates/adeimantus
don't come into being, nor would they be maintained, by being set 425 b
down as laws in speech and in writing."
"How could they?"
"At least it's likely, Adeimantus," I said, "that the starting point
of a man's education sets the course of what follows too. Or doesn't like c
always call forth like?"
"Of course."
"Then, I suppose we'd also say that the final result is some one
complete and hardy thing, whether good or the opposite."
"Of course," he said.
"That," I said, "is why I for one wouldn't go further and un-
dertake to set down laws about such things."
"That's proper," he said.
"And, in the name of the gods," I said, "what about that market
business — the contracts individuals make with one another in the
market, and, if you wish, contracts with manual artisans, and libel, in- d
suit, lodging of legal complaints, and the appointment of judges, and,
of course, whatever imposts might have to be collected or assessed in
the markets or harbors, or any market, town, or harbor regulations, or
anything else of the kind — shall we bring ourselves to set down laws for
any of these things?"
"It isn't worth-while, " he said, "to dictate to gentlemen. Most of
these things that need legislation they vvall, no doubt, easily find for e
themselves."
"Yes, my friend," I said, "provided, that is, a god grants them the
preservation of the laws we described before. "
"And if not," he said, "they'll spend their lives continually setting
down many such rules and correcting them, thinking they'll get hold of
what's best. "
"You mean," I said, "that such men will live like those who are
sick but, due to licentiousness, aren't vvalling to quit their worthless way
of life."
"Most certainly. "
"And don't they go on charmingly? For all their treatment, they 426 a
get nowhere, except, of course, to make their illnesses more com-
plicated and bigger, always hoping that if someone would just recom-
mend a drug, they will be — thanks to it — ^healthy."
"Yes, " he said, "the affections of men who are sick in this way are
exactly like that."
"What about this?" I said. "Isn't it charming in them that they
believe the greatest enemy of all is the man who tells the
[ 103 ]
SCXaiATES/ADEIMANTUS THE REPUBLTp
426 a truth— namely, that until one gives up drinking, stuffing oneself, sex
b and idleness, there will be no help for one in drugs, burning, or cutting,
nor in charms, pendants, or anything of the sort."
"Not quite charming," he said. "Being harsh with the man who
says something good isn't charming."
"You are not," I said, "as it seems, a praiser of such men."
"No, indeed, by Zeus."
"Therefore, if, as we were just saying, the city as a whole behaves
like that, you won't praise it either. Or isn't it your impression that the
very same thing these men do is done by all cities with bad regimes,
c which warn the citizens they must not disturb the city's constitution as
a whole, under pain of death for the man who does; while the man who
serves them most agreeably, with the regime as it is, and gratifies them
by flattering them and knowing their wishes beforehand and being
clever at fulfilling them, will on that account be the good man and the
one wise in important things and be honored by them?"
"They certainly do," he said, "seem to me to act in the same way,
and I don't praise them in any respect whatsoever."
d "And what about the men who are willing and eager to serve such
cities? Don't you admire their courage and facility?"
"I do," he said, "except for those who are deceived by them and
suppose they are truly statesmen because they are praised by the many."
"How do you mean?" I said. "Don't you sympathize with these
men? Or do you suppose it's possible for a man who doesn't know how
e to take measurements not to believe it when many other men like him
say he's a six-footer?"
"No," he said, "that I don't suppose."
"Then don't be harsh. For such men are surely the most charming
of all, setting down laws like the ones we described a moment ago and
correcting them, always thinking they'll find some limit to wrongdoing
in contracts and the other things I was just talking about, ignorant that
they are really cutting off the heads of a Hydra."
427 a "Well," he said, "they do nothing but that."
"I, for one," I said, "therefore thought that the time lawgiver
wouldn't have to bother with that class of things^** in the laws and the
regime, either in a city with a bad regime or in one with a good
regime — in the one case because it's useless and accomplishes nothing;
in the other, partly because anyone at all could find some of these
things, and partly because the rest follow of themselves from the prac-
tices already established."
b "Then what," he said, "might still remain for our legislation?"
[ 104 ]
^ook IV / 426a'428a socrates/adeimantus/glaucon
And I said, "For us, nothing. However for the Apollo at Del- 427 b
phi** there remain the greatest, fairest, and first of the laws which are
given."
"What are they about?" he said.
"Foundings of temples, sacrifices, and whatever else belongs to
the care of gods, demons, and heroes; and further, burial of the dead
and all the services needed to keep those in that other place gracious.
For such things as these we neither know ourselves, nor in founding a
city shall we be persuaded by any other man, if we are intelligent, nor c
shall we make use of any interpreter other than the ancestral one. Now
this god is doubtless the ancestral interpreter of such things for all hu-
mans, and he sits in the middle of the earth at its navel and delivers his
interpretations."
"What you say is fine," he said. "And that's what must be done."
"So then, son of Ariston," I said, "your city would now be
founded. In the next place, get yourself an adequate light somewhere; d
and look yourself— and call in your brother and Polemarchus and the
others— whether we can somehow see where the justice might be and
where the injustice, in what they differ from one another, and which
the man who's going to be happy must possess, whether it escapes the
notice of all gods and humans or not."
"You're talking nonsense," said Glaucon. "You promised you
would look for it because it's not holy for you not to bring help to e
justice in every way in your power."
"What you remind me of is true," I said, "and though I must do
so, you too have to join in."
"We'll do so," he said.
"Now, then," I said, "I hope I'll find it in this way. I suppose our
city— if, that is, it has been correctly founded— is perfectly good."
"Necessarily," he said.
"Plainly, then, it's wise, courageous, moderate and just."
"Plainly."
"Isn't it the case that whichever of them we happen to find will
leave as the remainder what hasn't been found?"
"Of course." 428 a
"Therefore, just as with any other four things, if we were seeking
any one of them in something or other and recognized it first, that
would be enough for us; but if we recognized the other three first, this
would also suffice for the recognition of the thing looked for. For
plainly it couldn't be anything but what's left over."
"What you say is correct," he said.
[ 105 ]
socrates/glaucon THEREPUBLic
428 a "With these things too, since they happen to be four, mustn't we
look for them in the same way?"
"Plainly."
"Well, it's wisdom, in my opinion, which first comes plainly to
b light in it. And something about it looks strange."
"What?" he said.
"The city we described is really wise, in my opinion. That's be-
cause it's of good counsel,^^ isn't it?"
Yes.
"And further, this very thing, good counsel, is plainly a kind of
knowledge. For it's surely not by lack of learning, but by knowledge,
that men counsel well."
"Plainly."
"But, on the other hand, there's much knowledge of all sorts in the
city.
"Of course."
"Then, is it thanks to the carpenters' knowledge that the city must
be called wise and of good counsel?"
"Not at all," he said, "thanks to that it's called skilled in caipen-
c try."
"Then, it's not thanks to the knowledge that counsels about how
wooden implements would be best that a city must be called wise."
"Surely not."
"And what about this? Is it thanks to the knowledge of bronze
implements or any other knowledge of such things?"
"Not to any knowledge of the sort," he said.
"And not to the knowledge about the production of the crop from
the earth; for that, rather, it is called skilled in fanning."
"That's my opinion."
"What about this?" I said. "Is there in the city we just founded a
kind of knowledge belonging to some of the citizens that counsels not
d about the affairs connected with some particular thing in the city, but
about how the city as a whole would best deal with itself and the other
cities?"
"There is indeed."
"What and in whom is it?" I said.
"It's the guardian's skill," he said, "and it's in those rulers whom
we just now named perfect guardians."
"Thanks to this knowledge, what do you call the city?"
"Of good counsel," he said, "and really wise."
"Then, do you suppose," I said, "that there will be more smiths in
e our city than these true guardians?"
"Far more smiths," he said.
[ 106 ]
Book IV / 428a-429d sochates/glaucon
"Among' those," I said, "who receive a special name for possess- 428 e
ing some kind of knowledge, wouldn't the guardians be the fewest of all
in number?"
"By far."
"It is, therefore, from the smallest group and part of itself and the
knowledge in it, from the supervisingis and ruling part, that a city
founded according to nature would be wise as a whole. And this class,
which properly has a share in that knowledge which alone among the 429 a
various kinds of knowledge ought to be called wisdom, has, as it seems,
the fewest members by nature."
"What you say," he said, "is very true."
"So we've found — I don't know how— this one of the four, both it
and where its seat in the city is."
"In my opinion, at least," he said, "it has been satisfactorily
discovered."
"And, next, courage, both itself as well as where it's situated in
the city— that courage thanks to which the city must be called
courageous— isn't very hard to see."
"How's that?"
"Who," I said, "would say a city is cowardly or courageous while h
looking to any part other than the one that defends it and takes the field
on its behalf?"
"There's no one," he said, "who would look to anything else."
"I don't suppose," I said, "that whether the other men in it are
cowardly or courageous would be decisive for its being this or that."
"No, it wouldn't."
"So a city is also courageous by a part of itself, thanks to that
part's having in it a power that through eveiything will preserve the c
opinion about which things are terrible — that they are the same ones
and of the same sort as those the lawgiver transmitted in the education.
Or don't you call that courage?"
"I didn't quite understand what you said," he said. "Say it again."
"I mean," I said, "that courage is a certain kind of presei^ving."
"Just what sort of preserving?"
"The preserving of the opinion produced by law through educa-
tion about what— and what sort of thing— is terrible. And by preserv-
ing through everything I meant preserving that opinion and not casting
it out in pains and pleasures and desires and fears. If you wish I'm c
willing to compare it to what I think it's like."
"But I do wish."
"Don't you know," I said, "that the dyers, when they want to dye
wool purple, first choose from all the colors the single nature belonging
to white things; then they prepare it beforehand and care for it with no
[ 107 ]
jlaucon/socrates the republic
429 d little preparation so that it will most receive the color; and it is only
e then that they dye? And if a thing is dyed in this way, it becomes color-
fast, and washing either without lyes or with lyes can't take away its
color. But those things that are not so dyed — whether one dyes other
colors or this one without preparatory care — you know what they be-
come like."
"I do know," he said, "that they're washed out and ridiculous."
"Hence," I said, "take it that we too were, to the extent of our
power, doing something similar when we selected the soldiers and
430 a educated them in music and gymnastic. Don't think we devised all that
for any other purpose than that — persuaded by us — they should
receive the laws from us in the finest possible way like a dye, so that their
opinion about what's terrible and about everything else would be color-
fast because they had gotten the proper nature and rearing, and their
dye could not be washed out by those lyes so terribly effective at scour-
ing, pleasure — more terribly effective for this than any Chalestrean
b soda^4 and alkali; and pain, fear, and desire — worse than any other
lye. This kind of power and preservation, through everything, of the
right and lawful opinion about what is terrible and what not, I call
courage; and so I set it down, unless you say something else."
"But I don't say anything else," he said. "For, in my opinion, you
regard the right opinion about these same things that comes to be
without education — that found in beasts and slaves — as not at all
lawfully and call it something other than courage."
c "What you say," I said, "is very true."
"Well, then, I accept this as courage."
"Yes, do accept it, but as political courage, "^^ I said, "and
you'd be right in accepting it. Later, if you want, we'll give it a still
finer treatment. At the moment we weren't looking for it, but for
justice. For that search, I suppose, this is sufficient."
"What you say is fine," he said.
"Well, now, " I said, "there are still two left that must be seen in
d the city, moderation and that for the sake of which we are making the
whole search, justice. "
"Most certainly."
"How could we find justice so we won't have to bother about
moderation any further?"
"I for my part don't know," he said, "nor would I want it to come
to light before, if we aren't going to consider moderation any further. If
you want to gratify me, consider this before the other."
e "But I do want to," I said, "so as not to do an injustice."
[ 108 ]
Book IV / 429d-431d glaucon/socbates
"Then consider it," he said. 430 e
"It must be considered," I said. "Seen from here, it's more Hke a
kind of accord and harmony than the previous ones."
"How?"
"Moderation," I said, "is surely a certain kind of order and
mastery of certain kinds of pleasures and desires, as men say when they
use— I don't know in what way— the phrase 'stronger than himself;
and some other phrases of the sort are used that are, as it were, its
tracks. 1'^ Isn't that so?"
"Most surely," he said.
"Isn't the phrase 'stronger than himself ridiculous though? For, of
course, the one who's stronger than himself would also be weaker than
himself, and the weaker stronger. The same ' himself is referred to in 431 a
all of them."
"Of course it is."
"But," I said, "this speech looks to me as if it wants to say that,
concerning the soul, in the same human being there is something better
and something worse. The phrase 'stronger than himself is used when
that which is better by nature is master over that which is worse. At
least it's praise. And when, from bad training or some association, the
smaller and better part is mastered by the inferior multitude, then this,
as though it were a reproach, is blamed and the man in this condition is b
called weaker than himself and licentious."
"Yes," he said, "that's likely."
"Now, then," I said, "take a glance at our young city, and you'll
find one of these conditions in it. For you'll say that it's justly
designated stronger than itself, if that in which the better rules over the
worse must be called moderate and 'stronger than itself "
"Well, I am glancing at it," he said, "and what you say is true."
"And, further, one would find many diverse desires, pleasures,
and pains, especially in children, women, domestics, and in those who c
are called free among the common many."
"Most certainly."
"But the simple and moderate desires, pleasures and pains, those
led by calculation accompanied by intelligence and right opinion, you
will come upon in few, and those the ones born with the best natures
and best educated."
"True," he said.
"Don't you see that all these are in your city too, and that there
the desires in the common many are mastered by the desires and the d
prudence in the more decent few?"
[ 109 J
glaucon/socrates the republic
431 d "I do," he said.
"If, therefore, any city ought to be designated stronger than
pleasures, desires, and itself, then this one must be so called."
"That's entirely certain," he said.
"And then moderate in all these respects too?"
"Very much so" he said.
"And, moreover, if there is any city in which the rulers and the
e ruled have the same opinion about who should rule, then it's this one.
Or doesn't it seem so?"
"Very much so indeed," he said.
"In which of the citizens will you say the moderation resides,
when they are in this condition? In the rulers or the ruled?"
"In both, surely," he said.
"You see," I said, "we divined pretty accurately a while ago that
moderation is like a kind of harmony."
"Why so?"
"Because it's unlike courage and wisdom, each of which resides in
432 a a part, the one making the city wise and the other courageous. Modera-
tion doesn't work that way, but actually stretches throughout the whole,
from top to bottom of the entire scale,i^ making the weaker, the
stronger and those in the middle — whether you wish to view them as
such in terms of prudence, or, if you wish, in terms of strength, or mul-
titude, money or anything else whatsoever of the sort — sing the same
chant together. So we would quite rightly claim that this unanimity is
moderation, an accord of worse and better, according to nature, as to
which must rule in the city and in each one."
h "I am," he said, "very much of the same opinion."
"All right," I said. "Three of them have been spied out in our
city, at least sufficiently to form some opinion. Now what would be the
remaining form thanks to which the city would further partake in vir-
tue? For, plainly, this is justice."
"Plainly."
"So then, Glaucon, we must, like hunters, now station ourselves in
a circle around the thicket and pay attention so that justice doesn't slip
through somewhere and disappear into obscurity. Clearly it's
c somewhere hereabouts. Look to it and make every effort to catch sight
of it; you might somehow see it before me and could tell me."
"If only I could," he said. "However, if you use me as a follower
and a man able to see what's shown him, you'll be making quite sensi-
ble use of me."
"Follow," I said, "and pray with me."
"I'll do that," he said, "just lead."
[ no ]
Book IV / 431d-433c socrates/glauco>
"The place really appears to be hard going and steeped in 432 c
shadows," I said. "At least it's dark and hard to search out. But, all the
same, we've got to go on."
"Yes," he said, "we've got to go on." cj
And I caught sight of it and said, "Here! Here!'^ Glaucon.
Maybe we've come upon a track; and, in my opinion, it will hardly get
away from us."
"That's good news you report," he said.
"My, my," I said, "that was a stupid state we were in."
"How's that?"
"It appears, you blessed man, that it's been rolling around^o at
our feet from the beginning and we couldn't see it after all, but were
quite ridiculous. As men holding something in their hand sometimes
seek what they're holding, we too didn't look at it but turned our gaze e
somewhere far off, which is also perhaps just the reason it escaped our
notice."
"How do you mean?" he said.
"It's this way," I said. "In my opinion, we have been saying and
hearing it all along without learning from ourselves that we were in a
way saying it."
"A long prelude," he said, "for one who desires to hear."
"Listen whether after all I make any sense," I said. "That rule we 433 a
set down at the beginning as to what must be done in everything when
we were founding the city— this, or a certain form of it, is, in my opin-
ion, justice. Surely we set down and often said, if you remember, that
each one must practice one of the functions in the city, that one for
which his nature made him naturally most fit."
"Yes, we were saying that."
"And further, that justice is the minding of one's own business
and not being a bvisybody, this we have both heard from many others
and have often said ourselves." h
"Yes, we have."
"Well, then, my friend," I said, "this— the practice of minding
one's own business— when it comes into being in a certain way, is
probably justice. Do you know how I infer this?"
"No," he said, "tell me."
"In my opinion," I said, "after having considered moderation,
courage, and prvidence, this is what's left over in the city; it provided
the power by which all these others came into being; and, once having
come into being, it provides them with preservation as long as it's in
the city. And yet we were saying that justice would be what's left over c
from the three if we fovmd them."
[ 111 ]
glaucon/socrates the republic
433 c "Yes, we did," he said, "and it's necessarily so."
"Moreover," I said, "if one had to judge which of them by coming
to be will do our city the most good, it would be a difficult judgment. Is
it the unity of opinion among rulers and ruled? Or is it the coming into
being in the soldiers of that preserving of the lawful opinion as to
which things are terrible and which are not? Or is it the prudence and
d guardianship present in the rulers? Or is the city done the most good by
the fact that — in the case of child, woman, slave, freeman, craftsman,
ruler and ruled — each one minded his own business and wasn't a
busybody?"
"It would, of course," he said, "be a difficult judgment."
"Then, as it seems, with respect to a city's virtue, this power that
consists in each man's minding his own business in the city is a rival to
wisdom, moderation and courage. "
"Very much so," he said.
"Wouldn't you name justice that which is the rival of these others
e in contributing to a city's virtue?"
"That's entirely certain."
"Now consider if it will seem the same from this viewpoint too.
Will you assign the judging of lawsuits in the city to the rulers? "
"Of course."
"Will they have any other aim in their judging than that no one
have what belongs to others, nor be deprived of what belongs to
him?"
"None other than this. "
"Because that's just? "
"Yes."
"And therefore, from this point of view too, the having and doing
434 a of one's own and what belongs to oneself would be agreed to be justice."
"That's so. "
"Now see if you have the same opinion as I do. A carpenter's
trying to do the job of a shoemaker or a shoemaker that of a carpenter,
or their exchanging tools or honors with one another, or even the same
man's trying to do both, with everything else being changed along with
it, in your opinion, would that do any great harm to the city? "
"Hardly," he said.
"But, I suppose, when one who is a craftsman or some other kind
b of money-maker by nature, inflated by wealth, multitude, strength, or
something else of the kind, tries to get into the class^i of the war-
rior, or one of the warriors who's unworthy into that of the adviser and
guardian, and these men exchange tools and honors with one another;
[ H2 ]
Book IV / 433c.435b sock.t.s/cx..con
or when the same man tries to do all these things at once— then I sup- 434 b
pose it's also your opinion that this change in them and this meddling
are the destruction of the city."
"That's entirely certain."
"Meddling among the classes, of which there are three, and ex-
change with one another is the greatest harm for the city and would c
most correctly be called extreme evil-doing."
"Quite certainly."
"Won't you say that the greatest evil-doing against one's own city
is injustice?"
"Of course."
"Then, that's injustice. Again, let's say it this way. The opposite
of this— the money-making, auxiliary, and guardian classes doing
what's appropriate, each of them minding its own business in a city —
would be justice and would make the city just."
"My opinion," he said, "is also that and no other." ^
"Let's not assert it so positively just yet," I said. "But, if this form
is applied to human beings singly and also agreed by us to be justice
there, then we'll concede it. What else will there be for us to say? And
if not, then we'll consider something else. Now let's complete the con-
sideration by means of which we thought that, if we should attempt to
see justice first in some bigger thing that possessed it, we would more
easily catch sight of what it's like in one man. And it was our opinion
that this bigger thing is a city; so we founded one as best we could, e
knowing full well that justice would be in a good one at least. Let's ap-
ply what came to light there to a single man, and if the two are in
agreement, everything is fine. But if something different should turn up
in the single man, we'll go back again to the city and test it; perhaps,
considering them side by side and rubbing them together like sticks, 435 a
we would make justice burst into flame, and once it's come to light,
confirm it for ourselves."
"The way to proceed is as you say," he said, "and it must be
done."
"Then," I said, "is that which one calls the same, whether it's big-
ger or smaller, unlike or like in that respect in which it's called the
same?"
"Like," he said.
"Then the just man will not be any different from the just city h
with respect to the form itself of justice, but will be like it."
"Yes," he said, "he will be like it."
"But a city seemed to be just when each of the three classes of
[ 11,3 ]
socrates/glaucon the republic
435 b natures present in it minded its own business and, again, moderate
courageous, and wise because of certain other affections and habits of
these same classes."
"True," he said.
"Then it's in this way, my friend, that we'll claim that the single
c man — ^with these same forms in his soul — thanks to the same affections
as those in the city, rightly lays claim to the same names."
"Quite necessarily," he said.
"Now it's a slight question about the soul we've stumbled upon,
you surprising man," I said. "Does it have these three forms in it
or not?"
"In my opinion, it's hardly a slight question," he said. "Perhaps,
Socrates, the saying that fine things are hard is true."
"It looks like it," I said. "But know well, Glaucon, that in my
d opinion, we'll never get a precise grasp of it on the basis of pro-
cedures22 such as we're now using in the argument. There is another
longer and further road leading to it. But perhaps we can do it in a way
worthy of what's been said and considered before. "
"Mustn't we be content with that?" he said. "It would be enough
for me to present."
"Well, then, " I said, "it will quite satisfy me too."
"So don't grow weary, " he said, "but go ahead vsath the considera-
tion."
e "Isn't it quite necessary for us to agree that the very same forms
and dispositions as are in the city are in each of us? " I said. "Surely
they haven't come there from any other place. It would be ridiculous if
someone should think that the spiritedness didn't come into the cities
from those private men who are just the ones imputed with having this
character, 23 such as those in Thrace, Scythia, and pretty nearly the
whole upper region; or the love of learning, which one could most im-
436 a pute to our region, or the love of money, which one could affirm is to
be found not least among the Phoenicians and those in Egypt. "^^
"Quite so," he said.
"This is so, then," I said, "and not hard to know."
"Surely not."
"But this now is hard. Do we act in each of these ways as a result
of the same part of ourselves, or are there three parts and with a dif-
ferent one we act in each of the different ways? Do we learn with one,
become spirited with another of the parts within us, and desire the
pleasures of nourishment and generation and all their kin with a third;
b or do we act with the soul as a whole in each of them once we are
started? This will be hard to determine in a way worthy of the argu-
ment."
[ 114 ]
3ooklVI435b-437a claucon/socrat:
"That's my opinion too," he said. ^3g
"Now let's try to determine whether these things are the same or
Jifferent from each other in this way."
"How?"
"It's plain that the same thing won't be willing at the same time to
do or suffer opposites with respect to the same part and in relation to
the same thing. 25 So if we should ever find that happening in these
things, we'll know they weren't the same but many."
"All right."
"Now consider what I say."
"Say on," he said.
"Is it possible that the same thing at the same time and with
respect to the same part should stand still and move?"
"Not at all."
"Now let's have a still more precise agreement so that we won't have
any grounds for dispute as we proceed. If someone were to say of a hu-
man being standing still, but moving his hands and his head, that the
same man at the same time stands still and moves, I don't suppose we'd
claim that it should be said like that, but rather that one part of him
stands still and another moves. Isn't that so?"
"Yes, it is."
"Then if the man who says this should become still more charm-
ing and make the subtle point that tops as wholes stand still and move
at the same time when the peg is fixed in the same place and they spin,
or that anything else going around in a circle on the same spot does this
too, we wouldn't accept it because it's not with respect to the same part
of themselves that such things are at that time both at rest and in mo-
tion. But we'd say that they have in them both a straight and a cir-
cumference; and with respect to the straight they stand still since they
don't lean in any direction — ^while with respect to the circumference
they move in a circle; and when the straight inclines to the right, the
left, forward, or backward at the same time that it's spinning, then in
no way does it stand still."
"And we'd be right, " he said.
"Then the saying of such things won't scare us, or any the more
persuade us that something that is the same, at the same time, with
respect to the same part and in relation to the same thing, could ever 437 *
;;>ufiier, be, or do opposites. "
jf "Not me at least,^ he said.
"All the same," I said, "so we won't be compelled to go through
|all such objections and spend a long time assuring ourselves they're not
|true, let's assume that this is so and go ahead, agreed that if it should
ever appear otherwise, all our conclusions based on it will be undone."
[ 115 ]
jlaucon/socrates the republic
437 a "That," he said, "is what must be done."
b "Then, would you set down all such things as opposites to one
another," I said, "acceptance to refusal, longing to take something to
rejecting it, embracing to thrusting away, whether they are actions or
affections?" That won't make any difference."
"Yes," he said, "they are opposites."
"What about this?" I said. "Being thirsty and hungry and
generally the desires, and farther, willing and wanting — ^wouldn't you
c set all these somewhere in those classes^^ we just mentioned? For
example, won't you say that the soul of a man who desires either longs
for what it desires or embraces that which it wants to become its own-
or again, that, insofar as the soul wills that something be supplied to
it, it nods assent to itself as though someone had posed a question and
reaches out toward the fulfillment of what it wills?"
"IshaU."
"And what about this? Won't we class not-wanting, and not-
willing and not-desiring with the soul's thrusting away from itself and
driving out of itseff and along with all the opposites of the previously
mentioned acts? "
d "Of course."
"Now since this is so, shall we assert that there is a form of desires
and that what we call being thirsty and hungry are the most vivid of
them?"
"Yes," he said, "we shall assert it."
"Isn't the one for drink and the other for food?"
"Yes."
"Insofar as it's thirst, would it be a desire in the soul for some-
thing more than that of which we say it is a desire? For example, is
thirst thirst for hot drink or cold, or much or little, or, in a word, for
any particular kind of drink? Or isn't it rather that in the case where
e heat is present in addition to the thirst, the heat would cause the desire
to be also for something cold as well; and where coldness, something
hot; and where the thirst is much on account of the presence of
muchness, it will cause the desire to be for much, and where it's little,
for little? But, thirsting itself will never be a desire for anything other
than that of which it naturally is a desire — for drink alone — and,
similarly, hungering will be a desire for food?"
"That's the way it is, " he said. "Each particular desire itself is
only for that particular thing itself of which it naturally is, while the
desire for this or that kind depends on additions."
438 a "Now let no one catch us unprepared, " I said, "and cause a
disturbance, alleging that no one desires drink, but good drink, nor
[ 116 ]
Book IV / 4Jra-438d socrates/glauco
food, but good food; for everyone, after all, desires good things; if, 438
then, thirst is a desire, it would be for good drink or for good whatever
it is, and similarly with the other desires."
"Perhaps," he said, "the man who says that would seem to make
some sense."
"However," I said, "of all things that are such as to be related to
something, those that are of a certain kind are related to a thing of a
certain kind, as it seems to me, while those that are severally them- ;
selves are related only to a thing that is itself."
"I don't understand," he said.
"Don't you understand," I said, "that the greater is such as to be
greater than something?"
"Certainly."
"Than the less?"
"Yes."
"And the much-greater than the much-less, isn't that so?"
"Yes."
"And, then, also the once-greater than the once-less, and the-
going-to-be-greater than the-going-to-be-less?"
"Of course," he said.
"And, further, the more in relation to the fewer, the double to the c
half, and everything of the sort; and, again, heavier to lighter, faster to
slower; and further, the hot to the cold, and everything like them—
doesn't the same thing hold?"
"Most certainly."
"And what about the various sorts of knowledge? Isn't it the same
way? Knowledge itself is knowledge of learning itself, or of whatever it
is to which knowledge should be related; while a particular kind of
knowledge is of a particular kind of thing. I mean something like this. c
When knowledge of constructing houses came to be, didn't it differ
from the other kinds of knowledge and was thus called housebuild-
mg?
"Of course."
"Wasn't this by its being a particular kind of thing that is different
from the others?"
"Yes."
"Since it was related to a particular kind of thing, didn't it too be-
come a particular kind of thing itself? And isn't this the way with the
other arts and sorts of knowledge too?"
It IS.
"Well, then," I said, "say that what I wanted to say then, if you
now understand after all, is that of all things that are such as to be
[ 117 ]
;laucon/ SOCRATES THEREPUBLic
438 d related to something, those that are only themselves are related to
things that are only themselves, while those that are related to things of
a particular kind are of a particular kind. And I in no sense mean that
e they are such as the things to which they happen to be related, so that it
would follow that the knowledge of things healthy and sick is healthy
and sick and that of bad and good is itself bad and good. But when
knowledge became knowledge not of that alone to which knowledge is
related but of a particular sort of thing, and this was health and
sickness, it as a consequence also became of a certain sort itself; and
this caused it not to be called knowledge simply any more but, with the
particular kind having been added to it, medicine."
"I understand," he said, "and, in my opinion, that's the way it is."
f39 a "And then, as for thirst," I said, "won't you include it among
those things that are related to something? Surely thirst is in rela-
tion to . . ."
"I will," he said, "and it's related to drink."
"So a particular sort of thirst isJbr a particular kind of drink, but
thirst itself is neither for much nor little, good nor bad, nor, in a word,
for any particular kind, but thirst itself is naturally only for drink."
"That's entirely certain."
"Therefore, the soul of the man who's thirsty, insofar as it thirsts,
b wishes nothing other than to drink, and strives for this and is impelled
toward it."
"Plainly."
"If ever something draws it back when it's thirsting, wouldn't that
be something different in it from that which thirsts and leads it like a
beast to drink? For of course, we say, the same thing wouldn't perform
opposed actions concerning the same thing with the same part of itself
at the same time."
"No, it wouldn't."
"Just as, I suppose, it's not fair to say of the archer that his hands
at the same time thrust the bow away and draw it near, but that one
hand pushes it away and the other pulls it in."
c "That's entirely certain," he said.
"Now, would we assert that sorhetimes there are some men who
are thirsty but not willing to drink?"
"Surely," he said, "many and often."
"What should one say about them?" I said. "Isn't there something
in their soul bidding them to drink and something forbidding them to
do so, something different that masters that which bids?"
"In my opinion there is," he said.
"Doesn't that which forbids such things come into being — when it
[ 118 ]
Book IV 1 438d-440c socrates/glaucon
comes into being — ^from calculation, *7 while what leads and draws 439 d
is present due to affections and diseases?"
"It looks like it."
"So we won't be irrational," I said, "if we claim they are two and
different from each other, naming the part of the soul with which it cal-
culates, the calculating, and the part with which it loves, hungers,
thirsts and is agitated by the other desires, the irrational^s and de-
siring, companion of certain replenishments and pleasures."
"No, we won't," he said. "It would be fitting for us to believe e
that."
"Therefore, ' I said, "let these two forms in the soul be distin-
guished. Now, is the part that contains spirit and with which we are
spirited a third, or would it have the same nature as one of these
others?"
"Perhaps," he said, "the same as one of them, the desiring."
"But," I said, "I once heard something that I trust. Leontius, the
son of Aglaion, was going up from the Piraeus under the outside of the
North Walps when he noticed corpses lying by the public execu-
tioner.^ He desired to look, but at the same time he was disgusted
and made himself turn away; and for a while he struggled and covered
his face. But finally, overpowered by the desire, he opened his eyes 440 a
wide, ran toward the corpses and said: 'Look, you damned wretches,
take your fill of the fair sight. ' "
"I too have heard it," he said.
"This speech," I said, "certainly indicates that anger sometimes
makes war against the desires as one thing against something else. '
"Yes," he said, "it does indicate that."
"And in many other places, don't we," I said, "notice that, when
desires force someone contrary to calculation, he reproaches him- b
self and his spirit is roused against that in him which is doing the forc-
ing; and, just as though there were two parties at faction, such a man's
spirit becomes the ally of speech? But as for its making common cause
with the desires to do what speech has declared must not be done,
I suppose you'd say you had never noticed anything of the kind happen-
ing in yourself, nor, I suppose, in anyone else. "
"No, by Zeus," he said.
"And what about when a man supposes he's doing injustice?" I c
said. "The nobler he is, won't he be less capable of anger at suffering
hunger, cold or anything else of the sort inflicted on him by one whom
he supposes does so justly; and, as I say, won't his spirit be unwilfing to
rouse itself against that man?"
"True," he said.
[ 119]
socrates/glaucon THE REPUBLIp
440 c "And what about when a man believes he's being done injustice?
Doesn't his spirit in this case boil and become harsh and form an
alliance for battle with what seems just; and, even if it suffers ijj
hunger, cold and everything of the sort, doesn't it stand firm and con-
d quer, and not cease from its noble efforts before it has succeeded, or
death intervenes, or before it becomes gentle, having been called in by
the speech within him like a dog by a herdsman?"^*
"Most certainly, it resembles the likeness you make. And, of
course, we put the auxiliaries in our city like dogs obedient to the
rulers, who are like shepherds of a city."
"You have," I said, "a fine understanding of what I want to say.
But beyond that, are you aware of this too?"
e "What?"
"That what we are now bringing to light about the spirited is the
opposite of our recent assertion. Then we supposed it had something to
do with the desiring part; but now, far from it, we say that in the fac-
tion of the soul it sets its arms on the side of the calculating part."
"Quite so," he said.
"Is it then different from the calculating part as well, or is it a par-
ticular form of it so that there aren't three forms in the soul but two,
the calculating and the desiring? Or just as there were three classes in
441 a the city that held it together, money-making, auxiliary, and delibera-
tive, is there in the soul too this third, the spirited, by nature an
auxiliary to the calculating part, if it's not corrupted by bad rearing?"
"Necessarily," he said, "there is the third."
"Yes," I said, "if it should come to light as something other than
the calculating part, just as it has come to light as different from the
desiring part."
"But it's not hard," he said, "for it to come to light as such. For,
even in little children, one could see that they are full of spirit straight
from birth, while, as for calculating, some seem to me never to get a
b share of it, and the many do so quite late."
"Yes, by Zeus," I said, "what you have said is fine. Moreover, in
beasts one could see that what you say is so. And to them can be added
the testimony of Homer that we cited in that other place somewhere
earlier.
He smote his breast and reproached
his heart with word. . .^2
c Here, you see. Homer clearly presents that which has calculated about
better and worse and rebukes that which is irrationally spirited as
though it were a different part."
[ 120 ]
Book IV / 440c-442b glaucon/sochate
"What you say is entirely correct," he said. 4^2
"Well," I said, "we've had a hard swim through that and pretty
much agreed that the same classes that are in the city are in the soul of
each one severally and that their number is equal."
"Yes, that's so."
"Isn't it by now necessary that the private man be wise in the
same way and because of the same thing as the city was wise?"
"Of course."
"And, further, that a city be courageous because of the same thing <
and in the same way as a private man is courageous, and that in every-
thing else that has to do with virtue both are alike?"
"Yes, that is necessary."
"And, further, Glaucon, I suppose we'll say that a man is just in
the same manner that a city too was just."
"This too is entirely necessary."
"Moreover, we surely haven't forgotten that this city was just be-
cause each of the three classes in it minds its ov^ti business."
"We haven't in my opinion forgotten," he said.
"Then we must remember that, for each of us too, the one within
whom each of the parts minds its own business will be just and mind <
his oviTi business."
"Indeed," he said, "that must be remembered."
"Isn't it proper for the calculating part to rule, since it is wise and
has forethought about all of the soul, and for the spirited part to be
obedient to it and its ally?"
"Certainly."
"So, as we were saying, won't a mixture of music and gymnastic
make them accordant, tightening the one and training it in fair
speeches and learning, while relaxing the other with soothing tales, 442
taming it by harmony and rhythm?"
"Quite so," he said.
"And these two, thus trained and having truly learned their own
business and been educated, will be set over the desiring— which is
surely most of the soul in each and by nature most insatiable for
money— and they'll watch it for fear of its being filled with the so-
called pleasures of the body and thus becoming big and strong, and
then not minding its own business, but attempting to enslave and rule
what is not appropriately ruled by its class and subverting every-
one's entire life."
"Most certainly," he said.
"So," I said, "wouldn't these two do the finest job of guarding
against enemies from without on behalf of all of the soul and the body.
[ 121 ]
sockaWoi^ucon the REPUBLIC
i42 b the one deliberating, the other making war, following the ruler, and
with its courage fulfilling what has been decided?"
"Yes, that's so."
c "And then I suppose we call a single man courageous because of
that part— when his spirited part preserves, through pains and
pleasures, what has been proclaimed by the speeches about that which
is terrible and that which is not."
"Correct," he said.
"And wise because of that little part which ruled in him and pro-
claimed these things; it, in its turn, possesses within it the knowledge of
that which is beneficial for each part and for the whole composed of the
community of these three parts."
"Most certainly."
"And what about this? Isn't he moderate because of the friendship
and accord of these parts— when the ruling part and the two ruled parts
are of the single opinion that the calctilating part ought to rule and
d don't raise faction against it?"
"Moderation, surely," he said, "is nothing other than this, in city
or in private man."
"Now, of course, a man will be just because of that which we are
so often saying, and in the same way."
"Quite necessarily."
"What about this?" I said. "Has our justice in any way been
blunted so as to seem to be something other than what it came to light
as in the city?"
"Not in my opinion," he said.
"If there are still any doubts in our soul," I said, "we could
e reassure ourselves completely by testing our justice in the light of the
vulgar standards."
"Which ones?"
"For example, if, concerning this city and the man who by nature
and training is like it, we were required to come to an agreement about
whether, upon accepting a deposit of gold or silver, such a man would
seem to be the one to filch it — do you suppose anyone would suppose
that he would be the man to do it and not rather those who are not such
■3 a as he is?"
"No one would," he said.
"And as for temple robberies, thefts, and betrayals, either of com-
rades in private or cities in public, wouldn't this man be beyond
them?"
"Yes, he would be beyond them."
"And, further, he would in no way whatsoever be faithless in
oaths or other agreements."
[ 122 ]
Book IV 1 442b-440a glaucon/socrates
"Of course not." 443 a
"Further, adultery, neglect of parents, and failure to care for the
gods are more characteristic of every other kind of man than this
one."
"Of every other kind, indeed," he said.
"Isn't the cause of all this that, so far as ruling and being ruled are b
concerned, each of the parts in him minds its own business?"
"That and nothing else is the cause."
"Are you still looking for justice to be something different from
this power which produces such men and cities?"
"No, by Zeus," he said. "I'm not."
"Then that dream of ours has reached its perfect fulfillment.^
I mean our saying that we suspected that straight from the beginning of
the city's founding, through some god, we probably hit upon an origin
and model for justice. " c
"That's entirely certain. "
"And this, Glaucon, turns out to be after all a kind of phantom of
justice — that's also why it's helpful — the fact that the shoemaker by nature
rightly practices shoemaking and does nothing else, and the carpenter
practices carpentry, and so on for the rest."
"It looks like it."
"But in truth justice was, as it seems, something of this sort;
however, not with respect to a man's minding his external business, but
with respect to what is within, with respect to what truly concerns him d
and his own. He doesn't let each part in him mind other people's
business or the three classes in the soul meddle with each other,
but really sets his own house in good order and rules himself; he ar-
ranges himself, becomes his own friend, and harmonizes the three
parts, exactly like three notes in a harmonic scale, lowest, highest
and middle. And if there are some other parts in between, he binds
them together and becomes entirely one from many, moderate and
harmonized. Then, and only then, he acts, if he does act in some e
way — either concerning the acquisition of money, or the care of
the body, or something political, or concerning private contracts.
In all these actions he believes and names a just and fine action one
that preserves and helps to produce this condition, and wisdom
the knowledge that supervises** this action; while he believes and
names an unjust action one that undoes this condition,' and lack of
learning, in its turn, the opinion that supervises this action." 444 a
"Socrates," he said, "what you say is entirely true."
"All right," I said. "If we should assert that we have found the
just man and city and what justice really is in them, I don't suppose
we'd seem to be telling an utter lie. "
[ 123 ]
glaucon/socrates THE REPUBLip
444 a "By Zeus, no indeed," he said.
"Shall we assert it then?"
"Let's assert it."
"So be it," I said. "After that, I suppose injustice must be con-
sidered."
"Plainly."
b "Mustn't it, in its turn, be a certain faction among those three— a
meddling, interference, and rebellion of a part of the soul against the
whole? The purpose of the rebellious part is to rule in the soul although
this is not proper, since by nature it is fit to be a slave to that which
belongs to the ruling class.^^ Something of this sort I suppose we'll
say, and that the confusion and wandering of these parts are injustice
licentiousness, cowardice, lack of learning, and, in sum, vice entire."
"Certainly," he said, "that is what they are."
c "Then," I said, "as for performing unjust actions and being unjust
and, again, doing just things, isn't what all of them are by now clearly
manifest, if injustice and justice are also manifest?"
"How so?"
"Because," I said, "they don't differ from the healthy and the
sick; what these are in a body, they are in a soul."
"In what way?" he said.
"Surely healthy things produce health and sick ones sickness."
"Yes."
"Doesn't doing just things also produce justice and unjust ones in-
d justice?"
"Necessarily."
"To produce health is to establish the parts of the body in a rela-
tion of mastering, and being mastered by, one another that is according
to nature, while to produce sickness is to establish a relation of ruling,
and being ruled by, one another that is contrary to nature."
It IS.
"Then, in its turn," I said, "isn't to produce justice to establish the
parts of the soul in a relation of mastering, and being mastered by, one
another that is according to nature, while to produce injustice is to
establish a relation of ruling, and being ruled by, one another that is
contrary to nature?"
"Entirely so," he said.
"Virtue, then, as it seems, would be a certain health, beauty and
e good condition of a soul, and vice a sickness, ugliness and weakness."
"So it is."
"Don't fine practices also conduce to the acquisition of virtue and
base ones to vice?"
"Necessarily."
[ 124 ]
Book IV 1 440a-445e socrates/glaucon
"So, as it seems, it now remains for us to consider whether it is 444 e
profitable to do just things, practice fine ones, and be just — whether or 445 a
not oiie's being such remains unnoticed; or whether it is profitable to do
injustice and be unjust — provided one doesn't pay the penalty and be-
come better as a result of punishment."
"But Socrates," he said, "that inquiry looks to me as though it has
become ridiculous by now. If life doesn't seem livable with the body's
nature corrupted, not even viith every sort of food and drink and every
sort of wealth and every sort of rule, vdll it then be livable when the
nature of that very thing by which we live is confused and corrupted, h
even if a man does whatever else he might want except that which will
rid him of vice and injustice and will enable him to acquire justice and
virtue? Isn't this clear now that all of these qualities have manifested
their characters in our description?"
"Yes, it is ridiculous," I said. "But all the same, since we've come
to the place from which we are able to see most clearly that these things
are so, we mustn't weary. "
"Least of all, by Zeus," he said, "must we shrink back."
"Now come here," I said, "so you too can see just how many c
forms vice, in my opinion, has; those, at least, that are worth looking
at.
"I am following," he said. "Just tell me."
"Well, " I said, "now that we've come up to this point in the argu-
sment, from a lookout as it were, it looks to me as though there is one
jibrm for virtue and an unlimited number for vice, but some four among
IJthem are also worth mentioning. "
"How do you mean? "
"There are," I said, "likely to be as many types of soul as there
are types of regimes possessing distinct forms. "
"How many is that?"
"Five of regimes," I said, "and five of soul." d
"Tell me what they are, " he said.
"I say that one type of regime would be the one we've described,
jbut it could be named in two ways," I said. "If one exceptional man
^ arose among the rulers, it would be called a kingship, if more, an
J^^stocracy."
^^- "True," he said.
"Therefore, " I said, "I say that this is one form. For whether it's
ynany or one who arise, none of the city's laws that are worth mention- e
5j.ing would be changed, if he uses that rearing and education we described."
t It's not likely," he said.
[ 125 ]
BOOK V
"Good, then, and right, is what I call such a city and regime and 449 a
such a man, while the rest I call bad and mistaken, if this one is really
right; and this applies to both governments of cities and the organiza-
tion of soul in private men. There are four forms of badness."
"What are they?" he said.
And I was going to speak of them in the order that each appeared
to me to pass from one to the other. But Polemarchus^ — ^he was sit- h
ting at a little distance from Adeimantus — stretched out his hand and
took hold of his cloak from above by the shoulder, began to draw him
toward himself, and, as he stooped over, said some things in his
ear, of which we overheard nothing other than his saying: "Shall we let
it go or what shall we do?"
"Not in the least," said Adeimantus, now speaking aloud.
And I said, "What in particular aren't you letting go?"
"You," he said.
"Because of what in particular?" I said. c
"In our opinion you're taking it easy," he said, "and robbing us of
a whole section^ of the argument, and that not the least, so you won't
have to go through it. And you supposed you'd get away with it by say-
ing, as though it were something quite ordinary, that after all it's plain
to everyone that, as for women and children, the things of friends will
be in common."''
[ 127 ]
socrates/adeimantus/glaucon/thrasymachus the REPUBLIC)
449 c "Isn't that right, Adeimantus?" I said.
"Yes," he said, "but this 'right,' Hke the rest, is in need of argu-
ment as to what the manner of the community is. There could be many
d ways. So don't pass over the particular one you mean, since we've been
waiting all this time supposing you would surely mention begetting of
children — ^how they'll be begotten and, once bom, how they'll be
reared — and that whole community of women and children of which
you speak. We think it makes a big difference, or rather, the whole dif-
ference, in a regime's being right or not right. Now, since you're taking
on another regime before having adequately treated these things, we've
450 a resolved what you heard — not to release you before you've gone
through all this just as you did the rest."
"Include me too as a partner in this vote," said Glaucon.
"In fact," said Thrasymachus, "you can take this as a resolution
approved by all of us, Socrates."^
"What a thing you've done in arresting me, " I said. "How much
discussion you've set in motion, from the beginning again as it were,
about the regime I was delighted to think I had already described,
content if one were to leave it at accepting these things as they were
stated then. You don't know how great a swarm of arguments you're
h stirring up with what you are now summoning to the bar. I saw it then
and passed by so as not to cause a lot of trouble."
"What," said Thrasymachus, "do you suppose these men have
come here now to look for fool's gold^ and not to listen to argu-
ments?"
"Yes," I said, "but in due measure."
"For intelligent men, Socrates," said Glaucon, "the proper
measure of listening to such arguments is a whole life. Never mind
c about us. And as for you, don't weary in going through your opinion
about the things we ask: what the community of children and women
will be among our guardians, and their rearing when they are still
young, in the time between birth and education, which seems to be the
most trying. Attempt to say what the manner of it must be."
"It's not easy to go through, you happy man," I said. "Even more
than what we went through before, it admits of many doubts. For, it
could be doubted that the things said are possible; and, even if, in the
best possible conditions, they could come into being, that they would
be what is best will also be doubted. So that is why there's a certain
d hestitation about getting involved in it, for fear that the argument might
seem to be a prayer, my dear comrade. '
"Don't hesitate," he said. "Your audience won't be hard-hearted,
or distrustful, or ill-willed."
128
Book V 1 449c-451 d socrates/glaucon
And I said, "Best of men, presumably you're saying that because 450 d
you wish to encourage me?"
"I am," he said.
"Well, you're doing exactly the opposite," I said. "If I believed I
; knew whereof I speak, it would be a fine exhortation. To speak know-
ing the truth, among prudent and dear men, about what is greatest and
dear, is a thing that is safe and encouraging. But to present arguments e
tat a time when one is in doubt and seeking — which is just what I am 451 a
doing — ^is a thing both frightening and slippery. It's not because I'm
afraid of being laughed at — that's childish — but because I'm afraid that
in slipping from the truth where one least ought to slip, I'll not only fall
myself but also drag my friends down with me. I prostrate myself
before Adrasteia,^ Glaucoa, for what I'm going to say. I expect that
it's a lesser fault to prove to be an unwilling murderer of someone than
J a deceiver about fine, good, and just things in laws. It's better to run
that risk with enemies than friends. So you've given me a good exhorta- b
*tion."
And Glaucon laughed and said, "But, Socrates, if we are affected
in some discordant way by the argument, we'll release you like a man
} who is guiltless of murder and you won't be our deceiver. Be bold and
speak."
"The man who is released in the case of involuntary murder is in-
deed guiltless, as the law says. And it's probably so in this case too, if it
is in the other. "^
"Well, then, as far as this goes, speak," he said.
"Then," I said, "I must now go back again and say what perhaps
T should have been said then in its turn. However, maybe it would be c
..right this way — after having completely finished the male drama, to
complete the female,* especially since you are so insistent about issu-
'> ing this summons.
'I "For human beings bom and educated as we described, there is,
- in my opinion, no right acquisition and use of children and women
^^ other than in their following that path along which we first directed
K them. Presumably we attempted in the argument to establish the men
c as guardians of a herd."
k "Yes."
I "So let's follow this up by prescribing the birth and rearing that go d
|, along with it and consider whether they suit us or not."
?•- "How?" he said.
f "Like this. Do we believe the females of the guardian dogs must
^ guard the things the males guard along with them and hunt with them,
' and do the rest in common; or must they stay indoors as though they
[ 129 ]
socrates/glaucon the republic
r
451 d were incapacitated as a result of bearing and rearing the puppies, while
the males work and have all the care of the flock?"
e "Everything in common," he said, "except that we use the females
as weaker and the males as stronger."
"Is it possible," I said, "to use any animal for the same things if
you don't assign it the same rearing and education?"
"No, it's not possible."
"If, then, we use the women for the same things as the men, they
must also be taught the same things."
452 a "Yes."
"Now music and gymnastic were given to the men. "
"Yes."
"Then these two arts, and what has to do with war, must be
assigned to the women also, and they must be used in the same ways."
"On the basis of what you say," he said, "it's likely. "
"Perhaps," I said, "compared to what is habitual, many of the
things now being said would look ridiculous if they were to be done as
is said."
"Indeed they would," he said.
"Whats the most ridiculous thing you see among them?" I said.
"Or is it plain that its the women exercising naked with the men in the
b palaestras,9 not only the young ones, but even the older ones, too, like
the old men in the gymnasiums who, when they are wrinkled and not
pleasant to the eye, all the same love gymnastic?"
'By Zeus! '" he said, "that would look ridiculous in the present
state of things."
"Well," 1 said, "since we've started to speak, we mustn't be afraid
of all the jokes — of whatever kind — the wits might make if such a
c change took place in gymnastic, in music and, not the least, in the bear-
ing of arms and the riding of horses."
"What you say is right,"" he said.
"But since weve begun to speak, we must make our way to the
rough part of the law, begging these men, not to mind their own
business, '° but to be serious; and reminding them that it is not so
long ago that it seemed shameful and ridiculous to the Greeks — as
it does now to the many among the barbarians — to see men naked;
and that when the Cretans originated the gymnasiums, and then the
Lacedaemonians, it was possible for the urbane of the time to make
d a comedy of all that. Or dont you suppose so? "^^
"I do."
"But, I suppose, when it became clear to those who used these
practices that to uncover all such things is better than to hide them,
[ 130 ]
Book V 1 451d-453d socrates/glaucoiN
then what was ridiculous to the eyes disappeared in the light of what's 452 d
best as revealed in speeches. And this showed that he is empty who
believes anything is ridiculous other than the bad, and who tries to pro-
duce laughter looking to any sight as ridiculous other than the sight of
the foolish and the bad; or, again, he who looks seriously to any stan- e
dard of beauty he sets up other than the good."
"That's entirely certain," he said.
"Mustn't we then first come to an agreement whether these things
are possible or not, and give anyone who wants to dispute — ^whether
it's a man who likes to play or one who is serious — the opportunity to
dispute whether female human nature can share in common with the 453 a
nature of the male class in all deeds or in none at all, or in some things
yes and in others no, particularly with respect to war? Wouldn't one
who thus made the finest beginning also be likely to make the finest
ending?"
"By far," he said.
"Do you want us," I said, "to carry on the dispute and represent
those on the other side ourselves so that the opposing argument won't
be besieged without defense?"
"Nothing stands in the way," he said. b
"Then, on their behalf, let's say: 'Socrates and Glaucon, there's no
need for others to dispute vidth you. For at the beginning of the settle-
ment of the city you were founding, you yourselves agreed that each
one must mind his own business according to nature. "
"I suppose we did agree. Of course."
"Can it be that a woman doesn't differ in her nature very much c
from a man?'"
"But of course she differs. "
"Then isn't it also fitting to prescribe a different work to each ac-
cording to its nature? "
"Certainly. "
"How can it be, then, that you aren't making a mistake now and
contradicting yourselves, when you assert that the men and the women
must do the same things, although they have a nature that is most
distinct?' What have you as an apology in the light of this, you surprising
man?"
"On the spur of the moment, it's not very easy, " he said. "But I
shall beg you, and do beg you, to interpret the argument on our behalf
too, whatever it may be. "
"This, Glaucon, and many other things of the sort, " I said,
"foreseeing them long ago, is what I was frightened of, and I shrank d
from touching the law concerning the possession and rearing of the
women and children. "
[ 131 ]
glaucon/socrates THE REPUBLIC
453 d "By Zeus," he said, "it doesn't seem an easy thing."
"It isn't," I said. "However, it is a fact that whether; one falls
into a Httle swimming pool or into the middle of the biggest sea, one
nevertheless swims all the same."
"Most certainly."
"Then we too must swim and try to save ourselves from the
argument, hoping that some dolphin might take us on his back or
for some other unusual rescue."^^
e "It seems so," he said.
"Come, then," I said, "let's see if we can find the way out. Now
we agree that one nature must practice one thing and a different nature
must practice a different thing, and that women and men are different.
But at present we are asserting that different natures must practice the
same things. Is this the accusation against us?"
"Exactly."
454 a "Oh, Glaucon," I said, "the power of the contradicting art is
grand."
"Why so?"
"Because," I said, "in my opinion, many fall into it even un-
willingly and suppose they are not quarreling but discussing, because
they are unable to consider what's said by separating it out into its
forms.^^ They pursue contradiction in the mere name of what's
spoken about, using eristic, not dialectic, with one another."^^
"This is surely what happens to many," he said. "But this doesn't
apply to us too at present, does it?"
h "It most certainly does," I said. "At least we run the risk of un-
willingly dealing in contradiction."
"How?"
"Following the name alone, we courageously, and eristically, in-
sist that a nature that is not the same must not have the same practices.
But we didn't make any sort of consideration of what form of different
and same nature, and applying to what, we were distinguishing when
we assigned different practices to a different nature and the same ones
to the same."
"No," he said, "we didn't consider it."
c "Accordingly," I said, "it's permissible, as it seems, for us to ask
ourselves whether the nature of the bald and the longhaired is the same
or opposite. And, when we agree that it is opposite, if bald men are
shoemakers, we won't let the longhaired ones be shoemakers, or if the
longhaired ones are, then the others can't be."
"That," he said, "would certainly be ridiculous.,"
"Is it," I said, "ridiculous for any other reason than that we didn t
refer to every sense of same and different nature but were guarding
[ 132 ]
Book V 1 4533,-4550 socrates/glaucon
only that form of otherness and hkeness which appUes to the pursuits 454 c
themselves? For example, we meant that a man and a woman whose d
souls are suited for the doctor's art have the same nature. Or don't you
suppose so?"
"I do."
"But a man doctor and a man carpenter have difiFerent ones?"
"Of course, entirely different."
"Then," I said, "if either the class of men or that of women shows
its superiority in some art or other practice, then we'll say that that art
must be assigned to it. But if they look as though they differ in this
alone, that the female bears and the male mounts, we'll assert that it e
has not thereby yet been proved that a woman differs from a man with
respect to what we're talking about; rather, we'll still suppose that our
guardians and their women must practice the same things."
"And rightly," he said.
"After that, won't we bid the man who says the opposite to teach
us this very thing — ^with respect to what art or what practice connected 455 a
with the organization of a city the nature of a woman and a man is not
the same, but rather different?"
"At least that's just."
"Well, now, perhaps another man would also say just what you
said a little while ago: that it's not easy to answer adequately on the
spur of the moment; but upon consideration, it isn't at all hard."
"Yes, he would say that."
"Do you want us then to beg the man who contradicts in this way
to follow us and see if we can somehow point out to him that there is no h
practice relevant to the government of a city that is peculiar to
woman?"
"Certainly."
"'Come, now,' we'll say to him, 'answer. Is this what you meant?
Did you distinguish between the man who has a good nature for a thing
and another who has no nature for it on these grounds: the one learns
something connected with that thing easily, the other with difficulty;
the one, starting from slight learning, is able to carry discovery far for-
ward in the field he has learned, while the other, having chanced on a
lot of learning and practice, can't even preserve what he learned; and
the bodily things give adequate service to the thought of the man with
the good nature while they oppose the thought of the other man? Are
there any other things than these by which you distinguished the man c
who has a good nature for each discipline from the one who hasn't?' "
"No one," he said, "will assert that there are others."
"Do you know of anything that is practiced by human beings in
which the class of men doesn't excel that of women in all these respects? Or
[ 133
socrates/glaucon THEREPUBLIp
455 c shall we draw it out at length by speaking of weaving and the care of
baked and boiled dishes — just those activities on which the reputation
d of the female sex is based and where its defeat is most ridiculous of all?"
"As you say," he said, "it's true that the one class is quite dom-
inated in virtually everything, so to speak, by the other. However, many
women are better than many men in many things. But, as a whole, it
is as you say. "
"Therefore, my friend, there is no practice of a city's governors
which belongs to woman because she's woman, or to man because he's
man; but the natures are scattered alike among both animals; and
woman participates according to nature in all practices, and man in
e all, but in all of them woman is weaker than man."
"Certainly,"
"So, shall we assign all of them to men and none to women?"
"How could we?"
"For I suppose there is, as we shall assert, one woman apt at
medicine and another not, one woman apt at music and another un-
musical by nature."
"Of course."
456 a "And isn't there then also one apt at gymnastic and at war, and
another unwarlike and no lover of gymnastic? "
"I suppose so."
"And what about this? Is there a lover of wisdom and a hater of
wisdom? And one who is spirited and another without spirit?"
"Yes, there are these too."
"There is, therefore, one woman fit for guarding and another not.
Or wasn't it a nature of this sort we also selected for the men fit for
guarding?"
"Certainly, that was it. "
"Men and women, therefore, also have the same nature with
respect to guarding a city, except insofar as the one is weaker and the
other stronger."
"It looks like it."
b "Such women, therefore, must also be chosen to live and guard
with such men, since they are competent and akin to the men in their
nature."
"Certainly. "
"And mustn't the same practices be assigned to the same
natures? "
"The same."
"Then we have come around full circle to where we were before
and agree that it's not against nature to assign music and gymnastic to
the women guardians. "
[ 134 ]
Book V 1 455c-457a glaucon/socrates
"That's entirely certain." 456 b
"Then we weren't giving laws, that are impossible or hke prayers,
since the law we were setting down is according to nature. Rather, the way c
things are nowadays proves to be, as it seems, against nature."
"So it seems."
"Weren't we considering whether what we say is possible and
best?"
"Yes, we were."
"And that it is possible, then, is agreed?"
"Yes."
"But next it must be agreed that it is best?"
"Plainly."
"In making a woman fit for guarding, one education won't pro-
duce men for us and another women, will it, especially since it is
dealing with the same nature?" d
"No, there will be no other."
"What's your opinion about this? "
"What?"
"Conceiving for yourself that one man is better and another
worse? Or do you believe them all to be alike?"
"Not at all."
"In the city we were founding, which do you think will turn out to
be better men for us — the guardians who get the education we have
described or the shoemakers, educated in shoemaking? "
"What you ask is ridiculous," he said.
"I understand," I said. "And what about this? Aren't they the best
among the citizens? " g
"By far."
"And what about this? Won't these women be the best of the
women?"
"That, too, by far, ' he said.
"Is there anything better for a city than the coming to be in it of
the best possible women and men?"
"There is not. "
"And music and gymnastic, brought to bear as we have described,
will accomplish this?" 457 a
"Of course."
"The law we were setting down is therefore not only possible but also
best for a city."
"So it is."
"Then the women guardians must strip, since they'll clothe them-
selves in virtue instead of robes, and they must take common part in
war and the rest of the city's guarding, and must not do other things.
I 135]
socrates/glaucon the REPUBLIC
457 a But lighter parts of these tasks must be given to the women than the
men because of the weakness of the class. And the man who laughs at
b naked women practicing gymnastic for the sake of the best, 'plucks
from his wisdom an unripe fruit for ridicule''^ and doesn't
know — as it seeriis — at what he laughs or what he does. For this is
surely the fairest thing that is said and will be said — the beneficial is
fair and the harmful ugly."
"That's entirely certain."
"May we then assert that we are escaping one wave,'^ as it
were, in telling about the woman's law,'"^ so that we aren't entirely
swept away when we lay it down that our guardians, men and women,
c must share all pursuits in common; rather, in a way the argument is in
agreement with itself that it says what is both possible and benefi-
cial?"
"And indeed," he said, "it's not a little wave you're escaping."
"You'll say that it's not a big one either, " I said, "when you see
the next one."
"Tell me, and let me see it," he said.
"The law that follows this one," I said, "and the others that went
before is, as I suppose, this."
"What?"
"All these women are to belong to all these men in common, and
d no woman is to live privately with any man. And the children, in their
turn, will be in common, and neither will a parent know his own off-
spring, nor a child his parent."
"This one is far bigger than the other," he said, "so far as con-
cerns doubt both as to its possibility and its beneficialness."
"As to whether it is beneficial, at least, I don't suppose it would be
disputed that the community of women and the community of children
are, if possible, the greatest good," I said. "But I suppose that there
would arise a great deal of dispute as to whether they are possible or
not."
e "There could, " he said, "very well be dispute about both."
"You mean that there is a conspiracy of arguments against me," I
said. "I thought I would run away from the other argument, if in your
opinion it were beneficial; then I would have the one about whether it's
possible or not left."
"But you didn't run away unnoticed," he said, "so present an
argument for both."
"I must submit to the penalty, " I said. "Do me this favor,
458 a however. Let me take a holiday like the idle men who are accustomed
to feast their minds for themselves when they walk along. And such
men, you know, before finding out in what way something they desire
136
Book V I 457a-459a socrates/glaucon
can exist, put that question aside so they won't grow weary deliberating 455 a
about what's possible and not. They set down as given the existence of
what they want and at once go on to arrange the rest and enjoy giving a
full account of the sort of things they'll do when it has come into being,
making yet idler a soul that is already idle. I too am by now soft myself, h
and I desire to put off and consider later in what way it is possible; and
now, having set it down as possible, I'll consider, if you permit me,
how the rulers will arrange these things when they come into being and
whether their accomplishment would be most advantageous of all for
both the city and the guardians. I'll attempt to consider this with you
first, and the other later, if you permit."
"I do permit," he said, "so make your consideration."
"Well, then," I said, "I suppose that if the rulers are to be worthy
of the name, and their auxiliaries likewise, the latter will be willing to c
do what they are commanded and the forrher to command. In some of
their commands the rulers wiU in their turn be obeying the laws; in
others— all those we leave to their discretion— they will imitate the
laws."
"It's likely," he said.
"Well, then," I said, "you, their lawgiver, just as you selected the
men, will hand over the women to them, having selected them in the
same way too, with natures that are as similar as possible. And all of
them will be together, since they have common houses and mess, with
no one privately possessing anything of the kind. And, mixed together d
: in gymnastic exercise and the rest of the training, they'll be led by an
i inner natural necessity to sexual mixing with one another, I suppose.
J Or am I not, in your opinion, speaking of necessities?"
"Not geometrical but erotic necessities," he said, "which are
likely to be more stinging than the others when it comes to persuading
and attracting the bulk of the people."
"Very much so," I said. "But, next, Glaucon, to have irregular in-
tercourse with one another, or to do anything else of the sort, isn't holy
; in a city of happy men nor will the rulers allow it." e
"No," he said, "it's not just."
"Then it's plain that next we'll make marriages sacred in the
highest possible degree. And the most beneficial marriages would be sa-
|cred."i8
"That's entirely certain."
J "So then, how will they be most beneficial? Tell me this, Glaucon. 459 a
: For I see hunting dogs and quite a throng of noble cocks in your house.
I Did you, in the name of Zeus, ever notice something about their mar-
riages and procreation?"
"What?" he said.
[ 137 ]
socrates/glaucon the REPUBLifl
459 a "First, although they are all noble, aren't there some among them
who are and prove to be best?"
There are.
"Do you breed from all alike, or are you eager to breed from the
best as much as possible?"
"From the best."
b "And what about this? From the youngest, or from the oldest, or
as much as possible from those in their prime?"
"From those in their prime."
"And if they weren't so bred, do you believe that the species of
birds and that of dogs would be far worse for you?"
"I do," he said.
"And what do you think about horses and the other animals?" {
said. "Is it in any way different?"
"That would be strange," he said.
"My, my, dear comrade," I said, "how very much we need
eminent rulers after all, if it is also the same with the human spe-
cies."
c "Of course it is," he said, "but why does that affect the rulers?"
"Because it will be a necessity for them to use many drugs," I
said. "Presumably we believe that for bodies not needing drugs, but
willing to respond to a prescribed course of life, even a common doctor
will do. But, of course, when there is also a need to use drugs, we know
there is need of the most courageous doctor."
"True, but to what purpose do you say this?"
"To this," I said. "It's likely that our rulers will have to use a
throng of lies and deceptions for the benefit of the ruled. And, of
d course, we said that everything of this sort is useful as a form of
remedy."
"And we were right," he said.
"Now, it seems it is not the least in marriages and procreations,
that this 'right' comes into being."
"How so?"
"On the basis of what has been agreed," I said, "there is a need
for the best men to have intercourse as often as possible with the best
women, and the reverse for the most ordinary men with the most ordi-
nary women; and the offspring of the former must be reared but not that
e of the others, if the flock is going to be of the most eminent quality. And
all this must come to pass without being noticed by anyone except the
rulers themselves if the guardians' herd is to be as free as possible from ;
faction."
"Quite right," he said.
[ 138 1
Book V I 459a-460e socbates/glaucon
"So then, certain festivals and sacrifices must be established by 459 e
law at which we'll bring the brides and grooms together, and our poets
must make hymns suitable to the marriages that take place. The num- 460 a
ber of the marriages we'll leave to the rulers in order that they may
most nearly preserve the same number of men, taking into considera-
tion wars, diseases, and everything else of the sort; and thus our city
will, within the limits of the possible, become neither big nor little."
"Right," he said.
"I suppose certain subtle lots must be fabricated so that the ordi-
nary man will blame chance rather than the rulers for each union."
"Quite so," he said.
"And, presumably, along with other prizes and rewards, the b
privilege of more abundant intercourse with the women must be given
to those of the young who are good in war or elsewhere, so that under
this pretext the most children will also be sov^oi by such men."
"Right."
"And as the offspring are bom, won't they be taken over by the
officers established for this purpose— men or women, or both, for pre-
sumably the offices are common to women and men— and . . ."
"Yes."
"So, I think, they will take the offspring of the good and bring c
them into the pen^^ to certain nurses who live apart in a certain sec-
tion of the city. And those of the worse, and any of the others bom
deformed, they will hide away in an unspeakable and unseen place, as
is seemly."
"If," he said, "the guardians' species is going to remain pure."
"Won't they also supervise the nursing, leading the mothers to the
pen when they are full with milk, inventing every device so that none d
will recognize her own, and providing others who do have milk if the
mothers themselves are insufficient? And won't they supervise the
mothers themselves, seeing to it that they suckle only a moderate time
and that the wakeful watching and the rest of the labor are handed over
to wet nurses and governesses?"
"It's an easy-going kind of child-bearing for the women guard*
ians, as you tell it," he said.
"As is fitting," I said. "Let's go through the next point we pro-
posed. We said, of course, that the offspring must be bom of those in
their prime."
1 rue.
"Do you share the opinion that a woman's prime lasts, on the e
? average, twenty years and a man's thifrty?"
"Which years?" he said.
[ 139 ]
:OCBATES/GLAUCON THE REPUBLIC
i60 e "A Woman," I said, "beginning with her twentieth year, bears for
the city up to her fortieth; and a man, beginning from the time when he
passes his swiftest prime at running, begets for the city up to his fifty,
fifth year."
461 a "Of course," he said, "this is the prime of body and prudence for
both."
"Then, if a man who is older than this, or younger, engages in re-
production for the commonwealth, we shall say that it's a fault neither
holy nor just. For he begets for the city a child that, if it escapes notice
will come into being without being born under the protection of the
sacrifices and prayers which priestesses, priests, and the whole city of-
fer at every marriage to the effect that ever better and more beneficial
offspring may come from good and beneficial men. This child is bom,
b rather, under cover of darkness in the company of terrible inconti-
nence."
"Right," he said.
"And the same law applies," I said, "when a man still of the age
to beget touches a woman of that age if a ruler has not united them.
We'll say he's imposing a bastard, an unauthorized and unconsecrated
child, on the city."
"Quite right," he said.
"Now I suppose that when the women and the men are beyond
the age of procreation, we will, of course, leave them free to have in-
c tercourse with whomsoever they wish, except with a daughter, a
mother, the children of their daughters and the ancestors of their
mother, and, as for the women, except with a son and a father and the
descendants of the one and the ancestors of the other; and all this only
after they have been told to be especially careful never to let even a
single foetus see the light of day, if one should be conceived, and, if one
should force its way, to deal with it on the understanding that there's to
be no rearing for such a child."
"That is certainly a sensible statement," he said. "But how will
d they distinguish one another's fathers and daughters and the others you
just mentioned?"^''
"Not at all," I said. "But of all the children born in the tenth
month, and in the seventh, fpom the day a man becomes a bridegroom,
he will call the males sons and the females daughters; and they will call
him father; and in the same way, he will call their offspring grandchil-
dren, and they in their turn will call his group grandfathers and
grandmothers; and those who were born at the same time their mothers
and fathers were procreating they will call sisters and brothers. Thus, as
e we were just saying, they won't touch one another. The law will grant
[ 140 ]
Book V 1 460e-462d socrates/glaucon
that brothers and sisters Hve together if the lot falls out that way and 461 e
the Pythia concurs. "=^'
"Quite right," he said.
"So, Glaucon, the community of women and children for the
guardians of your city is of this kind. That it is both consistent with the
rest of the regime and by far best, must next be assured by the argu-
ment. Or what shall we do?"
"That, by Zeus," he said. 462 a
"Isn't the first step toward agreement for us to ask ourselves what we
can say is the greatest good in the organization of a city — that good aiming
at which the legislator must set down the laws — and what the greatest
evil; and then to consider whether what we have just described har-
monizes with the track of the good for us . and not with that of the
evil?"
"By all means," he said.
"Have we any greater evil for a city than what splits it and makes
it many instead of one? Or a greater good than what binds it together b
and makes it one?"
"No, we don't."
"Doesn't the community of pleasure and pain bind it togeth-
er, when to the greatest extent possible all the citizens alike rejoice
and are pained at the same comings into being and perishings? "
"That's entirely certain, " he said.
"But the privacy of such things dissolves it, when some are over-
whelmed and others overjoyed by the same things happening to the city
and those within the city?" c
"Of course. "
"Doesn't that sort of thing happen when they don't utter such
phrases as 'my own' and not my own' at the same time in the city, and
similarly with respect to 'somebody else's?"
"Entirely so."
"Is, then, that city in which most say 'my own' and 'not my own'
about the same thing, and in the same way, the best governed city? "
"By far."
"Then is that city best governed which is most like a single human
being? For example, when one of us wounds a finger, presumably the
entire community — that community tying the body together with the
soul in a single arrangement under the ruler within it — is aware of the
fact, and all of it is in pain as a whole along with the afflicted part; and d
it is in this sense we say that this human being has a pain in his finger.
And does the same argument hold for any other part of a human being,
both when it is afflicted by pain and when eased by pleasure?"
[ 141 ]
glaucon/socratEs the republic
^Q2 d "Yes, it doesj" he said. "And, as to what you ask, the city with the
best regime is most like such a human being."
"I suppose, then, that when one of its citizens suffers anything at
e all, either good or bad, such a city will most of all say that the affected
part is its own, and all will share in the joy or the pain."
"Necessarily," he said, "if it has good laws."
"It must be high time for us to go back to our city," I said, "and
consider in it the things agreed upon by the argument, and see whether
this city possesses them most, or whether some other city does to a
greater extent."
"We have to," he said.
463 a "What about this? There are presumably both rulers and a people
in other cities as well as in this one."
There are.
"Then do all of them call one another citizens?"
"Of course."
"And in addition to citizens, what does the people call the rulers
in the other cities?"
"In the many, masters; in those with a democracy, that very
name: rulers."^^
"And what about the people in our city? What, in addition to
citizens, does it say the rulers are?"
b "Saviors and auxiliaries," he said.
"And what do they call the people?"
"Wage givers and supporters."
"And what do the rulers in the other cities call the people?"
"Slaves," he said.
"And wiiat do the rulers call one another?"
"Fellow rulers," he said.
"And what about ours?"
"Fellow guardians."
"Can you say whether any of the rulers in the other cities is in the
habit of addressing one of his fellow rulers as his kin and another as an
outsider?"23
"Many do so."
"Doesn't he hold the one who is his kin to be his own, and speak
c of him as such, while the outsider he does not hold to be his own?"
"That's what he does."
"What about your guardians? Would any one of them be in the
habit of holding one of his fellow guardians to be an outsider or address
him as such?"
[ 142 ]
Book V / 462d-464c
glaucon/socrati
"Not at all," he said. "With everyone he happen
hold that he's meeting a brother, or a sister, or a father "^^^t' he'll 463
a son, or a daughter or their descendants or ancestors' " ^ "^^"^^''' or
"What you say is very fine," I said, "but tell me th'
the names of kinship you set down in the laws for th ^ ^* ^"^^
doing of all the actions that go with the names-with f Th ^^ ^^^^ *^
law prescribes about shame before fathers, and about ^^^' ■ *
parents and having to obey them— under pain of not i .^^ _ "S "*''
stead with gods or human beings, since a man would do h ^- ^" 8^^"
holy nor just if he did anything other than this? Will th ^^ "^ither
fi-om the mouths of your citizens ring in the ears of the hu^ saymgs *
earliest age, or will there be others about fathers— V, ^^^ ^" their
points out to them as fathers— and the other relatives?" "^^ver one
"No, it will be these sayings," he said. "It would b
they only mouthed, without deeds, the names of kinsh ■ "^ ^^ulous if
"Therefore in this city more than any other wh
doing well or badly, they will utter in accord the phra i^^"*®'^"® ^^
just now, my own' affairs are doing well or badly." ^ ^^ used
"Very true," he said.
"Weren't we saying that close on the conviction e
phrase follows a community of pleasures and pains?" ^ ^" ^^^
"And we were right to say so."
"Won't our citizens more than others have the sam tk-
mon, which is that very thing they will name 'my ow 'P a"^^" com-
that in common, will they thus more than others hav^ having
pain and pleasure?" ^ ^ community of
"Far more than others."
"Is the cause of this— in addition to the rest of tK
tion— the community of women and children amone th o^ganiza-
"Certainly, most of all," he said. ^ ^ guardians?"
"But we further agreed that the community of pain A
■ the greatest good for a city, likening the good governing" P ^^^"^^ ^^
body's relation to the pain and pleasure of one of its *■ " ^ *° ^
' "And what we agreed was right," he said.
"The community of children and women amone th
i has therefore turned out to be the cause of the Pr^a? . auxiliaries
I city." ^ *^'* g°od to our
• "Quite so," he said.
"And, then, we also agree with what went befor P
4 saying, of course, that there mustn't be private house f ^^ iT^ ^^^^
^ land, nor any possession. Instead they must get their 1' ru ™' "^^
[ 143 ]
socbates/glaucon the REPUBLIq
464 c the others, as a wage for guarding, and use it up in common all
together, if they are really going to be guardians."
"Right," he said.
"So, as I am saying, doesn't what was said before and what's being
said now form them into true guardians still more and cause them not
to draw the city apart by not all giving the name 'my own' to the same
thing, but different men giving it to different things — one man drag-
ging off to his own house whatever he can get his hands on apart from
d the others, another being separate in his own house with separate
women and children, introducing private pleasures and griefs of
things that are private? Rather, with one conviction about what's
their own, straining toward the same thing, to the limit of the possi-
ble, they are affected alike by pain and pleasure. "
"Entirely so," he said.
"And what about this? Won't lawsuits and complaints against one
another virtually vanish from among them thanks to their possessing
nothing private but the body, while the rest is in common? On this
basis they will then be free from faction, to the extent at any rate that
e human beings divide into factions over the possession of money, chil-
dren, and relatives? "
"Yes," he said, "it's quite necessary that they be rid of factions."
"And further, there would justly be no suits for assault or insult
among them. For we'll surely say that it is fine and just for men to take
care of their own defense against others of the same age, thus imposing
on them the necessity of taking care of their bodies. "
"Right," he said.
465 a "This law is also right," I said, "in that, if a man's spiritedness is
aroused against someone, he would presumably satisfy it in this way
and be less likely to get into bigger quarrels. "
"Most certainly."
"Further, an older man will be charged with ruling and pun-
ishing all the younger ones."
"Plainly."
"And, further, unless rulers command it, it's not likely that a
younger man will ever attempt to assault or strike an older one. And he
won't, I suppose, dishonor one in any other way. For there are two
sufficient guardians hindering him, fear and shame: shame preventing
h him from laying hands as on parents, fear that the others will come to the
aid of the man who suffers it, some as sons, others as brothers, and
others as fathers."
"So it turns out, " he said.
"Then will the men, as a result of the laws, live in peace with one
another in all respects?"
[ 144 ]
Book V / 464c-466b socrates/glaucon
"Very much so." 465 b
"Since they are free from faction among themselves, there won't
ever be any danger that the rest of the city will split into factions
against these guardians or one another."
"Surely not."
"Because of their unseemliness, I hesitate to mention the pettiest
of the evils of which they would be rid: poor men flattering rich, all the c
want and grief they have in rearing children and making money for the
necessary support of the household, making debts and repudiating
them, doing all sorts of things to provide for the allowances that they
turn over to the women and the domestics to manage. What and how
they suffer from these things, my friend, is perfectly plain, ignoble, and
not worth mentioning."
"Yes, it is plain," he said, "even to a blind man." d
"So they'll be rid of all this and live a life more blessed than that
most blessed one the Olympic victors live."
"In what way?"
"Surely the Olympic victors are considered happy for a small part
of what belongs to these men. Their victory is not only fairer but the
public support is more complete.^^ The victory they win is the
preservation of the whole city, and they are crowned with support and
everything else necessary to life— both they themselves and their chil-
dren as well; and they get prizes from their city while they live and e
when they die receive a worthy burial."
"That's very fine," he said.
"Do you remember," I said, "that previously an argument— I
don't know whose— reproached us with not making the guardians hap-
py; they, for whom it's possible to have what belongs to the citizens, 466 a
have nothing? We said, I believe, that if this should happen to come up
at some point, we would consider it later, but that now we were making
the guardians guardians and the city as happy as we could, but we were
not looking exclusively to one group in it and forming it for hap-
piness."
"I remember," he said.
"Well, then, if the life of our auxiliaries now appears far finer and
better than that of the Olympic victors, is there any risk that it will in
some way appear comparable to that of the shoemakers or any other h
craftsmen or to that of the farmers?"
"Not in my opinion," he said.
"Moreover, it is just to say here too, as I said there, that if the
guardian attempts to become happy in such a way that he is no longer a
guardian, and such a moderate, steady, and (as we assert) best life
won't satisfy him; but, if a foolish adolescent opinion about happiness
[ 145]
socbates/glaucon the REPUBLJq;
466 c gets hold of him, it will drive him to appropriate everything in the city
■ with his power, and he'll learn that Hesiod was really wise when he said
that somehow 'the half is more than the whole.' "^^
"If he follows my advice," he said, "he'll stay in this life."
"Then," I said, "as we've described it, do you accept the coni.
munity of the women with the men in education, children, and guard-
ing the rest of the citizens; and that both when they are staying in the
d city and going out to war, they must guard and hunt together like dogs^
and insofar as possible have everything in every way in common; and
that in doing this they'll do what's best and nothing contrary to the
nature of the female in her relationship with the male, nothing contrary
to the natural community of the two with each other?"
"I do accept it," he said.
"Then," I said, "doesn't it remain to determine whether after all it
is possible, as it is among other animals, that this community come into
being among human beings too, and in what way it is possible?"
"You were just ahead of me," he said, "in mentioning what I was
going to take up."
e "For, as to war," I said, "I suppose it's plain how they'll make war."
"How?" he said.
"That they'll carry out their campaigns in common, and, besides,
they'll lead all the hardy children to the war, so that, like the children
of the other craftsmen, they can see what they'll have to do in their
467 a craft when they are grown up. Besides seeing, they'll help out and serve
in the whole business of war, and care for their fathers and mothers. Or
haven't you noticed in the other arts that, for example, potters' sons
look on as helpers for a long time before putting their hands to the
wheel?"
"Quite so."
"Must they be more careful than the guardians in educating their
children by experience and observation of their duties?"
"That would be quite ridiculous," he said.
"And further, every animal fights exceptionally hard in the pres-
b ence of its offspring."
"That's so. But, Socrates, there's no small risk that in defeats,
which are of course likely in war, they will lose the children along with
themselves and make it impossible even for the rest of the city to
recover."
"What you say is true," I said. "But do you believe that one must
first provide for the avoidance of all risks?"
"Not at all."
"And what about this? Since risks must presumably be run.
[ 146 ]
Book V / 466c-468a glaucon/socrates
shouldn't it be those from which they will emerge better men when sue- 467 1
cessful?"
"Plainly."
"But do you suppose it makes only a small difference, and one not c
worth a risk, whether children who are to be men skilled in war look on
the business of war or not?"
"No, it does make a difference for what you are talking about."
"Then this must be the beginning, making the children spectators
of war. And, if we further contrive something for their security, every-
thing will be fine. Won't it?"
"Yes."
"In the first place," I said, "won't their fathers, insofar as is hu-
man, be not ignorant but knowledgeable about all the campaigns that
are risky and all that are not?" d
"It's likely," he said.
"Then they'll lead them to the ones and beware of the others."
"Right."
"And as rulers," I said, "they'll presumably set over them not the
most ordinary men but those adequate by experience and age to be
leaders and tutors ."^^
"Yes, that's proper."
"But, we'll say, many things for many men also turn out contrary
to their opinions."
"Indeed."
"Therefore, in view of such things, my friend, they'll have to be
equipped with wings right away as little children, so that, if need be,
they can fly and get away."
"How do you mean?" he said. e
"At the earliest possible age, they must be mounted on horses," I
said, "and when they've been taught how to ride, they must be led to
the spectacle on horses, not spirited and combative ones, but the
swiftest and most easily reined. Thus they will get the. fairest look at
their own work and, if need be, will make the surest escape to safety
following older leaders."
"In my opinion," he said, "what you say is right."
"Now what about the business of war?" I said. "How must your 468 c
soldiers behave toward one another and the enemies? Is the way it
looks to me right or not?"
"Just tell me," he said, "what that is."
"If one of them," I said, "leaves the ranks or throws away his
arms, or does anything of the sort because of cowardice, mustn't he be
demoted to craftsman or farmer?"
[ 147 ]
glaucon/socbates THE REPUBLlp
468 a "Most certainly."
"And the man who's taken ahve by the enemy, won't we give him
as a gift to those who took him, to use their catch as they wish?"
h "Exactly."
"Is it or isn't it your opinion that the man who has proved best
and earned a good reputation must first be crowned by each of those
who made the campaign with him, youths and boys in turn?"
"It surely is."
"And what about this? Must his right hand be shaken?"
"That too."
"But I suppose," I said, "you wouldn't go so far as to accept this
further opinion."
"What?"
"That he kiss and be kissed by each."
"Most of all," he said. "And I add to the law that as long as they
c are on that campaign no one whom he wants to kiss be permitted to
refuse, so that if a man happens to love someone, either male or female,
he would be more eager to win the rewards of valor."
"Fine," I said. "That marriages will be more readily available for
a man who's good than for the others, and that he will frequently be
chosen for that sort of thing in preference to the others, so that the most
children will be born of such a man, has already been said."
"Yes," he said, "we did say that."
"Further, according to Homer too, it's just to honor in such ways
d whoever is good among the young. For Homer said that Ajax, when he
earned a good reputation in the war, 'received as prize the whole back-
bone,' as though the honor appropriate for a man who is in the bloom of
youth and courageous is that by which he will at the same time be
honored and increase his strength.''^^
"Quite right," he said.
"Therefore we'll believe Homer in this at least," I said. "And at
sacrifices and all such occasions we'll honor the good, insofar as they
have shown themselves to be good, with hymns and the things we were
mentioning just now and, besides that, with 'seats and meats and full
e cups,'29 so that we'll give the good men and women what is con-
ducive to their training at the same time as honoring them."
"What you say," he said, "is quite fine."
"All right. As for those who die on a campaign, won't we first say
that the man who died in earning a good reputation is a member of the
golden class?"3<*
"Most of all."
"Won't we believe Hesiod that when any of that class die.
[ 148 ]
Book V / 468a-469e socjiATEs/GLAucof
They become holy demons dwelling on earth, 469
Good, warders-off of evil, guardians of humans
endowed with speech?"^!
"We certainly will believe him."
"We'll inquire, therefore, of the god hovi? the demonic and divine
beings should be buried and with what distinction, and we'll bury them
as he indicates."
"Of course we shall."
"And for the rest of time well care for their tombs and worship at
them as at those of demons. And we'll make the same conventions for
any one of those who have been judged exceptionally good in life when
dying of old age or in some other way."
"That is only just," he said.
"And what about this? How will our soldiers deal with enemies?"
"In what respect?"
"First, as to enslavement: which seems just, that Greek cities
enslave Greeks; or that they, insofar as possible, not even allow another
city to do it but make it a habit to spare the Greek stock, well aware of
the danger of enslavement at the hands of the barbarians?"
"Sparing them," he said, "is wholly and entirely superior."
"And, therefore, that they not themselves possess a Greek as
slave, and give the same advice to the other Greeks?"
"Most certainly," he said. "At any rate in that way they would be
more inclined to turn to the barbarians and keep off one another."
"What about this?" I said. "When they win, is it a fine practice to
strip the dead of anything more than their arms? Or doesn't it provide a
pretext for cowards not to attack the man who's still fighting, as though
they were doing something necessary in poking around the dead, while
many an army before now has been lost as a consequence of this plun-
dering?"
"Quite so."
"Doesn't it seem illiberal and greedy to plunder a corpse, and the
mark of a small, womanish mind to hold the enemy to be the body of
the dead enemy who's flown away and left behind that with which he
fought? Or do you suppose that the men who do this are any different
from the dogs who are harsh with the stones thrown at them but don't
touch the one who is throwing them?"
"Not in the least," he said.
"They must, therefore, leave off stripping corpses and prevent-
ing their recovery?"
"Yes indeed," he said, "they must, by Zeus."
"And, further, we surely won't bring the arms to the temples as
[ 149 ]
Xa«ATEs/GLAUCON THEREPUBLlf)
69 e votive offerings, especially those of the Greeks, if we care at all about
70 a the good v\rill of the other Greeks. Rather well be afraid it would be a
defilement to bring such things from our kin to a temple, unless, of
course, the god should say otherwise."
"Quite right," he said.
"And what about ravaging the Greek countryside and burning
houses? What sort of thing will your soldiers do to the enemies?"
"I would be glad," he said, "to hear you present your opinion."
"Well, in my opinion," I said, "they'll do neither of these things,
h but they'll take away the year's harvest; and do you want me to tell you
why?"
"Certainly."
"It appears to me that just as two different names are used, war
and faction, so two things also exist and the names apply to differences
in these two. The two things I mean are, on the one hand, what is one's
own and akin, and what is alien, and foreign, on the other. Now the
name faction is applied to the hatred of one's own, war to the hatred of
the alien."
"What you're saying," he said, "is certainly not off the point."
c "Now see whether what I say next is also to the point. I assert that
the Greek stock is with respect to itself its own and akin, with respect
to the barbaric, foreign and alien."
"Yes," he said, "that is fine."
"Then when Greeks fight with barbarians and barbarians with
Greeks, well assert they are at war and are enemies^^ by nature,
and this hatred must be called war; while when Greeks do any such
thing to Greeks, we'll say that they are by nature friends, but in this
case Greece is sick and factious, and this kind of hatred must be called
d faction."
"I, for one," he said, "agree to consider it in that way."
"Now observe," I said, "in what is nowadays understood to be
faction, that wherever such a thing occurs and a city is split, if each
side wastes the fields and burns the houses of the others, it .seems that
the faction is a wicked thing and that the members of neither side are
lovers of their city. For, otherwise, they would never have dared to
ravage their nurse and mother. But it seems to be moderate for the vic-
e tors to take away the harvest of the vanquished, and to have the frame
of mind of men who will be reconciled and not always be at war."
"This frame of mind," he said, "belongs to far tamer men than the,
other."
"Now what about this?" I said. "Won't the city you are founding
be Greek?"
[ 150 ]
Book V / 469e-471d glaucon/socrates
"It must be," he said. 470 e
"Then won't they be good and tame?"
"Very much so."
"And won't they be lovers of the Greeks? Won't they consider
Greece their own and hold the common holy places along with the
other Greeks?"
"Very much so."
"Won't they consider differences with Greeks — ^their kin— to be 471 a
faction and not even use the name war?"
"Of course."
"And they will have their differences like men who, after all, will
be reconciled."
"Most certainly."
"Then they'll correct^^ their opponents in a kindly way, not
punishing them with a view to slavery or destruction, acting as correc-
tors, not enemies."
"That's what they'll do," he said.
"Therefore, as Greeks, they won't ravage Greece or bum houses,
nor will they agree that in any city all are their enemies— men, women,
and children— but that there are always a few enemies who are to
blame for the differences. And, on all these grounds, they won't be b
willing to ravage lands or tear down houses, since the many are
friendly; and they'll keep up the quarrel until those to blame are com-
pelled to pay the penalty by the blameless ones who are suffering."
"I for one," he said, "agree that our citizens must behave this way
toward their opponents; and toward the barbarians they must behave as
the Greeks do now toward one another."
"So, shall we also give this law to the guardians— neither waste
countryside nor bum houses?" c
"Let it be given," he said. "And this and what went before are
fine. But, Socrates, I think that if one were to allow you to speak about
this sort of thing, you would never remember what you previously set
aside in order to say all this. Is it possible for this regime to come
into being, and how is it ever possible? I see that, if it should come into
being, everything would be good for the city in which it came into be-
ing. And I can tell things that you leave out— namely, that they
would be best at fighting their enemies too because they would least d
desert one another, these men who recognize each other as brothers,
fathers, and sons and who call upon each other using these names. And
if the females join in the campaign too, either stationed in the line it-
seff, or in the rear, to frighten the enemies and in case there should ever
be any need of help— I know that with all this they would be un-
[ 151 ]
glaucon/socrates the R E P U B L T p
471 d beatable. And I see all the good things that they would have at home
e and are left out in your account. Take it that I agree that there would be
all these things and countless others if this regime should come into
being, and don't talk any more about it; rather, let's now only try to pgj.
suade ourselves that it is possible and how it is possible, dismissing all
the rest."
472 a "All of a sudden," I said, "you have, as it were, assaulted my
argument, and you have no sympathy for me and my loitering.34
Perhaps you don't know that when I've hardly escaped the two waves
you're now bringing the biggest and most difficult, the third wave.^s
When you see and hear it, you'll be quite sympathetic, recognizing that
it was, after all, fitting for me to hesitate and be afraid to speak and un-
dertake to consider so paradoxical an argument."
"The more you say such things," he said, "the less we'll let you off
b from telling how it is possible for this regime to come iiito being. So
speak, and don't waste time."
"Then," I said, "first it should be recalled that we got to this point
while seeking what justice and injustice are like."
"Yes, it should," he said. "But what of it?"
"Nothing. But if we find out what justice is like, will we also insist
that the just man must not differ at all from justice itself but in every
c way be such as it is? Or will we be content if he is nearest to it and par-
ticipates in it more than the others?"
"We'll be content with that," he said.
"It was, therefore, for the sake of a pattern," I said, "that we were
seeking both for what justice by itself is like, and for the perfectly just
man, if he should come into being, and what he would be like once
come into being; and, in their turns, for injustice and the most unjust
man. Thus, looking ofi" at what their relationships to happiness and its
opposite appear to us to be, we would also be compelled to agree in our
d own cases that the man who is most like them will have the portion
most like theirs. We were not seeking them for the sake of proving that
it's possible for these things to come into being."
"What you say is true," he said.
"Do you suppose a painter is any less good who draws a pattern of
what the fairest hiiman being would be like and renders everything in
the picture adequately, but can't prove that it's also possible that such a
man come into being?"
"No, by Zeus, I don't," he said.
"Then, what about this? Weren't we, as we assert, also making a
e pattern in speech of a good city?"
[ 152 ]
BookV 1 471d-473d
glaucon/socrate
"Certainly."
"Do you suppose that what we say is anv 1 ^'^^
our not being able to prove that it is possible t ^? ^^^ ^^ account of
as the one in speech?" **^""<^ a city the same
"Surely not," he said.
"Well, then, that's the truth of it," i 5^ i «
you I must also strive to prove how and under h '^ *^^" **^ gratify
be most possible, grant me the same points ^o^- r ** condition it would
;;What points? ' "^"^^ f^'- '^^ proof."
"Can anything be done as it is said? Or " •
to attain to less truth than speaking, even if s '^ ** nature of acting 473
Do you agree that it's so or not?" omeone doesn't think so?
"I do agree," he said.
"Then don't compel me necessarily to
being in every way in deed as we described j^^^^^"* '* *^ coming into
able to find that a city could be governed in a ^^ ^^^^^^^ ^"* ^ ^^ are
imating what has been said, say that we've T^^ ^^^^ closely approx-
these things coming into being on which you ^^ *^ possibility of
content if it turns out this way? I, for my nart *"?f; ^'' ^*^"'* ^^^ ^^
"I would, too," he said. ^^' ^""^^ be content."
"So, next, as it seems, we must try to s V
what is badly done in cities today, and thereb^ V ""* *"*^ demonstrate
governed in this way, and with what smallest^ \^^^^ *^^"^ ^*^"™ ^^'"^
if not, two, and, if not, the fewest in numbe "^^^'^^^'^^^^^^ °"^'
power — a city would come to this manner of re " ^" smallest in
"That's entirely certain, " he said.
"Well, then," I said, "with one change
an easy one, but possibl^-we can, in mv nJ^- however, a small or
be transformed." "Pmion, show that it would
"What change?" he said.
"Well here I am," I said, "coming to wh
gestwave. But it shall be said regardless, even if "^^ "'^^"^^ ^^ ^^^ ^ig-
wave, it's going to drown me in laughter and ill ' ^^^^"^ ^^^^ ^ uproarious
going to say." repute. Consider what I am
"Speak," he said.
"Unless," I said, "the philosophers rul
called kings and chiefs genuinely and ade ^ ^^ kings or those now
political power and philosophy coincidese ^^^l^^ philosophize, and
the many natures now making their way to eith ^^™^ V^^^^, while
are by necessity excluded, there is no rest f ^""^^P^rt from the other
dear Glaucon, nor I think for human kind r. ^"^ ^ ^"^^ *^^ ^'*'^^' "^^
"''*' "«>" Will the regime we have
[ 153]
rBATES/cLAUCON
THE REPUBLlc|)fcvi
'3 e now described in speech ever come forth from nature, insofar as possi-iti^ a sal
ble, and see the hght of the sun. This is what for so long was causing is 'ki^
my hesitation to speak: seeing how very paradoxical it would be to say^ dark^]
For it is hard to see that in no other city would there be private or| ^^^ tK|
public happiness." brk of i
And he said, "Socrates, what a phrase and argument you have let'd easil^
burst out. Now that it's said, you can believe that very many men, and word, ^
'4 a not ordinary ones, will on the spot throw off their clothes, and stripped jpressiqi
for action, taking hold of whatever weapon falls under the hand of i>uth." J
each, run full speed at you to do wonderful deeds. If you don't defend "If yS
yourself with speech and get away, you'll really pay the penalty in e" do;a
scorn. Ana
"Isn't it you," I said, "that's responsible for this happening to '^ sanig|
me?"
"And it's a fine thing I'm doing," he said. "But no, I won't betray
you, and I'll defend you with what I can. I can provide good will and
encouragement; and perhaps I would answer you more suitably than
h another. And so, with the assurance of such support, try to show the
disbelievers that it is as you say."
"It must be tried," I said, "especially since you offer so great an
alliance. It's necessary, in my opinion, if we are somehow going to get
away from the men you speak of, to distinguish for them whom we
mean when we dare to assert the philosophers must rule. Thus, when
they have come plainly to light, one will be able to defend oneself,
c showing that it is by nature fitting for them both to engage in philoso-
phy and to lead a city, and for the rest not to engage in philosophy and
to follow the leader."
"It would be high time," he said, "to distinguish them."
"Come, now, follow me here, if we are somehow or other to set it
forth adequately."
"Lead," he said.
"Will you need to be reminded," I said, "or do you remember that
when we say a man loves something, if it is rightly said of him, he
mustn't show a love for one part of it and not for another, but must
cherish all of it?"
d "I need reminding, as it seems," he said. "For I scarcely under-
stand."
"It was proper for another, Glaucon, to say what you're saying," I
said. "But it's not proper for an erotic man to forget that all boys in the
bloom of youth in one way or another put their sting in an erotic lover
of boys and arouse him; all seem worthy of attention and delight. Or
don't you people behave that way with the fair? You praise the boy
retextWl
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[ 154 ]
Book V / 473e-475d socrates/glaucon
with a snub nose by calling him 'cute'; the hook-nose of another you 474 d
say is 'kingly'; and the boy between these two is 'well proportioned'; e
the dark look 'manly'; and the white are 'children of gods.' And
as for the 'honey-colored,' do you suppose their very name is the
work of anyone other than a lover who renders sallowness endearing
and easily puts up with it if it accompanies the bloom of youth? And, in
a word, you people take advantage of every excuse and employ any
expression so as to reject none of those who glow with the bloom of 475 a
youth."
"If you want to point to me while you speak about what erotic
men do," he said, "I agree for the sake of the argument."
"And what about this?" I said. "Don't you see wine-lovers doing
the same thing? Do they delight in every kind of wine, and on every
pretext?"
"Indeed, they do."
"And further, I suppose you see that lovers of honor, if they can't
become generals, are lieutenants,^'^ and if they can't be honored by
greater and more august men, are content to be honored by lesser and h
more ordinary men because they are desirers of honor as a whole."
"That's certainly the case."
"Then affirm this or deny it: when we say a man is a desirer of
something, will we assert that he desires all of that form, or one part of
it and not another?"
"All," he said.
"Won't we also then assert that the philosopher is a desirer of
wisdom, not of one part and not another, but of all of it?"
Irue.
"We'll deny, therefore, that the one who's finicky about his learn-
ing, especially when he's young and doesn't yet have an account of c
what's useful and not, is a lover of learning or a philosopher, just as we
say that the man who's finicky about his food isn't hungry, doesn't
desire food, and isn't a lover of food but a bad eater."
"And we'll be right in denying it."
"But the one who is willing to taste every kind of learning with
gusto, and who approaches learning with delight, and is insatiable, we
shall justly assert to be a philosopher, won't we?"
And Glaucon said, 'Then you'll have many strange ones. For all d
the lovers of sights are in my opinion what they are because they enjoy
learning; and the lovers of hearing would be some of the strangest to
include among philosophers, those who would never be willing to go
voluntarily to a discussion and such occupations but who— just as
though they had hired out their ears for hearing— run around to every
[ 155 ]
glaucon/socrates the REPUBLIp
475 d chorus at the Dionysia, missing none in the cities or the villages. 38
Will we say that all these men and other learners of such things and the
e petty arts are philosophers?"
"Not at all," I said, "but they are like philosophers."
"Who do you say are the true ones?" he said.
"The lovers of the sight of the truth," I said.
"And that's right," he said. "But how do you mean it?"
"It wouldn't be at all easy to tell someone else. But you, I sup-
pose, will grant me this."
"What?"
"Since fair is the opposite of ugly, they are two."
476 a "Of course."
"Since they are two, isn't each also one? "
"That is so as well."
"The same argument also applies then to justice and injustice,
good and bad, and all the forms; each is itself one, but, by showing up
everywhere in a community with actions, bodies, and one another,
each is an apparitional many. "
"What you say," he said, "is right."
"Well, now," I said, "this is how I separate them out. On one side
I put those of whom you were just speaking, the lovers of sights, the
lovers of arts, and the practical men; on the other, those whom the argu-
b ment concerns, whom alone one could rightly call philosophers."
"How do you mean? " he said.
"The lovers of hearing and the lovers of sights, on the one hand,"
I said, "surely delight in fair sounds and colors and shapes and all that
craft makes from such things, but their thought is unable to see and
delight in the nature of the fair itself "
"That," he said, "is certainly so."
"Wouldn't, on the other hand, those who are able to approach the
fair itself and see it by itself be rare? "
c "Indeed they would."
"Is the man who holds that there are fair things but doesn't hold
that there is beauty itself and who, if someone leads him to the
knowledge of it, isn't able to follow — is he, in your opinion, living in a
dream or is he awake? Consider it. Doesn't dreaming, whether one is
asleep or awake, consist in believing a likeness of something to be not a
likeness, but rather the thing itself to which it is like? "
"I, at least, " he said, "would say that a man who does that
dreams."
"And what about the man who, contrary to this, believes that
d there is something fair itself and is able to catch sight both of it and of
what participates in it, and doesn't believe that what participates is it
[ 156 ]
Book V I 475d-477b socrates/glaucon
itself, nor that it itself is what participates— is he, in your opinion, liv- 476 d
ing in a dream or is he awake?"
"He's quite awake," he said.
"Wouldn't we be right in saying that this man's thought, because he
knows, is knowledge, while the other's is opinion because he opines?"
"Most certainly."
"What if the man of whom we say that he opines but doesn't
know, gets harsh with us and disputes the truth of what we say? Will we
have some way to soothe and gently persuade him, while hiding from e
him that he's not healthy?"
"We surely have to have a way, at least," he said.
"Come, then, and consider what we'll say to him. Or do you want
us to question him in this way — ^saying that if he does know something,
it's not begrudged him, but that we would be delighted to see he knows
something— but tell us this: Does the man who knows, know something
or nothing? You answer me on his behalf"
"I'll answer," he said, "that he knows something."
"Is it something that t^ or is not?"
"That is. How could what t^ not be known at all?" 477 a
"So, do we have an adequate grasp of the fact— even if we should
consider it in many ways— that what t^ entirely, is entirely knowable;
and what in no way is, is in every way unknowable?"
"Most adequate."
"All right. Now if there were something such as both to be and
not to be, wouldn't it lie between what purely and simply t^ and what in
no way is?"
"Yes, it would be between."
"Since knowledge depended on what is and ignorance necessarily
on what is not, mustn't we also seek something between ignorance and
knowledge that depends on that which is in between, if there is in fact
any such thing?" b
"Most certainly."
"Do we say opinion is something?"
"Of course."
"A power^^ different from knowledge or the same?"
"Different."
"Then opinion is dependent on one thing and knowledge on
another, each according to its own power."
Thats so.
"Doesn't knowledge naturally depend on what is, to know of what
is that it is and how it is? However, in my opinion, it's necessary to
make this distinction first."
"What distinction?"
[ 157 ]
socrates/glaucon the REPUBLjq
477 c "We will assert that powers are a certain class of beings by means
of which we are capable of what we are capable, and also everything
else is capable of whatever it is capable. For example, I say sight and
hearing are powers, if perchance you understand the form of which \
wish to speak."
"I do understand," he said.
"Now listen to how they look to me. In a power I see no color or
shape or anything of the sort such as I see in many other things to
which I look when I distinguish one thing from another for myself.
d With a power I look only to this— on what it depends and what it ac-
complishes; and it is on this basis that I come to call each of the powers
a power; and that which depends on the same thing and accomplishes
the same thing, I call the same power, and that which depends on
something else and accomplishes something else, I call a different
power. What about you? What do you do?"
"The same," he said.
"Now, you best of men, come back here to knowledge again. Do
you say it's some kind of power, or in what class do you put it?"
"In this one," he said, "as the most vigorous of all powers."
e "And what about opinion? Is it among the powers, or shall we
refer it to some other form?"
"Not at all," he said. "For that by which we are capable of
opining is nothing other than opinion."
"But just a little while ago you agreed that knowledge and opinion
are not the same."
"How," he said, "could any intelligent man count that which
doesn't make mistakes the same as that which does?"
478 a "Firie," I said, "and we plainly agree that opinion is different
from knowledge."
"Yes, it is different."
"Since each is capable of something different, are they, therefore,
naturally dependent on different things?"
"Necessarily."
"Knowledge is presumably dependent on what is, to know of what
is that it is and how it is?"
"Yes."
"While opinion, we say, opines."
Yes.
"The same thing that knowledge knows? And will the knowable
and the opinable be the same? Or is that impossible?"
"On the basis of what's been agreed to, it's impossible," he said.
"If different powers are naturally dependent on different things and
[ 158 ]
Book V I 477c-478d glaucon/socrates
both are powers— opinion and knowledge — and each is, as we say, dif- 478 h
ferent, then on this basis it's not admissible that the knowable and the
opinable be the same."
"If what is, is knowable, then wouldn't something other than that
which is be opinable?"
"Yes, it would be something other."
"Then does it opine what is not? Or is it also impossible to opine
what is not? Think about it. Doesn't the man who opines refer his opin-
ion to something? Or is it possible to opine, but to opine nothing?"
"No, it's impossible."
"The man who opines, opines some one thing?"
"Yes."
"But further, that which is not could not with any correctness be
addressed as some one thing but rather nothing at all." c
"Certainly."
"To that which is not, we were compelled to assign ignorance, and
to that which is, knowledge."
"Right," he said.
"Opinion, therefore, opines neither that which is nor that which is
not."
"No, it doesn't."
"Opinion, therefore, would be neither ignorance nor knowledge?"
"It doesn't seem so."
"Is it, then, beyond these, surpassing either knowledge in clarity
or ignorance in obscurity?"
"No, it is neither."
"Does opinion," I said, "look darker than knowledge to you and
brighter than ignorance?"
"Very much so," he said.
"And does it lie within the limits set by these two?" d
"Yes."
"Opinion, therefore, would be between the two."
"That's entirely certain."
"Weren't we saying before that if something should come to light
as what is and what is not at the same time, it lies between that which
purely and simply is and that which in every way is not, and that
neither knowledge nor ignorance will depend on it, but that which in its
turn comes to light between ignorance and knowledge?"
"Right."
"And now it is just that which we call opinion that has come to
light between them."
"Yes, that is what has come to light."
[ 159 ]
SOCRATES /glaucon THE REPUBLiQ
478 e "Hence, as it seems, it would remain for us to find what par-
ticipates in both — in to he and not to he — and could not correctly he
addressed as either purely and simply, so that, if it comes to light, we
can justly address it as the opinable, thus assigning the extremes to the
extremes and that which is in between to that which is in between. Isn't
that so?"
"Yes, it is."
"Now, with this taken for granted, let him tell me, I shall say, and
479 a let him answer— that good man who doesn't believe that there is any-
thing fair in itself and an idea of the beautiful itself, which always stays
the same in all respects, but does hold that there are many fair things,
this lover of sights who can in no way endure it if anyone asserts the
fair is one and the just is one and so on with the rest. 'Now, of these
many fair things, you best of men,' we'll say, 'is there any that won't
also look ugly? And of the just, any that won't look unjust? And of the
holy, any that won't look unholy?""
b "No," he said, "but it's necessary that they look somehow both
fair and ugly, and so it is with all the others you ask about."
"And what about the many doubles? Do they look any less half
than double?"
"No."
"And, then, the things that we would assert to be big and little,
light and heavy— will they be addressed by these names any more than
by the opposites of these names?"
"No," he said, "each will always have something of both."
"Then is each of the several manys what one asserts it to be any
more than it is not what one asserts it to be?"
"They are like the ambiguous jokes at feasts," he said, "and the
c children's riddle about the eunuch, about his hitting the bat— with
what and on what he struck it.*" For the manys are also ambiguous,
and it's not possible to think of them fixedly as either being or not
being, or as both or neither."
"Can you do anything with them?" I said. "Or could you find a
finer place to put them than between being and not to be? For pre-
sumably nothing darker than not -being will come to light so that some-
thing could not he more than it; and nothing brighter than being will
d come to light so that something could he more than it."
"Very true," he said.
"Then we have found, as it seems, that the many beliefs*' of
the many about what's fair and about the other things roll around*^
somewhere between not-being and being purely and simply."
"Yes, we have found that."
[ 160 ]
Book V I 478e-480a socrates/glaucon
"And we agreed beforehand that, if any such thing should come to 479 d
Hght, it must be called opinable but not knowable, the wanderer be-
tween, seized by the power between."
"Yes, we did agree."
"And, as for those who look at many fair things but don't see the e
fair itself and aren't even able to follow another who leads them to it,
and many just things but not justice itself, and so on with all the rest,
we'll assert that they opine all these things but know nothing of what
they opine."
"Necessarily," he said.
"And what about those who look at each thing itself— at the
things that are always the same in all respects? Won't we say that they
know and don't opine?"
"That too is necessary."
"Won't we assert that these men delight in and love that on which
knowledge depends, and the others that on which opinion depends? Or 480 a
don't we remember that we were saying that they love and look at fair
sounds and colors and such things but can't even endure the fact that
the fair itself is something?"
"Yes, we do remember."
"So, will we strike a false note in calling them lovers of opinion
rather than lovers of wisdom? And will they be very angry with us if we
speak this way?"
"No," he said, "that is, if they are persuaded by me. For it's not
lawful to be harsh with what's true."
"Must we, therefore, call philosophers rather than lovers of opin-
ion those who delight in each thing that is itself?"
"That's entirely certain."
[ 161 ]
BOOK VI
"And so, Glaucon," I said, "through a somewhat lengthy argu- ^^^ ^
ment, who the philosophers are and who the nonphilosophers has, with
considerable effort, somehow been brought to light."
"Perhaps," he said, "that's because it could not easily have been
done through a short one."
"It doesn't look like it," I said. "Still, in my opinion at least, it
would have been better done if this were the only question that had to
be treated, and there weren't many things left to treat for one who is go-
ing to see what the difference is between the just life and the unjust one."
"What's after this for us?" he said. b
"What else but what's next?" I said. "Since philosophers are those
who are able to grasp what is always the same in all respects, while
those who are not able to do so but wander among what is many and
varies in all ways are not philosophers, which should be the leaders of a
city?"
"How should we put it so as to speak sensibly?" he said.
"Those who look as if they're capable of guarding the laws and
practices of cities should be established as guardians." c
"Right," he said.
"But is it plain," I said, "whether it's a blind guardian ot a sharp-
sighted one who ought to keep watch over anything?"
"Of course it's plain," he said.
[ 163 ]
socrates/glaucon THEREPUBLIC
484 c "Well, does there seem to be any difference, then, between blind
men and those men who are really deprived of the knowledge of what
each thing is; those who have no clear pattern in the soul, and are
hence unable— after looking off, as painters do, toward what is truest,
d and ever referring to it and contemplating it as precisely as
possible— to give laws about what is fine, just, and good, if any need to
be given, and as guardians to preserve those that are already estab-
lished?"
"No, by Zeus," he said, "there isn't much difference."
"Shall we set these men up as guardians rather than those who not
only know what each thing is but also don't lack experience or fall
short of the others in any other part of virtue?"
"It would be strange to choose others," he said, "if, that is, these
men don't lack the rest. For the very thing in which they would have
the advantage is just about the most important."
485 a "Then shouldn't we say how the same men will be able to possess
these two distinct sets of qualities?"
"Most certainly."
"Well, then, as we were saying at the beginning of this argument,
first their nature must be thoroughly understood. And, I suppose, if we
should come to an adequate agreement about that, we'll also agree that
the same men will be able to possess both and that there should be no
other leaders of cities than these."
"How shall we do it?"
"About philosophic natures, let's agree that they are always in
b love with that learning which discloses to them something of the being
that is always and does not wander about, driven by generation and de-
cay."
"Yes, let's agree to that."
"And, further," I said, "that just like the lovers of honor and the
erotic men we described before, they love all of it and don't willingly
let any part go, whether smaller or bigger, more honorable or more
contemptible."
"What you say is right," he said.
"Well, next consider whether it is necessary in addition that those
who are going to be such as we were saying have this further charac-
c teristic in their nature."
"What?"
"No taste for falsehood; that is, they are completely unwilling to
admit what's false but hate it, while cherishing the truth."
"It's likely," he said.
"It's not only likely, my friend, but also entirely necessary that a
[ 164 ]
Book VI / 484c-486b socrates/glaucon
man who is by nature erotically disposed toward someone care for 485 c
everything related and akin to his boy/'^
"Right," he said.
"Now could you find anything more akin to wisdom than truth?"
"Of course not," he said.
"Now is it possible that the same nature be both a lover of wisdom
and a lover of falsehood?" d
"In no way."
"Therefore the man who is really a lover of learning must from
youth on strive as intensely as possible for every kind of truth."
"Entirely so."
"But, further, we surely know that when someone's desires incline
strongly to some one thing, they are therefore weaker with respect to
the rest, like a stream that has been channeled off in that other direc-
tion."
"Of course."
"So, when in someone they have flowed toward learning and all
that's like it, 1 suppose they would be concerned with the pleasure of
the soul itself with respect to itself and would forsake those pleasures
that come through the body— if he isn't a counterfeit but a true
philosopher." e
"That is most necessary."
"Such a man is, further, moderate and in no way a lover of mon-
. ey. Money and the great expense that accompanies it are pursued for
the sake of things that any other man rather than this one is likely to
take seriously."
"That's so."
"And you too must of course also consider something else when 486 a
you're going to judge whether a nature is philosophic or not."
"What?"
"You mustn't let its partaking in illiberality get by you unnoticed.
For petty speech is of course most opposite to a soul that is always
going to reach out for the whole and for everything divine and hu-
man."
"Very true," he said.
"To an understanding endowed with magnificence^ and the con-
templation of all time and all being, do you think it possible that hu-
man life seem anything great?"
"Impossible," he said.
"Won't such a man also beheve that death is not something terri- b
bier
"Not in the least."
[ 165 1
socrates/glaucon THEREPUBLjI
486 b ' "So, a cowardly and illiberal nature would not, as it seems, na '^
ticipate in true philosophy." |
"Not in my opinion." |
"What then? Is there any way in which the orderly man, who isn't ^
a lover of money, or illiberal, or a boaster, or a coward, could become
hard-bargainer or unjust?"
"There isn't."
"And further, when you are considering whether a soul is
philosophic or not, you'll also take into consideration whether, from
youth on, it is both just and tame or hard to be a partner with and
savage."
"Most certainly."
c "And you won't leave this out either, I suppose."
"What?"
"Whether he learns well or with difficulty. Or do you ever expect
anyone would care sufficiently for a thing that, when he does it, he does
painfully, accomplishing little with much effort?"
"That could not be."
"And what if he were able to preserve nothing of what he learns,
being full of forgetfulness? Would it be possible he be not empty of
knowledge?"
"Of course not."
"So, toiling without profit, don't you suppose he'll finally be com-
pelled to hate both himself and an activity of this sort?"
"Of course."
d "Let us never, then, admit a forgetful soul into the ranks of those
that are adequately philosophic; in our search, let us rather demand a
soul with a memory."
"Most certainly."
"Further, we would deny that what has an unmusical and
graceless nature is drawn in any direction other than that of want of
measure."^
"Of course."
"Do you believe that truth is related to want of measure or to
measure?"
"To measure."
"Then, besides the other things, let us seek for an understanding
endowed by nature with measure and charm, one whose nature grows
by itself in such a way as to make it easily led to the idea of each thing
that is."
"Of course."
e "What then? Have we, in your opinion, gone through particular
qualities that are in any way unnecessary and inconsequent to one
[ 166 ]
Book VI / 486b-488a socrates/glaucon/adetmantus
another in a soul that is going to partake adequately and perfectly in 486 e
what is?"
"They are," he said, "certainly most necessary." 487 a
"Is there any way, then, in which you could blame a practice like
this that a man colild never adequately pursue if he were not by nature
a rememberer, a good learner, magnificent, charming, and a friend and
kinsman of truth, justice, courage, and moderation?"
"Not even Momus,"^ he said, "could blame a practice like that."
"When such men," I said, "are perfected by education and age,
wouldn't you turn the city over to them alone?"
And Adeimantus said: "Socrates, no one could contradict you in b
this. But here is how those who hear what you now say are affected on
each occasion. They believe that because of inexperience at question-
ing and answering, they are at each question misled a little by the argu-
ment; and when the littles are collected at the end of the arguments, the
slip turns out to be great and contrary to the first assertions. And just as
those who aren't clever at playing draughts are finally checked by those
who are and don't know where to move, so they too are finally checked c
by this other kind of draughts, played not with counters but speeches,
and don't know what to say. However, the truth isn't in any way af-
fected by this. In saying this, I look to the present case. Now someone
might say that in speech he can't contradict you at each particular thing
asked, but in deed he sees that of all those who start out on
philosophy— not those who take it up for the sake of getting educated
when they are young and then drop it, but those who linger in it for a d
longer time— most become quite queer, not to say completely vicious;
while the ones who seem perfectly decent, do nevertheless suffer at
least one consequence of the practice you are praising — they become
useless to the cities."
And when I heard this, I said: "Do you suppose that the men who
say this are lying?"
"I don't know," he said, "but I should gladly hear your opinion."
"You would hear that it looks to me as if they were speaking the
truth."
"Then, how," he said, "can it be good to say that the cities will e
have no rest from evils before the philosophers, whom we agree to be
useless to the cities, rule in them?"
"The question you are asking," I said, "needs an answer given
through an image."^
"And you, in particular," he said, "I suppose, aren't used to
speaking through images."
"All right," I said. "Are you making fun of me after having in-
volved me in an argument so hard to prove? At all events, listen to the 488 i
[ 167 ]
socbates/adeimantus the REPUBLIq
"■•3
488 a image so you may see still more how greedy I am for images. So hard is
the condition suffered by the most decent men with respect to the cities
that there is no single other condition like it, but I must make my
image and apology on their behalf by bringing it together from many
sources— as the painters paint goatstags and such things by making
mixtures. Conceive something of this kind happening either on many
ships or one. Though the shipowner surpasses everyone on board in
b height and strength, he is rather deaf and likewise somewhat
shortsighted, and his knowledge of seamanship is pretty much on the
same level. The sailors are quarreling with one another about the pilot-
ing, each supposing he ought to pilot, although he has never learned the
art and can't produce his teacher or prove there was a time when he
was learning it. Besides this, they claim it isn't even teachable and are
ready to cut to pieces the man who says it is teachable. And they are al-
ways crowded around the shipowner himself, begging and doing every-
c thing so that he'll turn the rudder over to them. And sometimes, if they
fail at persuasion and other men succeed at it, they either kill the others
or throw them out of the ship. Enchaining the noble shipowner with
mandrake, drink, or something else, they rule the ship, using what's in
it; and drinking and feasting, they sail as such men would be thought
likely to sail. Besides this, they praise and call 'skilled sailor,' 'pilot,'
d and 'knower of the ship's business' the man who is clever at figuring out
how they will get the rule, either by persuading or by forcing the
shipowner, while the man who is not of this sort they blame as use-
less. They don't know that for the true pilot it is necessary to pay
careful attention to year, seasons, heaven, stars, winds, and every-
thing that's proper to the art, if he is really going to be skilled at rul-
e ing a ship. And they don't suppose it's possible to acquire the art and
practice of how one can get hold of the helm whether the others
wish it or not, and at the same time to acquire the pilot's skill. So
with such things happening on the ships, don't you believe that the
489 a true pilot will really be called a stargazer,^ a prater and useless to
them by those who sail on ships run like this?"
"Indeed, he will," said Adeimantus.
"Now," I said, "I don't suppose you need to scrutinize the image
to see that it resembles the cities in their disposition toward the true
philosophers, but you understand what I mean."
"Indeed, I do," he said.
"First of all, then, teach the image to that man who wonders at the
philosophers' not being honored in the cities, and try to persuade him
b that it would be far more to be wondered at if they were honored."
"I shall teach him," he said.
[ i68 ]
Book VI / 488a-490h socrates/adeimantus
"And, further, that you are telling the truth in saying that the most 489 h
decent of those in philosophy are useless to the many. However, bid
him blame their uselessness on those who don't use them and not on the
decent men. For it's not natural that a pilot beg sailors to be ruled by
him nor that the wise go to the doors of the rich. The man who in-
vented that subtlety lied.'^ The truth naturally is that it is necessary
for a man who is sick, whether rich or poor, to go to the doors of doc-
tors, and every man who needs to be ruled to the doors of the man who c
is able to rule, not for the ruler who is truly of any use to beg the ruled
to be ruled. You'll make no mistake in imagining the statesmen now
ruling to be the sailors we were just now speaking of, and those who are
said by them to be useless and gossipers about what's above to be the
true pilots."
"Quite right," he said.
"Well, then, on this basis and under these conditions, it's not easy
for the best pursuit to enjoy a good reputation with those who practice
the opposite. But by far the greatest and most powerful slander^ comes d
to philosophy from those who claim to practice such things— those
about whom you say philosophy's accuser asserts that, most of those
who go to it are completely vicious and the most decent useless,' and I
admitted that what you say is true. Isn't that so7'
"Yes."
"Haven't we gone through the cause of the uselessness of the de-
cent ones?"
"Yes indeed."
"Do you want us next to go through the necessity of the
viciousness of the many and to try to show, if we are able, that philoso-
phy isn't to blame for that?" i
"Most certainly."
"Then, let us begin our listening and speaking by reminding our-
selves of the point at which we started our description of the kind of
nature with which the man who is to be a gentleman is necessarily en-
dowed. First, if it's present to your mind, truth guided him, and he had 490
to pursue it entirely and in every way or else be a boaster who in no
way partakes of true philosophy."
"Yes, that was said."
"Now isn't this one point quite contrary to the opinions currently
held about him?"
"Very much so" he said.
"So then, won't we make a sensible apology in saying that it is the
nature of the real lover of learning to strive for what is; and he does not
tarry by each of the many things opined to be but goes forward and
[ 169 ]
socbates/adeimantus the R E P U R T t ^
490 b does not lose the keenness of his passionate love nor cease from it
before he grasps the nature itself of each thing which is with the part of
the soul fit to grasp a thing of that sort; and it is the part akin to it that
is fit. And once near it and coupled with what really is, having begotten
intelligence and truth, he knows and lives truly, is nourished and so
ceases from his labor pains, but not before."^
"Nothing," he said, "could be more sensible."
"What then? Will this man have any part in caring for falsehood
or, all to the contrary, will he hate it?"
c "Hell hate it," he said.
"If truth led the way, we wouldn't, I suppose, ever assert a
chorusi*^ of evils could follow it?"
"Of course not."
"But a healthy and just disposition, which is also accompanied by
moderation."
"Right," he said.
"Why, then, must I also force the rest of the philosophic nature's
chorus into order all over again from the beginning? You surely re-
member that, appropriate to these, courage, magnificence, facility at
learning, and memory went along with them. And you objected, saying
d that everyone would be forced to agree to what we are saying, but if
they let the arguments go and looked to the men themselves whom the
argument concerns, they would say they see that some of them are
useless and the many bad, possessing vice entire. In considering the
cause of the slander, we've come now to this point: why are the many
bad? And it's for just this reason that we brought up the nature of the
true philosophers again and defined what it necessarily is."
e "That's so," he said.
"Then we must," I said, "look at the corruptions of this nature
and see how it is destroyed in many, while a small number escape— just
those whom they call not vicious but useless. And after that, in turn, we
491 a must look at the natures of the souls that imitate the philosophic nature
and set themselves up in its practice, and see what sort they are who
approach a practice that is of no value for them and beyond them, and
who often strike false notes, thereby attaching to philosophy every-
where and among all men a reputation such as you say."
"What corruptions do you mean?" he said.
"I shall try," I said, "if I am able, to go through them for you.
Now I suppose everybody will agree with us about this. Such a
nature— possessing eveiything we prescribed just now for the man who
is going to become a perfect philosopher — such natures are few and
b born only rarely among human beings. Or don't you suppose so?"
[ 170 ]
Book VI / 490b-492a
•^^eimantus/sochat
491
"Indeed, I do."
"Now consider how many great sources of ruin there are fo i-V>
few."
"Just what are they?"
"What is most surprising of all to hear is that each one of th 1
ments we praised in that nature has a part in destroying the so 1 l.
has them and tearing it away from philosophy, j mean
moderation, and everything we went through." ^®'
"Yes," he said, "that is strange to hear."
"And what's more," I said, "besides these, all the things s "rl i,
goods corrupt it and tear it away— beauty, wealth, strength f K j ^
relatives who are powerful in a city, and everything akin to th v ^'
see the type of thing 1 mean?" " "
"I do," he said, "and 1 would gladly learn more nrpoic- i v
^ ^'-isejy what
you mean.
"Well, then," I said, "grasp it correctly as a whole, and it wll l
perfectly plain to you, and what was said about them before w '
strange." seem
"What do you bid me do?" he said.
"Concerning every seed or thing that grows, whether f v,
earth or animals," 1 said, "we know that the more vigorous t • v.^
more it is deficient in its own properties when it doesn't get th f ^
climate, or place suitable to it. For surely bad is more onnncorl <.
than to not-good." i^POsed to good
"Of course."
"So I suppose it is reasonable that the best nature cnmac a-
,, J. r . . . . „ ^""'es ott worse
than an ordmary one from an inappropriate rearing.
"Yes, it is."
"Won't we say for souls too, Adeimantus," I said, "that s' 1
those with the best natures become exceptionally bad when tVi
bad instruction? Or do you suppose an ordinaiy nature is the f
great injustices and unmixed villainy? Don't you suppose rath v.
it's a lusty one corrupted by its rearing, while a weak nature wll '
be the cause of great things either good or bad?"
"Yes." he said, "that's the case."
"Well, then, I suppose that if the nature we set down f h
philosopher chances on a suitable course of learning, it will ne
grow and come to every kind of virtue; but if it isn't sown nla t rl ^
nourished in what's suitable, it will come to all the opposite 1 '
of the gods chances to assist it. Or do you too believe as riA i-u ^
.1 . 11 > tii uo the manv
that certain young men are corrupted by sophists, and that tVi
certain sophists who in a private capacity corrupt to an ext t v.
[ 171 ]
socrates/adeimantus the REPUBLIQ
492 a mentioning? Isn't it rather the very men who say this who are the big.
h gest sophists, who educate most perfectly and who turn out young and
old, men and women, just the way they want them to be?"
"But when do they do that?" he said.
"When," I said, "many gathered together sit down in assemblies
courts, theaters, army camps, or any other common meeting of a mul-
titude, and, with a great deal of uproar, blame some of the things said
or done, and praise others, both in excess, shouting and clapping; and
c besides, the rocks and the very place surrounding them echo and redou-
ble the uproar of blame and praise. Now in such circumstances, as the
saying goes, what do you suppose is the state of the young man's heart?
Or what kind of private education will hold out for him and not be
swept away by such blame and praise and go, borne by the flood,
wherever it tends so that he'll say the same things are noble and base as
they do, practice what they practice, and be such as they are?"
d "The necessity is great, Socrates," he said.
"And yet," I said, "we still haven't mentioned the greatest
necessity."
"What?" he said.
"What these educators and sophists inflict in deed when they fail
to persuade in speech. Or don't you know that they punish the man
who's not persuaded with dishonor, fines, and death?"
"Yes," he said, "they punish very severely."
"So, what other sophist or what sort of private speeches do you
suppose will go counter to these and prevail?"
e "I don't suppose any will," he said.
"No," I said, "but even the attempt is a great folly. For, a charac-
ter receiving an education contrary to theirs does not, has not, and will
not become differently disposed toward virtue, a human character that
is, my comrade; for the divine, according to the proverb, let's make an
exception to the argument. You should be well aware that, if anything
493 a should be saved and become such as it ought to be in regimes in this
kind of condition, it won't be bad if you say that a god's dispensation
saved it."
"I am of no other opinion," he said.
"Well, then," I said, "besides that one, be of this opinion too."
"What?"
"That each of the private wage earners whom these men call
sophists and believe to be their rivals in art, educates in nothing other
than these convictions" of the many, which they opine when they
are gathered together, and he calls this wisdom. It is just like the case of
a man who learns by heart the angers and desires of a great, strong
[ 172 ]
Book VI / 492a-494a socrates/adeimantu;
beast he is rearing, how it should be approached and how taken hold 493 I
of, when — and as a result of what — it becomes most difficult or most
gentle, and, particularly, under what conditions it is accustomed to ut-
ter its several sounds, and, in turn, what sort of sounds uttered by
another make it tame and angry. When he has learned all this from
associating and spending time with the beast, he calls it wisdom and,
organizing it as an art, turns to teaching. Knowing nothing in truth
about which of these convictions and desires is noble, or base, or good,
or evil, or just, or unjust, he applies all these names following the great i
animal's opinions— calling what delights it good and what vexes it bad.
He has no other argument about them but calls the necessary just and
noble, neither having seen nor being able to show someone else how
much the nature of the necessary and the good really differ. Now, in
your opinion, wouldn't such a man, in the name of Zeus, be out of
place as an educator?"
"Yes," he said, "in my opinion, he would indeed."
"So, does this man seem any different from the man who believes
it is wisdom to have figured out the anger and pleasures— whether in
painting, music, or, particularly, in politics — of the multifarious many
who assemble? However a man associates with them, whether he makes
a display of poetry, or any other product of craft, or any service to the
city— making the many his masters beyond what is necessary— the so-
called necessity of Diomede^^ will compel him to produce the things
these men praise. But that those things are in truth good and
noble — have you up to now ever heard anyone presenting an argument
for this that isn't ridiculous?"
"No," he said, "nor do I suppose I shall hear one."
"Well, then, keep all this in mind and recall this question: Can a
multitude accept or believe that the fair itself, rather than the many fair
things, or that anything itself, is, rather than the many particular 494
things?"
"Not in the least," he said.
"Then it's impossible," I said, "that a multitude be philosophic."
"Yes, it is impossible."
"And so, those who do philosophize are necessarily blamed by
them."
"Necessarily."
"As well as by all those private men who consort with the mob
and desire to please it."
"Plainly."
"So, on this basis, what salvation do you see for a philosophic
nature so that it will remain in its practice and reach its end? Think it
[ 173 ]
dckates/adeimantus the republic
94 b over on the basis of what went before. We did agree that facility at
learning, memory, courage, and magnificence belong to this nature "
"Yes."
"Won't such a one be first among all in everything, straight from
the beginning, especially if his body naturally matches his soul?"
"Of course he will," he said.
"Then I suppose kinsmen and fellow citizens will surely want to
make use of him, when he is older, for their own affairs."
"Of course."
c "They will, therefore, lie at his feet begging and honoring him
taking possession of and flattering beforehand the power that is going
to be his."
"At least," he said, "that's what usually happens."
"What do you suppose," I said, "such a young man will do in such
circumstances, especially if he chances to be from a big city, is rich and
noble in it, and is, further, good-looking and tall? Won't he be
overflowing with unbounded hope, believing he will be competent to
mind the business of both Greeks and barbarians, and won't he, as a
d result, exalt himself to the heights, mindlessly full of pretension and
empty conceit?"i3
"Indeed he will," he said.
"Now, if someone were gently to approach the young man in this
condition and tell him the truth— that he has no intelligence in him al-
though he needs it, and that it's not to be acquired except by slaving for
its acquisition — do you think it will be easy for him to hear through a
wall of so many evils?"
"Far from it," he said.
"But if," I said, "thanks to his good nature and his kinship to such
e speeches, one young man were to apprehend something and be turned
and drawn toward philosophy, what do we suppose those will do who
believe they are losing his use and comradeship? Is there any deed they
won't do or any word they won't say, concerning him, so that he won't
be persuaded, and concerning the man who's doing the persuading, so
that he won't be able to persuade; and won't they organize private plots
and public trials?"
i95 a "It's very necessary," he said.
"Is it possible that such a man will philosophize?"
"Not at all."
"Do you see," I said, "it wasn't bad when we said that the very
elements of the philosophic nature, when they get a bad rearing, are,
after all, in a way the cause of its being exiled from the practice, and so
are the so-called goods— wealth and all equipment of the sort."
"No, it wasn't," he said. "What was said is right."
[ 174 ]
Book VI / 494b-496a socRATEs/ADErMANxus
"Then, you surprising man," I said, "such is the extent and 495 a
character of this destruction and corruption of the best nature with b
respect to the best pursuit. And such a nature is a rare occurrence in any
event, we say. And particularly from these men come those who do the
greatest harm to cities and private men, as well as those who do the
good, if they chance to be drawn in this direction. No little nature ever
does anything great either to private man or city."
"Very true," he said.
"So these men, for whom philosophy is most suitable, go thus into
exile and leave her abandoned and unconsummated. They themselves c
live a life that isn't suitable or true; while, after them, other unworthy
men come to her— like an orphan bereft of relatives— and disgrace her.
These are the ones who attach to her reproaches such as even you say
are alleged by the men who reproach her— ^namely, that of those who
have intercourse with her, some are worthless and the many worthy of
many bad things."
"Yes," he said, "that is what is said."
"And what is said is fitting," I said. "For other manikins see that
this place has become empty although full of fine names and preten-
sions; and, just like those who run away from prisons to temples, these d
men too are overjoyed to leap out of the arts into philosophy, those
who happen to be subtlest in their little art. For, although philosophy is
faring thus, it still retains a more magnificent station in comparison with
the other arts at least. Aiming at this, many men with imperfect
natures— just as their bodies are mutilated by the arts and crafts, so too
their souls are doubled up and spoiled as a result of being in me- e
chanical occupations— or isn't that necessary?"^^
"Quite so," he said.
"Do you suppose," I said, "that they are any different to see than
a little, bald-headed worker in bronze who has gotten some silver, and,
newly released from bonds, just washed in a bathhouse, wearing a new-
made cloak and got up like a bridegroom, is about to marry his
master's daughter because he's poor and destitute?"^^
"Hardly at all different," he said. 496 a
"What sort of things are such men likely to beget? Aren't they
bastard and ordinary?"
"Quite necessarily."
"And what about this? When men unworthy of education come
near her and keep her company in an unworthy way, what sort of no-
tions and opinions will we say they beget? Won't they be truly fit to be
called sophisms,^^ connected with nothing genuine or worthy of true
prudence?"
"That's entirely certain," he said.
[ 175 ]
socrates/adeimantus the REPUBLIq
496 a "Then it's a very small group, Adeimantus," I said, "which re-
b mains to keep company with philosophy in a way that's worthy-
perhaps either a noble and well-reared disposition, held in check by ex-
ile, remains by her side consistent with nature, for want of corrupters-
or when a great soul grows up in a little city, despises the business of
the city and looks out beyond; and, perhaps, a very few men from
another art, who justly despise it because they have good natures, might
come to her. And the bridle of our comrade Theages might be such as
c to restrain him. For in Theages' case all the other conditions for an ex-
ile from philosophy were present, but the sicklinessi"^ of his body
shutting him out of politics, restrains him. My case — the demonic^s
sign — isn't worth mentioning, for it has perhaps occurred in some one
other man, or no other, before. Now the men who have become mem-
bers of this small band have tasted how sweet and blessed a possession
it is. At the same time, they have seen sufficiently the madness of the
many, and that no one who minds the business of the cities does virtually
anything sound, and that there is no ally with whom one could
d go to the aid of justice and be preserved. Rather — ^just like a human
being who has fallen in with wild beasts and is neither willing to join
them in doing injustice nor sufficient as one man to resist all the
savage animals — one would perish before he has been of any use to city
or friends and be of no profit to himself or others. Taking all this into
the calculation, he keeps quiet and minds his own business — as a man
in a storm, when dust and rain are blown about by the wind, stands
aside under a little wall. Seeing others filled full of lawlessness, he is
content if somehow he himself can live his life here pure of injustice
e and unholy deeds, and take his leave from it graciously and cheerfully
with fair hope."
497a "Well," he said, 'he would leave having accomplished not the
least of things. "
"But not the greatest either, " I said, "if he didn't chance upon a
suitable regime. For in a suitable one he himself will grow more and
save the common things along with the private.
"Now the reasons why philosophy is slandered, and that it isn't
just that it be, have in my opinion been sensibly stated, unless you still
have something else to say. "
"I have nothing further to say about this," he said. "But which of
the current regimes do you say is suitable for it?"
b "None at all, " I said, "but this is the very charge I'm bringing; not
one city today is in a condition worthy of the philosophic nature. And
this is why it is twisted and changed; just as a foreign seed sown in alien
ground is likely to be overcome and fade away into the native stock, so
[ 176 ]
Book VI / 496a-498h socRATEs/AomMANTVi
too this class does not at present maintain its own power but falls away 497 I
into an alien disposition. But if it ever takes hold in the best regime,
just as it is itself best, then it will make plain that it really is divine as (
we agreed it is and that the rest are human, both in terms of their
natures and their practices. Of course, it's plain that next you'll ask
what this regime is."
"You've not got it," he said. "That's not what I was going to ask,
but whether it is the same one we described in founding the city or
another."
"It is the same in the other respects," I said, "and, in this very one
too, which was stressed in connection with it — that there would always
have to be present in the city something possessing the same un-
derstanding of the regime as you, the lawgiver, had when you were set- <
ting down the laws."
"Yes," he said, "that point was made."
"But it wasn't made sufficiently plain," I said, "from fear of what
you people, with your insistence, have made plain— that its demon-
stration would be long and hard. And now what's left is by no means the
easiest to go through."
"What is it?"
"How a city can take philosophy in hand without being destroyed.
For surely all great things carry with them the risk of a fall, and, really
as the saying goes, fine things are hard."
"All the same," he said, "let the proof get its completion by clear-
ing this up."
"It won't be hindered by a lack of willingness, but, if by anything,
by a lack of capacity," I said. "You'll be on hand to see my eagerness
at least. Consider how eagerly and recklessly I am going to say now that
the way a city takes up this practice should be just the opposite of what
is done nowadays."
"How?"
"Nowadays," I said, "those who take it up at all are lads fresh
from childhood; in the interval before running a household and making 498
money, they approach its hardest part and then leave, those, that is,
who are fancied to be complete philosophers. I mean by the hardest
part that which has to do with speeches.!^ In later life, if others are
doing this and they are invited, they believe it's a great thing if they are
willing to be listeners, thinking it ought to be done as a hobby. Toward
old age, except of course for a certain few, they are far more extin-
guished than Heracleitus' sun,^^ inasmuch as they are not re-
kindled again."
"How ought it to be?" he said.
[ 177 ]
socrates/adeimantus the REPUBLIp
498 b "Entirely opposite. When they are youths and boys they ought to
take up an education and philosophy suitable for youths, and take very
good care of their bodies at the time when they are growing and bloom-
ing into manhood, thus securing a helper for philosophy. And as they
advance in age to the time when the soul begins to reach maturity, n
ought to be subjected to a more intense gymnastic. And when strength
begins to fail and they are beyond political and military duties, at this
c time they ought to be let loose to graze and do nothing else, except as a
spare-time occupation— those who are going to live happily and, when
they die, crown the life they have lived with a suitable lot in that other
place."
"In my opinion, you truly are speaking eagerly, Socrates," he
said. "However, I suppose that the many among the hearers are even
more eager to oppose you and won't be persuaded at all, beginning
with Thrasymachus."
"Don't make a quarrel between Thrasymachus and me when
d we've just become friends, though we weren't even enemies before,"
I said. "We'll not give up our efforts before we either persuade him and
the others, or give them some help in preparation for that other life
when, born again, they meet with such arguments."
"That's a short time you are speaking about, " he said.
"No time at all, " I said, "if you compare it to the whole.
However, it's no wonder that the many are not persuaded by these
speeches. For they never saw any existing thing that matches the pres-
e ent speech. Far rather they have seen such phrases purposely
balanced' with one another, not falling together spontaneously as they
are now. But as for a man who to the limit of the possible is perfectly
likened' to and balanced'^i with virtue, in deed and speech, and
499 a holds power in a city fit for him, they have never seen one or more. Or
do you suppose so? "
"No, I don't at all."
"Nor, you blessed man, have they given an adequate hearing to
fair and free speeches of the sort that strain with every nerve in quest of
the truth for the sake of knowing and that 'nod a distant greeting'^^
to the subtleties and contentious quibbles that strain toward nothing
but opinion and contention in trials as well as in private groups. "
"No, they haven't," he said.
"Well, it was on account of this, " I said, "foreseeing it then, that
b we were frightened; but, all the same, compelled by the truth, we said
that neither city nor regime will ever become perfect, nor yet will a
man become perfect in the same way either, before some necessity
chances to constrain those few philosophers who aren't vicious, those
now called useless, to take charge of a city, whether they want to or
[ 178 ]
Book VI / 498b-500c socrates/adeimanti
not, and the city to obey;^^ or a true erotic passion for true philoso- 499 .
phy flows from some divine inspiration into the sons of those who hold
power^'* or the office of king, or into the fathers themselves. I deny
that there is any reason why either or both of these things is impossible.
If that were the case we would justly be laughed at for uselessly saying
things that are like prayers. Or isn't that so?"
"Yes, it is."
"Therefore, if, in the endless time that has gone by, there has been
some necessity for those who are on the peaks of philosophy to take
charge of a city, or there even now is such a necessity in some barbaric
place somewhere far outside of onr range of vision, or will be later, in
this case we are ready to do battle for the argument that the regime
spoken of has been, is, and will be when this Muse has become master
of a city. For it's not impossible that it come to pass nor are we speak-
ing of impossibilities. That it's hard, we too agree."
"That," he said, "in my opinion, is so."
"Will you," I said, "say that in the opinion of the many it isn't
so."^
"Perhaps," he said.
"You blessed man," I said, "don't make such a severe accusation
against the many. They will no doubt have another sort of opinion, if
instead of indulging yourself in quarreling with them, you soothe them
and do away with the slander against the love of learning by pointing
out whom you mean by the philosophers, and by distinguishing, as was
just done, their nature and the character of their practice so the many 50C
won't believe you mean those whom they suppose to be philosophers.
And if they see it this way, doubtless you'll say that they will take on
another sort of opinion and answer differently. Or do you suppose
anyone of an ungrudging and gentle character is harsh with the man
who is not harsh or bears grudges against the man who bears none? I
shall anticipate you and say that I believe that so hard a nature is in a
few but not the multitude."
"I, too," he said, "of course, share your supposition."
"Don't you also share my supposition that the blame for the many's
being harshly disposed toward philosophy is on those men from out-
side who don't belong and have burst in like drunken revelers, abusing
one another and indulging a taste for quarreling, and who always make
their arguments about persons,^^ doing what is least seemly in
philosophy?"
"Very much so," he said.
"For, presumably, Adeimantus, a man who has his understanding
truly turned toward the things that are has no leisure to look down
toward the affairs of human beings and to be Klled with envy and ill
[ 179 ]
socrates/adeimantus the republic
500 c will as a result of fighting with them. But, rather, because he sees and
contemplates things that are set in a regular arrangement and are al-
ways in the sanie condition— things that neither do injustice to one
another nor suffer it at one another's hands, but remain all in order ac-
cording to reason— he imitates them and, as much as possible, makes
himself like them. Or do you suppose there is any way of keeping
someone from imitating that which he admires and therefore keeps
company with?"
"It's not possible," he said.
"Then it's the philosopher, keeping company with the divine and
d the orderly who becomes orderly and divine, to the extent that is possi-
ble for a human being. But there is much slander abroad."
"In every way that's most certain."
"If some necessity arises," I said, "for him to practice putting
what he sees there into the dispositions of men, both in private and in
public, instead of forming only himself, do you suppose he'll prove to
be a bad craftsman of moderation, justice, and vulgar^^ virtue as a
whole?"
"Least of all," he said.
"Now, if the many become aware that what we are saying about
e this man is true, will they then be harsh with the philosophers and dis-
trust us when we say that a city could never be happy otherwise than by
having its outlines drawn by the painters who use the divine pattern?"
"No, they won't be harsh," he said, "provided they do gain this
501 a awareness. But what kind of drawing do you mean?"
"They would take the city and the dispositions of human beings,
as though they were a tablet," I said, "which, in the first place, they
would wipe clean. And that's hardly easy. At all events, you know that
straight off in this they would differ from the rest— in not being willing
to take either private man or city in hand or to draw laws before they
receive it clean or themselves make it so."
"And they are right," he said.
"Next, don't you think they would outline the shape of the
regime?"
"Of course."
b "After that, I suppose that in filling out their work they would
look away frequently in both directions, toward the just, fair, and
moderate by nature and everything of the sort, and, again, toward what
is in human beings; and thus, mixing and blending the practices as
ingredients, they would produce the image of man,^^ taking hints
[ 180 ]
Book VI / 500C-502b SOC3E\ATEs/ADE1MANTX
from exactly that phenomenon in human beings which Homer too 501 I
called god-like and the image of god."
"Right," he said.
"And I suppose they would rub out one thing and draw in another
again, until they made htiman dispositions as dear to the gods as they
admit of being."
"The drawing," he said, "would at any rate be fairest that way."
"Are we then somehow persuading those men who you said were
coming at us full speed," I said, "that the man we were then praising to
them is such a painter of regimes? It was on his account that they were
so harsh, because we were handing the cities over to him. Are they any
gentler on hearing it now?"
"Yes, and very much so," he said, "if they are moderate."
"For how will they be able to dispute it? Will they say the
philosophers aren't lovers of that which is and of truth?"
"That would be strange," he said.
"Or that their nature as we described it isn't akin to the best?"
"Not that either."
"Or this— that such a nature, when it chances on suitable
practices, will not be perfectly good and philosophic if any is? Or
are those men whom we excluded by nature more so?"^^
"Surely not."
"Will they still be angry when we say that before the philosophic
class becomes master of a city, there will be no rest from ills either
for city or citizens nor will the regime about which we tell tales in
speech get its completion in deed?"
"Perhaps less," he said.
"If you please," I said, "let's not say that they are less angry but
that they have become in every way gentle and have been persuaded, so 502
that from shame, if nothing else, they will agree."
"Most certainly," he said.
"Now, let's assume they have been persuaded of this," I said.
"And, as to the next point, will anyone argue that there is no chance
that children of kings, or of men who hold power, could be born
philosophers by their natures?"
"There won't," he said, "even be one who will argue that."
"And if such men came into being, can anyone say that it's quite
necessary that they be corrupted? That it's hard to save them, we too
admit. But that in all of time not one of all of them could ever be saved,
is there anyone who would argue that?"
"How could he?"
[ 181 ]
socrates/adeimantus the REPUBLIQ
502 b "But surely," I said, "the birth of one, if he has an obedient city
is sufficient for perfecting everything that is now doubted."
"Yes," he said, "one is sufficient."
"For, of course, when a ruler sets down the laws and practices that
we have gone through," I said, "it's surely not impossible that the
citizens be willing to carry them out."
"Not at all."
"But, then, is it anything wonderful or impossible if others also
have the same opinions as we do?"
c "I don't suppose so," he said.
"And further, that it is best, granted it's possible, we have, I
believe, already gone through sufficiently."
"Yes, it was sufficient."
"Now, then, as it seems, it tumis out for us that what we are saying
about lawgiving is best if it could come to be, and that it is hard for it
to come to be; not, however, impossible."
"Yes," he said, "that's the way it turns out."
"Now that this discussion has after considerable effort reached an
end, mustn't we next speak about what remains — in what way and as a
d result of what studies and practices the saviors will take their place
within our regime for us and at what ages each will take up each
study?"
"Indeed we must," he said.
"It hasn't," I said, "turned out to have been very wise of me to
have left aside previously the unpleasantness about the possession of
women, nor to have left aside procreation, as well as the institution of
the rulers either. I did so because I knew that the wholly and com-
pletely true institution is a thing both likely to arouse resentment and
hard to bring into being. But, as it was, the necessity of going through
e these things nonetheless arose. Well, what particularly concerns women
and children has been completed, but what concerns the rulers must
be pursued as it were from the beginning. We were saying, if you re-
03 a member, that they must show themselves to be lovers of the city,
tested in pleasures and pains, and that they must show that they don't
cast out this conviction in labors or fears or any other reverse. The
man who's unable to be so must be rejected, while the one who
emerges altogether pure, like gold tested in fire, must be set up as
ruler and be given gifts and prizes both when he is alive and after he
has died. These were the kinds of things that were being said as the
b argument, covering its face, sneaked by, for fear of setting in motion
what now confronts us."
"What you say is quite true," he said. "I do remember."
"My friend, I shrank from saying what has now been dared
[ 182 ]
%Book VI / S02b-504a socrates/adeimantus
anyhow," I said. "And let's now dare to say this: philosophers must be 503 b
established as the most precise^^ guardians."
"Yes, let it be said," he said.
"Then bear in mind that you'll probably have but a few. For the
parts of the nature that we described as a necessary condition for them
are rarely willing to grow together in the same place; rather its many
parts grow forcibly separated from each other."
"How do you mean?" he said. c
"You know that natures that are good at learning, have memories,
are shrewd and quick and everything else that goes along with these
qualities, and are as well full of youthful fire and magnificence— such
natures don't willingly grow together with understandings that choose
orderly lives which are quiet and steady. Rather the men who possess
them are carried away by their quickness wherever chance leads and all
steadiness goes out from them."
"What you say is true," he said.
"And, on the other hand, those steady, not easily changeable
dispositions, which one would be inclined to count on as trustworthy d
and which in war are hard to move in the face of fears, act the same
way in the face of studies. They are hard to move and hard to teach, as
if they had become numb;^** and they are filled with sleep and yawn-
ing when they must work through anything of the sort."
"That's so," he said.
"But we are saying that this nature must participate in both in
good and fair fashion, or it mustn't be given a share in the most precise
education, in honor, or in rule."
"Right," he said.
"Don't you suppose this will be rare?"
"Of course."
"Then it must be tested in the labors, fears, and pleasures we e
mentioned then; and moreover— what we passed over then but men-
tion now— it must also be given gymnastic in many studies to see
whether it will be able to bear the greatest studies, or whether it will
turn out to be a coward, as some turn out to be cowards in the other 504 a
things."
"Well, that's surely the proper way to investigate it," he said.
"But exactly what kinds of studies do you mean by the greatest?"
"You, of course, remember," I said, "that by separating out three
forms in the soul we figured out what justice, moderation, courage, and
wisdom each is."
"If I didn't remember," he said, "it would be just for me not to
hear the rest."
"And also what was said before that?"
[ 183 ]
ADEIMANTUS/SOCKATES THE REPUBLlQ
504 a "What was itr
b "We were, I believe, saying that in order to get the finest possible
look at these things another and longer road around would be required,
and to the man who took it they would become evident, but that proofs
on a level with what had been said up to then could be tacked on. And
you all said that that would suffice. And so, you see, the statements
made at that time were, as it looks to me, deficient in precision. If they
were satisfactory to you, only you can tell."
"They were satisfactory to me, within measure," he said. "And it
looks as though they were for the others too."
c "My friend," I said, "a measure in such things, which in any way
falls short of that which is, is no measure at all. For nothing incomplete
is the measure of anything. But certain men are sometimes of the
opinion that this question has already been adequately disposed of
and that there is no need to seek further."
"Easygoingness," he said, "causes quite a throng of men to have
this experience."
"Well," I said, "it's an experience a guardian of a city and of laws
hardly needs."
"That's likely," he said.
"Well then, my comrade," I said, "such a man must go the longer
d way around and labor no less at study than at gymnastic, or else, as we
were just saying, he'll never come to the end of the greatest and most
fitting study."
"So these aren't the greatest," he said, "but there is something yet
greater than justice and the other things we went through?"
"There is both something greater," I said, "and also even for these
very virtues it won't do to look at a sketch, as we did a while ago, but
their most perfect elaboration must not be stinted. Or isn't it ridiculous
e to make every effort so that other things of little worth be as precise
and pure as can be, while not deeming the greatest things worth the
greatest precision?"
"That's a very worthy thought," he said. "However, as to what
you mean by the greatest study and what it concerns, do you think
anyone is going to let you go without asking what it is?"
"Certainly not," I said. "Just ask. At all events, it's not a few
times already that you have heard it; but now you are either not think-
505 a ing or have it in mind to get hold of me again and cause me trouble. I
suppose it's rather the latter, since you have many times heard that the
idea of the good is the greatest study and that it's by availing oneself
of it along with just things and the rest that they become useful and
beneficial. And now you know pretty certainly that I'm going to say
[ 184 ]
Book VI / 504a-506a socrates/adeimantus
this and, besides this, that we don't have sxifficient knowledge of it. 505 a
And, if we don't know it and should have ever so much knov^^ledge
of the rest without this, you know that it's no profit to us, just as there
would be none in possessing something in the absence of the good.
Or do you suppose it's of any advantage to possess everything except b
what's good? Or to be prudent about everything else in the absence of
the good, while being prudent about nothing fine and good?"
"No, by Zeus," he said. "I don't."
"And, further, you also know that in the opinion of the many the
good is pleasure, while in that of the more refined it is prudence."
"Of course."
"And, my friend, that those who believe this can't point out what
kind of prudence it is, but are finally compelled to say 'about the
good.' "
"And it's quite ridiculous of them," he said.
"Of course, it is," I said, "if they reproach us for not knowing the c
good, and then speak as though we did know. For they say it is pru-
dence about the good as though we, in turn, grasped what they mean
when they utter the name of the good."
"Very true," he said.
"And what about those who define pleasure as good? Are they any
less full of confusion than the others? Or aren't they too compelled to
agree that there are bad pleasures?"
"Indeed they are."
"Then I suppose the result is that they agree that the same things
are good and bad, isn't it?"
"Of course." d
"Isn't it clear that there are many great disputes about it?"
"Of course."
"And what about this? Isn't it clear that many men would choose
to do, possess, and enjoy the reputation for things that are opined to be
just and fair, even if they aren't, while, when it comes to good things,
no one is satisfied with what is opined to be so but each seeks the things
that are, and from here on out everyone despises the opinion?"
"Quite so," he said.
"Now this is what every soul pursues and for the sake of which it
does everything. The soul divines that it is something but is at a loss e
about it and unable to get a sufficient grasp of just what it is, or to have
a stable trust such as it has about the rest. And because this is so, the
soul loses any profit there might have been in the rest. Will we say that
even those best men in the city, into whose hands we put everything,
must be thus in the dark about a thing of this kind and importance?" 506 c
[ 185 ]
adeimantus/socrates/glaucon the republic
506 a "Least of all," he said.
"I suppose, at least," I said, "that just and fair things, when it isn't
known in what way they are good, won't have gotten themselves a guard-
ian who's worth very much in the man who doesn't know this. I divine
that no one will adequately know the just and fair things themselves
before this is known."
"That's a fine divination of yours," he said.
"Won't our regime be perfectly ordered if such a guardian, one
b who knows these things, oversees it?"
"Necessarily," he said. "But now, Socrates, do you say that the
good is knowledge, or pleasure, or something else beside these?"
"Here's a real man!" I said. "It's been pretty transparent all along
that other people's opinions about these things wouldn't be enough for
you."
"It doesn't appear just to me, Socrates," he said, "to be ready to
tell other people's convictions but not your own when you have spent so
c much time occupied with these things."
"And what about this?" I said. "Is it your opinion that it's just to
speak about what one doesn't know as though one knew?"
"Not at all as though one knew," he said; "however, one ought to
be willing to state what one supposes, as one's supposition."
"What?" I said. "Haven't you noticed that all opinions without
knowledge are ugly? The best of them are blind. Or do men who opine
something true without intelligence seem to you any different from
blind men who travel the right road?"
"No," he said.
"Do you want to see ugly things, blind and crooked, when it's
d possible to hear bright and fair ones from others?"
"No, in the name of Zeus, Socrates," said Glaucon. "You're not
going to withdraw when you are, as it were, at the end. It will satisfy us
even if you go through the good just as you went through justice, mod-
eration and the rest."
"It will quite satisfy me too, my comrade," I said. "But I fear I'll
not be up to it, and in my eagerness I'll cut a graceless figure and have
to pay the penalty by suffering ridicule. But, you blessed men, let's
e leave aside for the time being what the good itself is — for it looks to me
as though it's out of the range of our present thrust to attain the opin-
ions I now hold about it. But I'm willing to tell what looks like a child
of the good and most similar to it, if you please, or if not, to let it go."
"Do tell," he said. "Another time you'll pay us what's due on the
father's narrative."
'0' o "I could wish," I said, "that I were able to pay and you were able
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Book VI / S06a-507d socrates/glaucon
to receive it itself, and not just the interest, as is the case now. Anyhow, 507 a
receive this interest and child of the good itself But be careful that I
don't in some way unwillingly deceive you in rendering the account of
the interest fraudulent.''^!
"Well be as careful as we possibly can," he said. "Just speak."
"Yes," I said, "as soon as I've come to an agreement and re-
minded you of the things stated here earlier and already often repeated
on other occasions."
"What are they?" he said. b
"We both assert that there are," I said, "and distinguish in speech,
many fair things, many good things, and so on for each kind of thing."
"Yes, so we do."
"And we also assert that there is a fair itself, a good itself, and so
on for all the things that we then set down as many. Now, again, we
refer them to one idea of each as though the idea were one; and we ad-
dress it as that which really is."
That s so.
"And, moreover, we say that the former are seen but not in-
tellected, while the ideas are intellected but not seen."
"That's entirely certain."
"With what part of ourselves do we see the things seen?" c
"With the sight," he said.
"Isn't it with hearing," I said, "that we hear the things heard, and
with the other senses that we sense all that is sensed?"
"Of course."
"Have you," I said, "reflected on how lavish the craftsman of the
senses was in the fabrication of the power of seeing and being seen?"
"Not very much," he said.
"Well consider it in this way. Is there a need for another class of
thing in addition to hearing and sound in order that the one hear and
the other be heard — a third thing in the absence of which the one won't d
hear and the other won't be heard?"
"No," he said.
"I suppose," I said, "that there are not many other things, not to
say none, that need anything of the kind. Or can you tell of any?"
"Not I," he said.
"Don't you notice that the power of seeing and what's seen do
have such a need?"
"How?"
"Surely, when sight is in the eyes and the man possessing them
tries to make use of it, and color is present in what is to be seen, in the
absence of a third class of thing whose nature is specifically directed to
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507 e this very purpose, you know that the sight will see nothing and the col
ors will be unseen."
"What class of thing are you speaking of?" he said.
"It's that which you call light " I said.
"What you say is true," he said.
"Then the sense of sight and the power of being seen are
yoked together with a yoke that, by the measure of an idea by no
508 a means insignificant, is more honorable than the yokes uniting other
teams, if light is not without honor."
"But, of course," he said, "it's far from being without honor."
"Which of the gods in heaven can you point to as the lord respon-
sible for this, whose light makes our sight see in the finest way and the
seen things seen?"
"The very one you and the others would also point to," he said.
"For it's plain your question refers to the sun."
"Is sight, then, naturally related to this god in the following way?" I
"How?" i
"Neither sight itself nor that in which it comes to be— what we ;
b call the eye— is the sun."
"Surely not."
"But I suppose it is the most sunlike'^ of the organs of the ^
senses."
"Yes, by far."
"Doesn't it get the power it has as a sort of overflow from the i
sun's treasury?"
"Most certainly."
"And the sun isn't sight either, is it, but as its cause is seen by
sight itself?"
"That's so," he said.
"Well, then," I said, "say that the sun is the offspring of the good
I mean— an offspring the good begot in a proportion with itself: as the
c good is in the intelligible region with respect to intelligence and what is
intellected, so the sun is in the visible region with respect to sight and
what is seen."
"How?" he said. "Explain it to me still further."
"You know," I said, "that eyes, when one no longer turns them to
those things over whose colors the light of day extends but to those over
which the gleams of night extend, are dimmed and appear nearly blind
as though pure sight were not in them."
"Quite so," he said.
d "But, I suppose, when one turns them on those things illuminated
by the sun, they see clearly and sight shows itself to be in these same
eyes."
[ 188 ]
I Book VI / 507e-509c glaucoi^sockates
I "Surely." 508 d
"Well, then, think that the soul is also characterized in this way.
I When it fixes itself on that which is illumined by truth and that which
I is, it intellects, knows, and appears to possess intelligence. But when it
P: fixes itself on that which is mixed with darkness, on coming into being
and passing away, it opines and is dimmed, changing opinions up and
down, and seems at such times not to possess intelligence."
"Yes, that's the way it seems."
"Therefore, say that what provides the truth to the things known e
and gives the power to the one who knows, is the idea of the good.
And, as the cause of the knowledge and truth, you can understand it to
be a thing known; but, as fair as these two are— knowledge and
truth — if you believe that it is something different from them and still
fairer than they, your belief will be right. As for knowledge and truth,
just as in the other region it is right to hold light and sight sunlike, but 509 a
to believe them to be sun is not right; so, too, here, to hold these two to
be like the good is right, but to believe that either of them is the good is
not right. The condition which characterizes the good must receive still
greater honor."
"You speak of an overwhelming beauty," he said, "if it provides
knowledge and truth but is itself beyond them in beauty. You surely
don't mean it is pleasure."
"Hush,'3 Glaucon," I said. "But consider its image still further
in this way."
"How?" b
"1 suppose you'll say the sun not only provides what is seen with
the power of being seen, but also with generation, growth, and nourish-
ment although it itself isn't generation."
"Of course."
"Therefore, say that not only being knovm is present in the things
known as a consequence of the good, but also existence and being are
in them besides as a result of it, although the good isn't being but is still
beyond being, exceeding it in dignity^^ and power."
And Glaucon, quite ridiculously, said, "Apollo, what a demonic c
excess."
"You," I said, "are responsible for compelling me to tell my
opinions about it."
"And don't under any conditions stop," he said, "at least until you
have gone through the likeness with the sun, if you are leaving anything
out."
"But, of course," I said, "I am leaving out a throng of things."
"Well," he said, "don't leave even the slightest thing aside."
[ 189 ]
socrates/gij^ucon the REPUBLJo
509 c "I suppose I will leave out quite a bit," I said. "But all the same
insofar as it's possible at present, I'll not leave anything out willingly '*
"Don't," he said.
d "Well, then," I said, "conceive that, as we say, these two things
are, and that the one is king of the intelligible class and region, while
the other is king of the visible. I don't say 'of the heaven' so as not to
seem to you to be playing the sophist with the name.^ Now, do you
have these two forms, visible and intelligible? "
"I do."
"Then, take a line cut in two unequal segments, one for the class
that is seen, the other for the class that is intellected — and go on and
cut each segment in the same ratio. Now, in terms of relative
clarity and obscurity, you'll have one segment in the visible part for
e images. I mean by images first shadows, then appearances produced in
510 a water and in all close-grained, smooth, bright things, and everything of
the sort, if you understand."
"I do understand."
"Then in the other segment put that of which this first is the
likeness — the animals around us, and everything that grows, and the
whole class of artifacts. "
"I put them there," he said.
"And would you also be willing," I said, "to say that with respect
to truth or lack of it, as the opinable is distinguished from the know-
able, so the likeness is distinguished from that of which it is the like-
ness?"
h "I would indeed," he said.
"Now, in its turn, consider also how the intelligible section should
be cut. "
"How?"
"Like this: in one part of it a soul, using as images the things that
were previously imitated, is compelled to investigate on the basis of
hypotheses and makes its way not to a beginning but to an end; while in
the other part it makes its way to a beginning^^ that is free from
hypotheses;^^ starting out from hypothesis and without the images
used in the other part, by means of forms themselves it makes its in-
quiry through them."
"I don't," he said, "sufficiently understand what you mean here. "
c "Let's try again," I said. "You'll understand more easily after this
introduction. I suppose you know that the men who work in geometry,
calculation, and the like treat as known the odd and the even, the
figures, three forms of angles, and other things akin to these in each
kind of inquiry. These things they make hypotheses and don't think it
worthwhile to give any further account of them to themselves or others.
[ 190 ]
Book VI / 509c-511d SOCK.XKS/CX..CO.
as though they were clear to all. Beginning from them, they go ahead 510 d
with their exposition of what remains and end consistently at the object
toward which their investigation was directed."
"Most certainly, I know that," he said.
"Don't you also know that they use visible forms besides and
make their arguments about them, not thinking about them but about
those others that they are like? They make the arguments for the sake
of the square itself and the diagonal itself, not for the sake of the
diagonal they draw, and likewise with the rest. These things themselves g
that they mold and draw, of which there are shadows and images in
water, they now use as images, seeking to see those things themselves,
that one can see in no other way than with thought."
"What you say is true," he said. 511 a
"Well, then, this is the form I said was intelligible. However, a
soul in investigating it is compelled to use hypotheses, and does not go
to a beginning because it is unable to step out above the hypotheses.
And it uses as images those very things of which images are made by
the things below, and in comparison with which they are opined to be
clear and are given honor."
"I understand," he said, "that you mean what falls under geome- h
try and its kindred arts."
"Well, then, go on to understand that by the other segment of the
intelligible I mean that which argument itself grasps with the power of
dialectic, making the hypotheses not beginnings but really hy-
potheses—that is, steppingstones and springboards— in order to reach
what is free from hypothesis at the beginning of the whole.^^ When
it has grasped this, argument now depends on that which depends on
this beginning and in such fashion goes back down again to an end;
making no use of anything sensed in any way, but using forms them- c
selves, going through forms to forms, it ends in forms too."
"I understand," he said, "although not adequately— for in my
opinion it's an enormous task you speak of— that you wish to distinguish
that part of what is and is intelligible contemplated by the knowl-
edge of dialectic as being clearer than that part contemplated by what
are called the arts. The beginnings in the arts are hypotheses; and al-
though those who behold their objects are compelled to do so with
the thought and not the senses, these men— because they don't
consider them by going up to a beginning, but rather on the basis of
hypotheses— these men, in my opinion, don't possess intelligence d
with respect to the objects, even though they are, given a begin-
ning, intelligible; and you seem to me to call the habit of geometers
and their likes thought and not intelligence, indicating that thought
is something between opinion and intelligence."
[ 191 ]
ocrates/glaucon the republic
111 d "You have made a most adequate exposition," I said. "And, along
with me, take these four affections arising in the soul in relation to the
four segments: intellection in relation to the highest one, and thought in
e relation to the second; to the third assign trust, and to the last imagina-
tion.39 Arrange them in a proportion, and believe that as the seg-
ments to which they correspond participate in truth, so they participate
in clarity."
"I understand/' he said. "And I agree and arrange them as you
»
say.
[ 192 ]
BOOK VII
"Next, then," I said, "make an image of our nature in its educa- 514 a
tion and want of education, likening it to a condition of the following
kind. See human beings as though they were in an underground cave-
like dwelhng with its entrance, a long one, open to the light across the
whole width of the cave. They are in it from childhood with their legs
and necks in bonds so that they are fixed, seeing only in front of them,
unable because of the bond to turn their heads all the way around. b
Their light is from a fire burning far above and behind them. Between
the fire and the prisoners there is a road above, along which see a wall,
built like the partitions puppet-handlers set in front of the human
beings and over which they show the puppets."
"I see," he said.
"Then also see along this wall human beings carrying all sorts of
artifacts, which project above the wall, and statues of men and other c
animals wrought from stoiie, wood, and every kind of material; as is to 515 a
be expected, some of the carriers utter sounds while others are silent."
"It's a strange image," he said, "and strange prisoners you're
telling of."
"They're like us," I said. "For in the first place, do you suppose
such men would have seen anything of themselves and one another
other than the shadows cast by the fire on the side of the cave facing
them?"
193 ]
:tAUCON/SC>CRATES THE REPUBLip
515 a "How could they," he said, "if they had been compelled to keen
b their heads motionless throughout life?"
"And what about the things that are carried by? Isn't it the same
with them?"
"Of course."
"If they were able to discuss things with one another, don't you
believe they would hold that they are naming these things going by
before them that they see?"*
"Necessarily"
"And what if the prison also had an echo from the side facing
them? Whenever one of the men passing by happens to utter a sound
do you suppose they would believe that anything other than the passing
shadow was uttering the sound?"
"No, by Zeus," he said. "I don't."
c "Then most certainly," I said, "such men would hold that the
truth is nothing other than the shadows of artificial things."
"Most necessarily," he said.
"Now consider," I said, "what their release and healing from
bonds and folly would be like if something of this sort were by nature
to happen to them. Take a man who is released and suddenly com-
pelled to stand up, to turn his neck around, to walk and look up toward
the light; and who, moreover, in doing all this is in pain and, because
he is dazzled, is unable to make out those things whose shadows he saw
d before. What do you suppose he'd say if someone were to tell him that
before he saw silly nothings, while now, because he is somewhat nearer
to what is and more turned toward beings, he sees more correctly; and,
in particular, showing him each of the things that pass by, were to com-
pel the man to answer his questions about what they are? Don't you
suppose he'd be at a loss and believe that what was seen before is truer
than what is now shown?"
"Yes," he said, "by far."
e "And, if he compelled him to look at the light itself, would his
eyes hurt and would he flee, turning away to those things that he is able
to make out and hold them to be really clearer than what is being
shown?"
"So he would," he said.
"And if," I said, "someone dragged him away from there by force
along the rough, steep, upward way and didn't let him go before he had
dragged him out into the light of the sun, wouldn't he be distressed and
516 a annoyed at being so dragged? And when he came to the light, wouldn't
he have his eyes full of its beam and be unable to see even one of the
things now said to be true?"
[ 194 ]
Book VII / 515a-517a glaucon/socrates
"No, he wouldn't," he said, "at least not right away." 516 a
"Then I suppose he'd have to get accustomed, if he were going to
see what's up above. At first he'd most easily make out the shadows;
and after that the phantoms of the human beings and the other things in
water; and, later, the things themselves. And from there he could turn
to beholding the things in heaven and heaven itself, more easily at
night— looking at the light of the stars and the moon— than by b
day— looking at the sun and sunlight."
"Of course."
"Then finally I suppose he would be able to make out the
sun— not its appearances in water or some alien place, but the sun it-
self by itself in its own region— and see what it's like."
"Necessarily," he said.
"And after that he would already be in a position to conclude
about it that this is the source of the seasons and the years, and is the
steward of all things in the visible place, and is in a certain way the c
cause of all those things he and his companions had been seeing."
"It's plain," he said, "that this would be his next step."
"What then? When he recalled his first home and the wisdom
there, and his fellow prisoners in that time, don't you suppose he would
consider himself happy for the change and pity the others?"
"Quite so."
"And if in that time there were among them any honors, praises,
and prizes for the man who is sharpest at making out the things that go
by, and most remembers which of them are accustomed to pass be-
fore, which after, and which at the same time as others, and who is d
thereby most able to divine what is going to come, in your opinion
would he be desirous of them and envy those who are honored and
hold power among these men? Or, rather, would he be affected as Ho-
mer says and want very much 'to be on the soil, a serf to another
man, to a portionless man,'^ and to undergo anything whatsoever
rather than to opine those things and live that way?"
"Yes," he said, "I suppose he would prefer to undergo everything e
rather than live that way."
"Now reflect on this too," I said. "If such a man were to come
down again and sit in the same seat, on coming suddenly from the sun
wouldn't his eyes get infected with darkness?"
"Very much so," he said.
"And if he once more had to compete with those perpetual
prisoners in forming judgments about those shadows while his vi-
sion was still dim, before his eyes had recovered, and if the time 517 a
needed for getting accustomed were not at all short, wouldn't he be
[ 195 ]
scx:rates/glaucon the REPUBLIq
517 a the source of laughter, and wouldn't it be said of him that he went up
and came back with his eyes corrupted, and that it's not even worth
trying to go up? And if they were somehow able to get their
hands on and kill the man who attempts to release and lead up
wouldn't they kill him?"
"No doubt about it, " he said.
"Well, then, my dear Glaucon, " I said, "this image as a whole
b must be connected with what was said before. Liken the domain re-
vealed through sight to the prison home, and the light of the fire in it
to the sun's power; and, in applying the going up and the seeing of
what's above to the soul's journey up to the intelligible place, you'll
not mistake my expectation, since you desire to hear it. A god doubt-
less knows if it happens to be true. At all events, this is the way the
phenomena look to me: in the knowable the last thing to be seen, and
c that with considerable effort, is the idea of the good; but once seen, it
must be concluded that this is in fact the cause of all that is right and
fair in everything — in the visible it gave birth to light and its sovereign;
in the intelligible, itself sovereign, it provided truth and intelligence
— and that the man who is going to act prudently in private or in
public must see it. "
"I, too, join you in supposing that," he said, "at least in the way I
can."
"Come, then," I said, "and join me in supposing this, too, and
don't be surprised that the men who get to that point aren't v^dlling to
mind the business of human beings, but rather that their souls are al-
d ways eager to spend their time above. Surely that's likely, if indeed this,
too, follows the image of which I told before."
"Of course it's likely," he said.
"And what about this? Do you suppose it is anything surprising, "
I said, "if a man, come from acts of divine contemplation to the human
evils, is graceless and looks quite ridiculous when — with his sight still
dim and before he has gotten sufficiently accustomed to the surround-
ing darkness — he is compelled in courts or elsewhere to contest about
the shadows of the just or the representations of which they are the
e shadows, and to dispute about the way these things are understood by
men who have never seen justice itself? "
"It's not at all surprising," he said.
518 a "But if a man were intelligent," 1 said, "he would remember that
there are two kinds of disturbances of the eyes, stemming from two
sources — ^when they have been transferred from light to darkness and
when they have been transferred from darkness to light. And if he held
that these same things happen to a soul too, whenever he saw one that
is confused and unable to make anything out, he wouldn't laugh
[ 196 ]
BookVU / 517a-519b socrates/glaucon
without reasoning but would go on to consider whether, come from a 518 a
brighter life, it is in darkness for want of being accustomed, or whether,
going from greater lack of learning to greater brightness, it is dazzled
by the greater brilliance. And then he would deem the first soul happy b
for its condition and its life, while he would pity the second. And, if he
wanted to laugh at the second soul, his laughing in this case would be
less a laugh of scorn than would his laughing at the soul which
has come from above out of the light."
"What you say is quite sensible," he said.
"Then, if this is true," I said, "we must hold the following about
: these things: education is not what the professions of certain men assert
it to be. They presumably assert that they put into the soul knowledge
that isn't in it, as though they were putting sight into blind eyes." c
"Yes," he said, "they do indeed assert that."
"But the present argument, on the other hand," I said, "indicates
that this power is in the soul of each,^ and that the instrument with
which each learns — just as an eye is not able to turn toward the light
from the dark without the whole body — must be turned around from
that which is coming into being together with the whole soul until it is
able to endure looking at that which is and the brightest part of that
which is. And we affirm that this is the good, don't we?" d
"Yes."
"There would, therefore," I said, "be an art of this turning
around, concerned with the way in which this power can most easily
and efficiently be turned around, not an art of producing sight in it.
Rather, this art takes as given that sight is there, but not rightly turned
nor looking at what it ought to look at, and accomplishes this object. "
"So it seems," he said.
"Therefore, the other virtues of a soul, as they are called, are prob-
ably somewhat close to those of the body. For they are really not there
^ beforehand and are later produced by habits and exercises, while the e
virtue of exercising prudence is more than anything somehow more di-
vine, it seems; it never loses its power, but according to the way it is
turned, it becomes useful and helpful or, again, useless and harmful. Or
1 haven't you yet reflected about the men who are said to be vicious but 519 a
% wise, how shrewdly their petty soul sees and how sharply it dis-
^ tinguishes those things toward which it is turned, showing that it
f doesn't have poor vision although it is compelled to serve vice; so
^ that the sharper it sees, the more evil it accomplishes?"
t» "Most certainly," he said.
^ "However," I said, "if this part of such a nature were trimmed
^^ m earliest childhood and its ties of kinship with becoming were cut
off — ^like leaden weights, which eating and such pleasures as well as b
[ 197 ]
"1
SOCRATES/CLAUCON THE REPUBLjpS
519 b their refinements naturally attach to the soul and turn its vision down
ward — if, I say, it were rid of them and turned around toward the tru
things, this same part of the same human beings would also see them
most sharply, just as it does those things toward which it now is
turned."
"It's likely, " he said.
"And what about this? Isn't it likely," I said, "and necessary, as a
consequence of what was said before, that those who are without
education and experience of truth would never be adequate stewards of
c a city, nor would those who have been allowed to spend their time in
education continuously to the end — the former because they don't have
any single goal in life at which they must aim in doing everything they
do in private or in public, the latter because they won't be willing to
act, believing they have emigrated to a colony on the Isles of the
Blessed^ while they are still alive?"
"True," he said.
"Then our job as founders," I said, "is to compel the best natures
to go to the study which we were saying before is the greatest, to see the
d good and to go up that ascent; and, when they have gone up and seen
sufficiently, not to permit them what is now permitted."
"What's that?"
"To remain there, " I said, "and not be willing to go down again
among those prisoners or share their labors and honors, whether they
be slighter or more serious."
"What?" he said. "Are we to do them an injustice, and make them
live a worse life when a better is possible for them?"
e "My friend, you have again forgotten, " I said, "that it's not the
concern of law that any one class in the city fare exceptionally well, but
it contrives to bring this about in the city as a whole, harmonizing the
citizens by persuasion and compulsion, making them share with one
520 a another the benefit that each is able to bring to the common-
wealth. And it produces such men in the city not in order to let them
turn whichever way each wants, but in order that it may use them in
binding the city together."
"That's true," he said. "I did forget."
"Well, then, Glaucon," I said, "consider that we won't be doing
injustice to the philosophers who come to be among us, but rather that
we will say just things to them while compelling them besides to care
for and guard the others. We'll say that when such men come to be
b in the other cities it is fitting for them not to participate in the labors of
those cities. For they grow up spontaneously against the will of the
regime in each; and a nature that grows by itself and doesn't owe its
rearing to anyone has justice on its side when it is not eager to pay on
[ 198 ]
Book VII / 519b-521b socrates/glaucon
the price of rearing to anyone. 'But you we have begotten for your- 520 b
selves and for the rest of the city like leaders and kings in hives; you
have been better and more perfectly educated and are more able to par-
ticipate in both lives. So you must go down, each in his turn, into the c
common dwelling of the others and get habituated along with them to
seeing the dark things. And, in getting habituated to it, you will see ten
thousand times better than the men there, and you'll know what each of
the phantoms is, and of what it is a phantom, because you have seen the
truth about fair, just, and good things. And thus, the city will be
governed by us and by you in a state of waking, not in a dream as the
many cities nowadays are governed by men who fight over shadows
with one another and form factions for the sake of ruling, as though it
were some great good. But the truth is surely this: that city in which d
those who are going to rule are least eager to rule is necessarily
governed in the way that is best and freest from faction, while the one
that gets the opposite kind of rulers is governed in the opposite
way.
"Most certainly," he said.
"Do you suppose our pupils will disobey us when they hear this
and be unwilling to join in the labors of the city, each in his turn, while
living the greater part of the time with one another in the pure re-
gion.'^
"Impossible," he said. "For surely we shall be laying just injunc- e
tions on just men. However, each of them will certainly approach
ruling as a necessary thing— which is the opposite of what is done by
those who now rule in every city."
"That's the way it is, my comrade," I said. "If you discover a life
better than ruling for those who are going to rule, it is possible that 521 a
your well-governed city will come into being. For here alone will the
really rich rule, rich not in gold but in those riches required by the hap-
py man, rich in a good and prudent life. But if beggars, men hungering
for want of private goods, go to public affairs supposing that in them
they must seize the good, it isn't possible. When ruling becomes a thing
fought over, such a war— a domestic war, one within the family— de-
stroys these men themselves and the rest of the city as well."
"That's very true," he said.
"Have you," I said, ^'any other life that despises political offices b
other than that of true philosophy?"
"No, by Zeus," he said. "I don't."
"But men who aren't lovers of ruling must go^ to it; otherwise,
rival lovers will fight."
"Of course."
[ 199 ]
SOCRATEs/gLAUCON the REPUBLjr,
521 b "Who else will you compel to go to the guarding of the city than
the men who are most prudent in those things through which a city jj
best governed, and who have other honors and a better life than the
political life?"
"No one else," he said,
c "Do you want us now to consider in what way such meri will come
into being and how one will lead them up to the light, just as some men
are said to have gone from Hades up to the gods?"^
"How could I not want to?" he said.
"Then, as it seems, this wouldn't be the twirling of a shelF but
the turning of a soul around from a day that is like night to the true
day; it is that ascent to what is which we shall truly affirm to be
philosophy."
"Most certainly."
d "Then mustn't we consider what studies have such a power?"
"Of course."
"What then, Glaucon, would be a study to draw the soul from be-
coming to being? And, as I speak, I think of this. Weren't we saying
that it's necessary for these men to be champions in war when they are
young?"^
"Yes, we were saying that."
"Then the study we are seeking must have this further charac-
teristic in addition to the former one."
"What?"
"It mustn't be useless to warlike men."
"Of course, it mustn't," he said, "if that can be."
"Now previously they were educated by us in gymnastic and
e music."
"That was so," he said.
"And gymnastic, of course, is wholly engaged with coming into
being and passing away. For it oversees growth and decay in the body."
"It looked that way."
"So it wouldn't be the study we are seeking."
522 a "No, it wouldn't."
"And is music, so far as we described it before?"
"But it," he said, "was the antistrophe^ to gymnastic, if you re-
member. It ediipated the guardians through habits, transmitting by har-
mony a certain harmoniousness, not knowledge, and by rhythm a cer-
tain rhythmicalness. And connected with it were certain other habits,
akin to these, conveyed by speeches, whether they were tales or
speeches of a truer sort. But as for a study directed toward something
b of the sort you are now seeking, there was nothing of the kind in it.
[ 200 ]
Book VII 1 521b-523a socrates/glaucojst
"Your reminder to me is quite precise," I said. "For, really, it had 522 b
nothing of the sort. But Glaucon, you demonic man, what could
there be that is like this? For all the arts surely seemed to be me-
^^chanical."
"Certainly they were. And, yet, what other study is left now separate
jErom music, gymnastic, and the arts?"
"Come, then," I said, "if we have nothing left to take besides
these, let's take something that applies to them all."
"What kind of thing?"
"For example, this common thing that all kinds of art, thought, c
"and knowledge use as a supplement to themselves, a thing that it is
necessary for everyone to learn among his first studies."
"What's that?" he said.
"The lowly business," I said, "of distinguishing the one, the two,
and the three. I mean by this, succinctly, number and calculation. Or
r isn't it the case vvdth them that every kind of art and knowledge is com-
'pelled to participate in them?"
"Very much so," he said.
i "The art of war too?" I said.
I "Most necessarily," he said.
I "At all events," I said, "in the tragedies Palamedes is constantly d
I showing up Agamemnon as a most ridiculous general. Or haven't you
pnoticed that he says that by discovering number he established the
Idispositions for the army at Ilium and counted the ships and everything
lelse, as though before that they were uncounted and Agememnon
fdidn't know how many feet he had, if he really didn't know how to
fcount?!^ And, if this is the case, what kind of general do you suppose
the was?"
I "A strange one," he said, "if this was true."
I, "Shall we not then," I said, "set dov^ai as a study necessary for a e
Iwarrior the ability to calculate and to number?"
^ "Most of all," he said, "if he's going to have any professional knowl-
^-edge of the order of the army, but I should say rather, if he's going to be a
I human being."
k "Do you," I said, "notice the same thing I do in this study?'
i "What?"
^ "It probably is one of ^those things we are seeking that by nature 523 a
•lead to intellection; but no one uses it rightly, as a thing that in every
p'ay is apt to draw men toward being. "
"How do you mean?" he said.
"I shall attempt to make at least my opinion plain. Join me in
llooking at the things I distinguish for myself as leading or not leading
[ 201 ]
socrates/glaucon the REPUBLjq
523 a to what we are speaking of; and agree or disagree so that we may see
more clearly whether this is as I divine it to be. "
"Show," he said.
"Here, I show," I said, "if you can make it out, that some objects
b of sensation do not summon the intellect to the activity of investigation
because they seem to be adequately judged by sense, while others bid it
in every way to undertake a consideration because sense seems to pro-
duce nothing healthy."
"Plainly you mean things that appear from far ofiF," he said, "and
shadow paintings."
"You have hardly got my meaning," I said.
"Then, what do you mean?" he said.
"The ones that don't summon the intellect," I said, "are all those
c that don't at the same time go over to the opposite sensation. But the
ones that do go over 1 class among those that summon the intellect,
when the sensation doesn't reveal one thing any more than its opposite,
regardless of whether the object strikes the senses from near or far off.
But you will see my meaning more clearly this way: these, we say,
would be three fingers — the smallest, the second, and the middle. "^i
"Certainly," he said.
"Think of them while I'm speaking as if they were being seen up close.
Now consider this about them for me."
"What?"
"Surely each of them looks equally like a finger, and in this
d respect it makes no difference whether it's seen in the middle or on the
extremes, whether it's white or black, or whether it's thick or thin, or
anything else of the sort. In all these things the soul of the many is not
compelled to ask the intellect what a finger is. For the sight at no point
indicates to the soul that the finger is at the same time the opposite of a
finger. "
"No," he said, "it doesn't."
"Then, " 1 said, "it isn't likely that anything of the sort would be
e apt to summon or awaken the activity of intellect. "
"No, it's not likely."
"Now what about this? Does the sight see their bigness and Ht-
tleness adequately, and does it make no difference to it whether a finger
hes in the middle or on the extremes? And similarly with the touch, for
thickness and thinness or softness and hardness? And do the other
senses reveal such things without insufficiency? Or doesn't each of
524 a them do the following: first, the sense set over the hard is also com-
pelled to be set over the soft; and it reports to the soul that the same
thing is sensed by it as both hard and soft? "
[ 202 ]
Book Vll / 523a-524d glaucon/socrate
"So it does,"' he said. 524 ,
"Isn't it necessary," I said, "that in such cases the soul be at a loss
as to what this sensation indicates by the hard, if it says that the same
thing is also soft, and what the sensation of the light and of the heavy
indicates by the light and heavy, if it indicates that the heavy is light
and the light heavy?"
"Yes, indeed," he said, "these are strange interpretations received
by the soul and require further consideration."
"Therefore," I said, "it's likely that in such cases a soul, sum-
moning calculation and intellect, first tries to determine whether each
of the things reported to it is one or two."
"Of course."
"If it appears to be two, won't each of the two appear to be dif-
ferent and to be one?"
"Yes."
"Then, if each is one and both two, the soul will think the two as
separate. For it would not think the inseparable as two but as one."
"Right."
"But sight, too, saw big and little, we say, not separated, however,
but mixed up together. Isn't that so?"
"Yes."
"In order to clear this up the intellect was compelled to see big
and little, too, not mixed up together but distinguished, doing the op-
posite of what the sight did."
Irue.
"Isn't it from here that it first occurs to us to ask what the big and
the little are?"
"That's entirely certain."
"And so, it was on this ground that we called the one intelligible
and the other visible."
"Quite right," he said.
"Well, then, this was what I was just trying to convey in saying
that some things are apt to summon thought, while others are not,
defining as apt to summon it those that strike the sense at the same time
as their opposites, while all those that do not, are not apt to arouse in-
tellection."
"Well, now I understand," he said, "and in my opinion it is so."
"What then? To which of the two do number and the one seem to
belong?"
"I can't conceive," he said.
"Figure it out on the basis of what was said before," I said.
"For if the one is adequately seen, itself by itself, or is grasped by
[ 203 ]
SOCRAWGI..CON THE REPUBLIC
524 e some other sense, it would not draw men toward being, as we were
saying about the finger. But if some opposition to it is always seen at
the same time, so that nothing looks as though it were one more than
the opposite of one, then there would now be need of something to
judge; and in this case, a soul would be compelled to be at a loss and
to make an investigation, setting in motion the intelligence within it,
and to ask what the one itself is. And thus the study of the one would
525 a be among those apt to lead and turn around toward the contempla-
tion of what is!'
"Surely," he said, "the sight, with respect to the one, possesses
this characteristic to a very high degree. For we see the same thing at
the same time as both one and as an unlimited multitude."
"If this is the case with the one," I said, "won't it be the same for
all number?"
"Of course."
"And, further, the arts of calculation and number are both wholly
concerned with number."^^
"Quite so."
}) "Then it looks as if they lead toward truth."
"Preternaturally so."
"Therefore, as it seems, they would be among the studies we are
seeking. It's necessary for a warrior to learn them for the sake of his
dispositions for the army, and for a philosopher because he must rise
up out of becoming and take hold of being or else never become skilled
at calculating."
"That's so," he said.
"And our guardian is both warrior and philosopher."
"Certainly."
"Then it would be fitting, Glaucon, to set this study down in law
and to persuade those who are going to participate in the greatest
c things in the city to go to calculation and to take it up, not after the
fashion of private men, but to stay with it until they come to the con-
templation of the nature of numbers with intellection itself, not practic-
ing it for the sake of buying and selling like merchants or tradesmen,
but for war and for ease of turning the soul itself around from becom-
ing to truth and being."
"What you say is very fine," he said.
"And further," I said, "now that the study of calculation has been
d mentioned, I recognize how subtle it is and how in many ways it is
useful to us for what we want, if a man practices it for the sake of com-
ing to know and not for trade."
"In what way?" he said.
[ 204 ]
Book VII 1 524c-526e socrates/gi^ucon
"In the very way we were just now saying. It leads the soul power- 525 d
fully upward and compels it to discuss numbers themselves. It won't at
all permit anyone to propose for discussion numbers that are attached
to visible or tangible bodies. For surely, you know the way of men who
are clever in these things. If in the argument someone attempts to cut
the one itself, they laugh and won't permit it. If you try to break it up e
into small coin, they multiply, taking good care against the one's ever
looking like it were not one but many pieces."
"What you say is very true, " he said.
"What, Glaucon, do you suppose, would happen if someone 526 a
were to ask them, 'you surprising men, what sort of numbers are
you discussing, in which the one is as your axiom claims it to be —
each one equal to every other one, without the slightest difference
between them, and containing no parts within itself?' What do you
suppose they would answer?"
"I suppose they would answer that they are talking about those
numbers that admit only of being thought and can be grasped in no
other way."
"Do you see, then, my friend, " I said, "that it's likely that this b
study is really compulsory for us, since it evidently compels the soul
to use the intellect itself on the truth itself? "
"It most certainly does do that, " he said.
"What about this? Have you already observed that men who
are by nature apt at calculation are naturally quick in virtually all
studies, while those who are slow, if they are educated and given
gymnastic in it, all make progress by becoming quicker than they
were, even if they are benefited in no other way? "
"That's so," he said.
"And, further, I don't suppose you would easily find many studies c
that take greater effort in the learning and in the practice than this."
"Certainly not."
"Then, for all these reasons this study shouldn't be neglected, and
the best natures must be educated in it."
"I join my voice to yours, " he said.
"Therefore we have settled on this one, " I said. "And let's con-
sider whether the study adjpining this one is in any way suitable. "
"What is it? " he said. "Or do you mean geometry?"
"That's exactly it, " I said.
"As much of it as applies to the business of war is plainly d
suitable," he said. "In pitching camp, assaulting places, gathering the
army together and drawing it up in line, and in all other maneuvers ar-
[ 205 ]
slaucon/socrates the REPUBLIq
526 d mies make in the battle itself and on marches, it would make quite a
difference to a man whether he were skilled in geometry or not. "
"However," 1 said, "for such things only a small portion of
geometry — as of calculation — ^would sufiRce. It must be considered
whether its greater and more advanced part tends to make it easier to
e make out the idea of the good. And we say that this tendency is
possessed by everything that compels the soul to turn around to the
region inhabited by the happiest part of what is, which is what the soul
must by all means see. "
"What you say is right," he said.
"Then if geometry compels one to look at being, it is suitable; if at
becoming, it is not suitable."
"That is what we affirm."
527 a "Well, then," I said, "none of those who have even a little ex-
perience with geometry will dispute it with us: this kind of knowledge
is exactly the opposite of what is said about it in the arguments of those
who take it up."
"How?" he said.
"In that they surely speak in a way that is as ridiculous as it is
necessary. They speak as though they were men of action and were making
all the arguments for the sake of action, uttering sounds like squaring,'
'applying,' 'adding,' and everything of the sort, whereas the whole study is
b surely pursued for the sake of knovving."
"That's entirely certain," he said.
"Mustn't we also come to an agreement about the following
point?"
"What?"
"That it is for the sake of knowing what is always, and not at all
for what is at any time coming into being and passing away. "
"That may well be agreed," he said. "For geometrical knowing is
of what is always."
"Then, you noble man, it would draw the soul toward truth and be
productive of philosophic understanding in directing upward what we
now improperly direct downward. "
"It does so, " he said, "to the greatest extent possible."
c "Then to the greatest extent possible," I said, "the men in your
beautiful city^^ must be enjoined in no way to abstain from geom-
etry. For even its by-products aren't slight. "
"What are they? " he said.
"What you said about war, of course, " I said, "and, in addition,
with respect to finer reception of all studies, we surely know there is a
general and complete difference between the man who has been
devoted to geometry and the one who has not."
[ 206 ]
Book VII I 526d-528c glaucon/socrates
"Yes, by Zeus," he said, "the difference is complete." 527 c
"Then, shall we set this down as the second study for the young?"
"Yes," he said, "we shall set it down."
"And what about this? Shall we set astronomy down as the third? d
Or doesn't it seem to be the thing?"
"It does, at least to me," he said. "A better awareness of seasons,
months and years is suitable not only for farming and navigation, but
no less so for generalship."
"You are amusing," I said. "You are like a man who is afraid of
the many in your not wanting to seem to command useless studies. It's
scarcely an ordinary thing, rather it's hard, to trust that in these studies
a certain instrument of everyone's soul — one that is destroyed and e
blinded by other practices — is purified and rekindled, an instrument
more important to save than ten thousand eyes. For with it alone is
truth seen. To those who share your opinion about this, what you say
will seem indescribably good, while all those who have had no
awareness at all of it can be expected to believe you are talking non-
sense. They see no other benefit from these studies worth mentioning.
Consider right here with which of these two kinds of men you are 528 a
discussing. Or are you making the arguments for neither but chiefly for
your own sake, without, however, grudging anyone else who might be
able to get some profit from them?"
"I choose the latter," he said, "to speak and ask and answer
mostly for my own sake."
"Well, then," I said, "retreat a way.^'* What we took up as
following geometry just now wasn't right."
"Where was the mistake?" he said.
"After a plane surface," I said, "we went ahead and took a solid
in motion before taking it up by itself. But the right way is to take up b
the third dimension^^ next in order after the second, and this is
surely the dimension of cubes and what participates in depth."
"Yes, it is," he said. "But, Socrates, it doesn't seem to have been
discovered yet."i^
"Of that," I said, "there are two causes. Because no city holds it
in honor, it is feebly sought due to its difficulty. And those who seek for
it need a supervisor, without whom they would not find it. And, in the
first place, he's hard to come by; and then, even when he's there, as
things stand he wouldn't be obeyed by those given to seeking it because
of their high opinion of themselves. But if a whole city should join in c
supervising it and take the lead in honoring it, these men would obey;
and, with it being continuously and eagerly sought for, its character
would come to light; for even now, although it is despised and cut short
by the many, and by those who seek it, since they have no account to
[ 207 ]
socrates/glaucon the REPUBLJp
528 c give of the way it is useful, nevertheless in the face of all this it grows
perforce, due to its charm. So it wouldn't be at all surprising if it came
to light."
d "Yes, indeed," he said, "it is exceptionally charming. But tell me
more clearly what you meant just now; you presumably set geometry
down as that which treats of the plane."
"Yes," I said.
"Then," he said, "at first you set down astronomy after geometry
but later you withdrew."
"My haste to go through everything quickly is the cause of my
being slowed down," I said. "The investigation of the dimension with
depth was next in order, but, due to the ridiculous state of the search
for it, I skipped over it after geometry and said astronomy, which treats
e the motion of what has depth."
"What you say is right," he said.
"Well, then," I said, "as the fourth study let's set dovim astron-
omy, assuming that the study that is now being left aside will be
present if a city pursues it."
"That's likely," he said. "And on the basis of the reproach you
just made me for my vulgar praise of astronomy, Socrates, now I shall
529 a praise it in the way that you approach it. In my opinion it's plain to
everyone that astronomy compels the soul to see what's above and leads
it there away from the things here."
"Perhaps it's plain to everyone except me," I said. "In my
opinion, that's not the way it is."
"Then how is it?" he said.
"As it is taken up now by those who lead men up to philosophy, it
has quite an effect in causing the soul to look downward."
"How do you mean?" he said.
"In my opinion," I said, "it's no ignoble conception you have for
yourself of what the study of the things above is. Even if a man were to
b learn something by tilting his head back and looking at decorations on
a ceiling, you would probably believe he contemplates with his intellect
and not his eyes. Perhaps your belief is a fine one and mine innocent. I,
for my part, am unable to hold that any study makes a soul look up-
ward other than the one that concerns what is and is invisible. And if a
man, gaping up^^* or squinting down, attempts to learn something of
sensible things, I would deny that he ever learns — for there is no
c knowledge of such things — or that his soul looks up, rather than down,
even if he learns while floating on his back on land or sea."
"I am paying the just penalty," he said. "You are right in re-
proaching me. But just what did you mean when you said that
[ 208 ]
Book VII / 528c-530c glaucon/socrates
astronomy must be studied in a way contrary to the one in which 529 c
they now study it, if it's going to be studied in a way that's helpful
for what we are talking about?"
"As follows," I said. "These decorations in the heaven, since they
are embroidered on a visible ceiling, may be believed to be the fairest
and most precise of such things; but they fall far short of the true ones, d
those movements in which the really fast and the really slow— in true
number and in all the true figures — are moved with respect to one
another and in their turn move what is contained in them. They, of
course, must be grasped by argument and thought, not sight. Or do you
suppose otherwise?"
"Not at all," he said.
"Therefore," I said, "the decoration in the heaven must be used as
patterns for the sake of learning these other things, just as if one were
to come upon diagrams exceptionally carefully drawn and worked out e
by Daedalus or some other craftsman or painter. A man experienced in
geometry would, on seeing such things, presumably believe that they
are fairest in their execution but that it is ridiculous to consider them
seriously as though one were to grasp the truth about equals, doubles,
or any other proportion in them." 530 a
"How could it be anything but ridiculous?" he said.
"Then," I said, "don't you suppose that a man who is really an as-
: tronomer will have the same persuasion in looking at the movements of
the stars? He will hold that the craftsman^^ of heaven composed it
and what's in it as beautifully as such works can be composed. But as
• for the proportion of night to day, of these to a month, of a month to a
: year, and of the rest of the stars to these and to one another, don't you
J think he will consider strange the man who holds that these are always b
the same and deviate in no way at all? For these things are connected
with body and are visible. Hence won't he consider it strange to seek in
every way to grasp their truth?"
"That is my opinion," he said, "at least now that I am listening to
you."
"Therefore," I said, "by the use of problems, as in geometry, we
shall also pursue astronomy; and we shall let the things in the heaven
' go, if by really taking part in astronomy we are going to convert the
^ prudence by nature in the soul from uselessness to usefulness." c
"The task you prescribe," he said, "is many times greater than
what is now done in astronomy."
V "And," I said, "I suppose our prescriptions in the rest will also be
' of the same kind, if we are to be of any help as lawgivers. But have you
any suitable study to suggest?"
[ 209 ]
glaucon/sochates THE REPUBLIq
530 c No, I haven't/' he said, "at least not right now." |
"However," I said, "motion presents itself not in one form but 1
d several, as I suppose. Perhaps whoever is wise will be able to tell them i
all, but those that are evident even to us are two." J
"What are they?"
"In addition to astronomy " I said "there is its antistrophe."
"What's that?"
"It is probable," J said, "that as the eyes are fixed on astronomy,
so the ears are fixed on harmonic movement, and these two kmds of
knowledge are in a way akin, as the Pythagoreans say and we, Glaucon,
agree. Or what shall we do?"
"That," he said.
"Then," I said, "since it's a big job, we'll inquire of the
Pythagoreans what they mean about them and if there is anythmg else
besides them. But throughout all of this we shall keep a guard over our
interest."
"What's that?"
"That those whom we shall be rearing should never attempt to
learn anything imperfect, anything that doesn't always come out at the
point where everything ought to arrive, as we were just saymg about as-
531 a tronomy. Or don't you know that they do something similar with har-
mony too? For, measuring the heard accords and sounds agamst one
another, they labor without profit like the astronomers. ^^
"Yes, by the gods," he said "and how ridiculous they are. They
name certain notes 'dense'20 and set their ears alongside, as though
they were hunting a voice from the neighbors' house. Some say they
distinctly hear still another note in bet^veen and that this is the smallest
interval by which the rest must be measured, while others insist that it
b is like those already sounded. Both put ears before the intelligence.
"You mean," I said, "those good men who harass the strings and
put them to the torture, rackingthem on the pegs. I wont profong the
image with the blows struck by the plectrum, and the accusation
against the strings, and their denial and imposture.^^ I will put an
end to the image by saying that it isn't these men I mean but those
whom we just now said we are going to question about harmony. They
do the same thing the astronomers do. They seek the numbers m these
heard accords and don't rise to problems, to the consideration of which
numbers are concordant and which not, and why in each case.
"The thing you are speaking of," he said, "is demonic.
Useful, rather, for the quest after the fair and the good, I said,
"but pursued in any other way it is useless."
That s likely," he said
[ 210 ]
Book VII / 530c-532d socrates/glaucon
"And I suppose," I said, "that if the inquiry into all the things we 531 c
have gone through arrives at their community and relationship with d
one another, and draws conclusions as to how they are akin to one
another, then the concern with them contributes something to what we
want, and is not a labor without profit, but otherwise it is."
"I, too, divine that this is the case," he said. "But it's a very big
job you speak of, Socrates."
"Do you mean the prelude or what?' I said. "Or don't we know
that all of this is a prelude to the song22 itself which must be
learned? For surely it's not your opinion that the men who are clever at
these things are dialecticians."
"No, by Zeus," he said, "with the exception of a very few whom I
have encountered."
"But," I said, "was it ever your opinion that men who are unable
to give an account and receive one will ever know anything of what we
say they must know?"
"To this question too," he said, "the answer is no."
"Glaucon," I said, "isn't this at last the song itself that dialectic 532 a
performs? It is in the realm of the intelligible, but it is imitated by the
power of sight. We said that sight at last tries to look at the animals
themselves and at stars themselves and then finally at the sun itself. So
Jalso, when a man tries by discussion— by means of argument without
; the use of any of the senses — to attain to each thing itself that is and
j doesn't give up before he grasps by intellection itself that which is good b
|itself, he comes to the very end of the intelligible realm just as that
tbther man was then at the end of the visible."
"That's entirely certain," he said.
"What then? Don't you call this journey dialectic?"
"Of course."
"Then," I said, "the release from the bonds and the turning
around from the shadows to the phantoms and the light, the way up
from the cave to the sun; and, once there, the persisting inability to
look at the animals and the plants and the sun's light, and looking in-
stead at the divine appearances in water and at shadows of the things c
(that are, rather than as before at shadows of phantoms cast by a light
ithat, when judged in comparison with the sun, also has the quality of
'" a shadow of a phant6m— all this" activity of the arts, which we
, went through, has the power to release and leads what is best in the
.soul up to the contemplation of what is best in the things that are,
I just as previously what is clearest in the body was led to the con-
I'templation of what is brightest in the region of the bodily and the
' visible." d
[ 211 ]
j^ucon/sockates the republic
32 d "I accept this as so," he said. "It seems to me extremely hard to
accept, however, but in another way hard not to accept. All the
same— since it's not only now that these things must be heard, but they
must all be returned to many times in the future— taking for granted
that this is as has now been said, let's proceed to the song itself and go
through it just as we went through the prelude. So tell what the charac-
ter of the power of dialectic is, and, then, into exactly what forms it is
e divided; and finally what are its ways. For these, as it seems, would lead
at last toward that place which is for the one who reaches it a haven
from the road, as it were, and an end of his journey."
53 a "You will no longer be able to follow, my dear Glaucon," I said,
"although there wouldn't be any lack of eagerness on my part. But you
would no longer be seeing an image of what we are saying, but rather
the truth itself, at least as it looks to me. Whether it is really so or not
can no longer be properly insisted on. But that there is some such thing
to see must be insisted on. Isn't it so?"
"Of course."
"And, also, that the power of dialectic alone could reveal it to a
man experienced in the things we just went through, while it is in no
other way possible?"
"Yes," he said, "it's proper to insist on that too."
h "At least," I said, "no one will dispute us when we say that some
other inquiry methodically^^ attempts with respect to everything to
grasp— about each several thing itself— what each is. For all the other
arts are directed to human opinions and desires, or to generation and
composition, or to the care of what is grown or put together. And as for
the rest, those that we said do lay hold of something of what
is — geometry and the arts following on it— we observe that they do
dream about what is; but they haven't the capacity to see it in full
c awakeness so long as they use hypotheses and, leaving them untouched,
are unable to give an account of them. When the beginning is what one
doesn't know, and the end and what comes in betwe:en are woven out of
what isn't known, what contrivance is there for ever turning such an
agreement into knowledge?"
"None," he said.
"Then," I said, "only the dialectical way of inquiry proceeds in
this direction, destroying the hypotheses, to the beginning itself in or-
der to make it secure; and when the eye of the soul is really buried in a
d barbaric bog,^^ dialectic gently draws it forth and leads it up above,
using the arts we described as assistants and helpers in the turning
around. Out of habit we called them kinds of knowledge several times,
but they require another name, one that is brighter than opinion but
[ 212 ]
Book VII / 532d-534d socrates/glaucon
dimmer than knowledge. Thought was, I believe, the word by which we 533 d
previously distinguished it. But, in my opinion, there is no place for
dispute about a name when a consideration is about things so great as e
those lying before us."
"No, there isn't," he said.^^
"Then it will be acceptable," I said, "just as before, to call the first
part knowledge, the second thought, the third trust, and the fourth
imagination; and the latter two taken together, opinion, and the former 534 a
two, intellection. And opinion has to do with coming into being and in-
tellection with being; and as being is to coming into being, so is in-
tellection to opinion; and as intellection is to opinion, so is knowledge
to trust and thought to imagination. But as for the proportion between
the things over which these are set and the division into two parts of
each— the opinable and the intelligible — let's let that go, Glaucon, so
as not to run afoul of arguments many times longer than those that have
been gone through."
"Well," he said, "about the rest, insofar as I am able to follow^, I b
share your opinion."
"And do you also call that man dialectical who grasps the reason
for the being of each thing? And, as for the man who isn't able to do so,
to the extent he's not able to give an account of a thing to himself and
another, won't you deny that he has intelligence with respect to it?"
"How could I affirm that he does?" he said.
"Isn't it also the same with the good? Unless a man is able to
separate out the idea of the good from all other things and distinguish it c
in the argument, and, going through every test, as it were in bat-
tle—eager to meet the test of being rather than that of opinion— he
comes through all this with the argument still on its feet; you will deny
that such a man knows the good itself, or any other good? And if he
somehow lays hold of some phantom of it, you will say that he does so
by opinion and not knowledge, and that, taken in by dreams and slum-
bering out his present life, before waking up here he goes to Hades and
falls finally asleep there?" d
"Yes, by Zeus," he said. "I shall certainly say all that."
"Then, as for those children of yours whom you are rearing and
educating in speech, if you should ever rear them in deed, I don't sup-
pose that while they are as irrational as lines^® you would let them
rule in the city and be the sovereigns of the greatest things."
"No, I wouldn't," he said.
"Then will you set it down as a law to them that they pay special
attention to the education on the basis of which they will be able to
question and answer most knowledgeably?"
[ 213 ]
jvucon/socrates the REPUBLIq
534 e "I shall join with you," he said, "in setting down this law."
"Is it your opinion," I said, "that we have placed dialectic at the
top of the studies like a coping stone, and that no other study could
rightly be set higher than this one, but that the treatment of the studies
535 a has already reached its end?"
"Yes, it is my opinion," he said.
"Well, then," I said, "the distribution is still ahead of you. To
whom shall we give these studies and how shall we do it?"
"That's plainly the next question," he said.
"Do you remember, in the former selection of the rulers, what sort
of men we selected?"
"How could I not remember?" he said.
"Well, then, so far as most of the requirements go, suppose that
those are the natures that must be chosen," I said. "The steadiest and
most courageous must be preferred and, insofar as possible, the best
h looking. But besides this, one must seek for men who are not only by
disposition noble and tough, but who also possess those qualities in
their nature that are conducive to this education."
"What do, you determine them to be?"
"Keenness at studies, you blessed man," I said, "is a prerequisite
for them, and learning without difficulty. For souls, you know, are far
more likely to be cowardly in severe studies than in gymnastic. The
labor is closer to home in that it is the soul's privately and not shared in
common with the body. "
"True," he said.
c "And, of course, a man with a memory and who is firm and
wholly a lover of labor must be sought. Or in what way do you suppose
anyone will be willing both to perform the labors of the body and to
complete so much study and practice?"
"No one would," he said, "unless he has an entirely good nature."
"At any rate," I said, "the current mistake in philosophy — as a
result of which, as we also said before, dishonor has befallen
philosophy — ^is that men who aren't worthy take it up. Not bastards,
but the genuine should have taken it up. "
"What do you mean? " he said.
d "In the first place," I said, "the man who is to take it up must not
be lame in his love of labor, loving half the labor while having no taste
for the other half. This is the case when a man is a lover of gymnastic
and the hunt and loves all the labor done by the body, while he isn't a
lover of learning or of hstening and isn't an inquirer, but hates the
labor involved in all that. Lame as well is the man whose love of labor
is directed exclusively to the other extreme."
[ 214 ]
Book VII 1 534c-536d glaucon/socrates
"What you say is very true," he said. 535 d
"And likewise with respect to truth," I said, "won't we class as
maimed a soul that hates the willing lie, both finding it hard to endure e
in itself and becoming incensed when others lie, but is content to
receive the unwilling lie and, when it is caught somewhere being
ignorant, isn't vexed but easily accommodates itself, like a svdnish beast, to
wallowing in lack of learning?"
"That's entirely certain," he said. 536 a
"And with respect to moderation," I said, "and courage and
magnificence and all the parts of virtue, a special guard must be kept for
the man who is bastard and the one who is genuine. When a private
man and a city don't know how to make a complete consideration of
such things, for whatever services they happen to need they unawares
employ lame men and bastards as friends or rulers."
"That's just the way it is, " he said.
"So," I said, "we must take good care of all such things since, if
we bring men straight of limb and understanding to so important a b
study and so important a training and educate them. Justice herself viill
not blame us, and we shall save the city and the regime; while, in
bringing men of another sort to it, we shall do exactly the opposite
and also pour even more ridicule over philosophy. "
"That," he said, "would indeed be shameful."
"Most certainly," I said. "But I seem to have been somewhat
ridiculously affected just now."
"How's that?" he said.
"I forgot," I said, "that we were playing and spoke rather in- c
tensely. For, as I was talking 1 looked at Philosophy and, seeing her
underservingly spattered viith mud, I seem to have been vexed and said
what I had to say too seriously as though my spiritedness were aroused
against those who are responsible. "
"No, by Zeus," he said, "that's not the way you seemed to me, the
listener. "
"But to me, the speaker," I said. "And let's not forget that in our
former selection we were picking old men, but in this one that isn't admissi-
ble. For we mustn't trust Solon when he says that in growing old a man d
is able to learn much; he's less able to do that than to run, and all the
great and numerous labors belong to the young."
"Necessarily," he said.
"Well then, the study of calculation and geometry and all the pre-
paratory education required for dialectic must be put before them as
children, and the instruction must not be given the aspect of a compul-
sion to learn."
[ 215 ]
glaucon/socrates IHili KiLrUULIC
536 d "Why not?"
e "Because," I said, "the free man ought not to learn any study
slavishly. Forced labors performed by the body don't make the body
any worse, but no forced study abides in a soul."
"True," he said.
"Therefore, you best of men," I said, "don't use force in training
"is? a the children in the studies, but rather play. In that way you can also
better discern what each is naturally directed toward."
"What you say makes sense." he said.
"Don't you remember," I said, "that we also said that the children
must be led to war on horseback as spectators; and, if it's safe
anywhere, they must be led up near and taste blood, like the pup-
pies?"
"I do remember," he said.
"Then in all these, labors, studies, and fears," I said, "the boy who
shows himself always readiest must be chosen to join a select num-
ber."
jy "At what age?" he said.
"After they are released from compulsory gymnastic," I said.
"For this is a time, whether it is two or three years, during which it is
impossible to do anything else. Weariness and sleep are enemies of
studies. And, at the same time, one of their tests, and that not the
least, is what each will show himself to be in gymnastic."
"Of course," he said.
"Then, after this time," I said, "those among the twenty-year-olds
who are given preference will receive greater honors than the others.
And the various studies acquired without any particular order by the
c children in their education must be integrated into an overview^^
which reveals the kinship of these studies with one another and with
the nature of that which is."
"At least, only such study," he said, "remains fast in those who
receive it."
"And it is the greatest test," I said, "of the nature that is dialec-
tical and the one that is not. For the man who is capable of an overview
is dialectical while the one who isn't, is not."
"I share your belief," he said.
"Well, then," I said, "in terms of these tests, you will have to con-
j sider who among them most meets them and is steadfast in studies and
steadfast in war and the rest of the duties established by law.^s And
to these men, in turn, when they are over thirty, you will give pref-
erence among the preferred and assign greater honors; and you must
[ 216 ]
Book VII / 536d-538c socrates/glaucon
consider, testing them with the power of dialectic, who is able to 537 d
release himself from the eyes and the rest of sense and go to that which
is in itself and accompanies truth. And here, my comrade, you have a
job requiring a great deal of guarding."
"Of what in particular?" he said.
"Don't you notice," I said, "how great is the harm coming from e
the practice of dialectic these days?"
"What's that?" he said.
"Surely its students," I said, "are filled full with lawlessness." -
"Very much so," he said.
"Do you suppose it's any wonder," I said, "that they are so af-
fected, and don't you sympathize?"
"Why exactly should I?" he said.
"It is like the case of changeling child," I said, "reared in much
wealth, in a numerous and great family amidst many flatterers, who on 538 a
reaching manhood becomes aware that he does riot belong to these pre-
tended parents and isn't able to find those who really gave him birth.
Can you divine how he would be disposed toward the flatterers and
toward those who made the change, in the time when he didn't know
about the change, and then again when he did know it? Or do you want
to listen while I do the divining?"
"That's what I want," he said.
"Well, then," I said, "I divine that in the time when he doesn't
know the truth he would be more likely to honor his father and his b
mother and the others who seem to be his kin than those who flatter
him. And he would be less likely to overlook any of their needs, less
likely to do or say anything unlawful to them, and less likely to disobey
them in the important things than the flatterers."
"That's to be expected," he said.
"And, when he has become aware of that which is, I divine that
now he would relax his honor and zeal for these people and intensify
them for the flatterers, be persuaded by them a great deal more than
before, and begin to live according to their ways, and have unconcealed c
relations with them. For that father and the rest of the adoptive kin,
unless he is by nature particularly decent, he wouldn't care."
"Everything you say," he said, "is just the sort of thing that would
happen. But how does this image apply to those who take up argu-
ments?"
"Like this. Surely we have from childhood convictions about
what's just and fair by which we are brought up as by parents, obeying
them as rulers and honoring them."
[ 217 ]
glaucon/sockates THE REPUBLlQ
538 c "Yes, we do."
d "And then there are other practices opposed to these, possessing
pleasures that flatter our soul and draw it to them. They do not per-
suade men who are at all sensible;^^ these men rather honor the
ancestral things and obey them as rulers."
"That's so."
"Then what?" I said. "When a question is posed and comes to the
man who is so disposed, 'What is the fair?'— and after answering what
he heard from the lawgiver, the argument refutes him, and refuting him
many times and in many ways, reduces him to the opinion that what
e the law says is no more fair than ugly, and similarly about the just and
good and the things he held most in honor— after that, what do you
suppose he'll do about honoring and obeying as rulers the things he
heard from the lawgiver?"
"Necessarily," he said, "he'll neither honor nor obey them any
longer in the same way."
"Then," I said, "when he doesn't believe, as he did before, that
these things are honorable or akin to him, and doesn't find the true ones,
is it to be expected that he will go to any other sort of life than the
539 a one that flatters him?"^^
"No, it isn't," he said.
"Then, I suppose, he will seem to have become an outlaw from
having been a law-abiding man."
"Necessarily."
"Isn't it to be expected," I said, "that this is what will happen to
those who take up the study of arguments in this way; and as I was just
saying, don't they deserve much sympathy?"
"And pity, too," he said.
"Lest your thirty-year-olds be recipients of this pity, mustn't you
take every kind of precaution when they turn to arguments?"
"Quite so," he said.
b "Isn't it one great precaution not to let them taste of arguments
while they are young? I suppose you aren't unaware that when lads get
their first taste of them, they misuse them as though it were play, al-
ways using them to contradict; and imitating those men by whom they
are refuted, they themselves refute others, like puppies enjoying pulling
and tearing with argument at those who happen to be near."
"They certainly have," he said, "a preternatural tendency in that
direction."
"Then when they themselves refute many men and are refuted by
c many, they fall quickly into a profound disbelief of what they formerly
[ 218 ]
Book VII I 538c-540b socrates/glaucon
believed. And as a result of this, you see, they themselves and the 539 c
whole activity of philosophy become the objects of slander among the
rest of men."
"Very true," he said.
"An older man, however," I said, "wouldn't be willing to par-
ticipate in such madness. He will imitate the man who's willing to
discuss and consider the truth rather than the one who plays and con-
tradicts for the sake of the game. And he himself will be more sensible
and will make the practice of discussion more honorable instead of d
more dishonorable."
"That's right," he said.
"And wasn't everything that was said before this also directed to
precaution— that those with whom one shares arguments are to have
orderly and stable natures, not as is done nowadays in sharing them
with whoever chances by and comes to it without being suited for
it."
"Most certainly," he said.
"If a man is to devote himself exclusively to steady and strenuous
participation in arguments — exercising himself in a gymnastic that is
the antistrophe of the bodily gymnastic — will double the number of
years devoted to gymnastic suffice?"
"Do you mean six years," he said, "or four?" e
"Don't worry about that," I said. "Set it down at five. Now, after
this, they'll have to go down into that cave again for you, and they must
be compelled to rule in the affairs of war and all the offices suitable for
young men, so that they won't be behind the others in experience. And
here, too, they must still be tested whether they will stand firm or give 540 a
way when pulled in all directions."
"How much time do you assign to this?" he said.
"Fifteen years," I said. "And when they are fifty years old, those
who have been preserved throughout and are in every way best at
everything, both in deed and in knowledge, must at last be led to the
end. And, lifting up the brilliant beams of their souls, they must be
compelled to look toward that which provides light for everything.
Once they see the good itself, they must be compelled, each in his turn,
to use it as a pattern for ordering city, private men, and themselves for b
the rest of their lives. Forithe most part, each one spends his time in
philosophy, but when his turn comes, he drudges in politics and rules
for the city's sake, not as though he were doing a thing that is fine, but
one that is necessary. And thus always educating other like men and
leaving them behind in their place as guardians of the city, they go off
[ 219 ]
socrates/glaucon the REPUBLIq
540 h to the Isles of the Blessed and dwell. The city makes public memorials
and sacrifices to them as to demons, if the Pythia is in accord; if not, as
c to happy^i and divine men."
"Just like a sculptor, Socrates," he said, "you have produced
ruling men who are wholly fair."
"And ruling women, too, Glaucon," I said. "Don't suppose that
what I have said applies any more to men than to women, all those who
are born among them with adequate natures."
"That's right," he said, "if they are to share everything in com-
mon equally with the men, as we described it."
d "What then?" I said. "Do you agree that the things we have said
about the city and the regime are not in every way prayers; that they
are hard but in a way possible; and that it is possible in no other way
than the one stated: when the true philosophers, either one or more,
come to power in a city, they will despise the current honors and
believe them to be illiberal and worth nothing. Putting what is right
e and the honors coming from it above all, while taking what is just as
the greatest and the most necessary, and serving and fostering it, they
will provide for their own city."
"How?" he said.
"All those in the city who happen to be older than ten they will
541 a send out to the country; and taking over their children, they will rear
them — ^far away from those dispositions they now have from their
parents — in their own manners and laws that are such as we described
before. And, with the city and the regime of which we were speaking
thus established most quickly and easily, it will itself be happy and
most profit the nation in which it comes to be."
"That is by far the quickest and easiest way," he said. "And how
it would come into being, if it ever were to come into being, you have,
h in my opinion, Socrates, stated well."
"Isn't that enough already," I said, "for our arguments about this
city and the man like it? For surely it's plain what sort of man we'll say
he has to be."
"It is plain," he said. "And as for what you ask, in my opinion
this argument has reached its end."
[ 220 ]
BOOK VIII
"All right. This much has been agreed, Glaucon: for a city that is 543 a
going to be governed on a high level, women must be in common, chil-
dren and their entire education must be in common, and similarly the
practices in war and peace must be in common, and their kings must be
those among them who have proved best in philosophy and with
respect to war."
"Yes," he said, "it has been agreed."
"Furthermore, we also accepted that when the rulers are once b
established, they must take the lead and settle the soldiers in
houses — such as we spoke of before — that have nothing private for
anyone but are common for all. And, in addition to such houses, as to
possessions, if you remember, we presumably came to an agreement
about what sort they are to have."
"Yes, I do remember," he said, "that we supposed that no one
must possess any of the things the others nowadays have; but that like
champions of war and guardians, they will receive a wage annually from the c
others consisting of the bare subsistence required for their guarding,
and for this wage they must take care of themselves and the rest of the
city.
"What you say is right," I said. "But come, since we have com-
pleted this, let's recall where we took the detour that brought us here so
that we can go back to the same way."
221 ]
glaucon/socrates the REPUBLIq
543 c "That's not hard," he said. "You were presenting your arguments
pretty much as you are doing now, as though you had completed youj-
description of what concerns the city, saying that you would class a city
d such as you then described, and the man like it, as good. And you did
544 a this, as it seems, in spite of the fact that you had a still finer city and
man to tell of. Anyhow, you were saying that the other cities are
mistaken if this one is right. Concerning the remaining regimes, as I re-
member, you asserted that there are four forms it is worthwhile to have
an account of, and whose mistakes are worth seeing; and similarly with
the men who are like these regimes; so that, when we have seen them
all and agreed which man is best and which worst, we could consider
whether the best man is happiest and the worst most wretched, or
b whether it is otherwise. 'And just as I was asking which four regimes
you meant, Polemarchus and Adeimantus interrupted. That's how you
picked up the argument and got here."
"What you remember," I said, "is quite correct."
"Well, then, like a wrestler, give me the same hold again; and
when I put the same question, try to tell what you were going to say
then."
"If I am able," I said.
"And, in fact," he said, "I myself really desire to hear what four
regimes you meant."
c "It won't be hard for you to hear them," I said. "For those I mean
are also the ones having names; the one that is praised by the many,
that Cretan and Laconian regime; and second in place and second in
praise, the one called oligarchy, a regime filled with throngs of evils;
and this regime's adversary, arising next in order, democracy; and then
the noble tyranny at last, excelling all of these, the fourth and extreme
illness of a city. Or have you some other idea of a regime that fits into
d some distinct form? For dynasties and purchased kingships and certain
regimes of the sort are somewhere between these, and one would find
them no less among the barbarians than the Greeks."^
"At any rate," he said, "many strange ones are talked about."
"Do you know," I said, "that it is necessary that there also be as
many forms of human characters as there are forms of regimes? Or do
you suppose that the regimes arise 'from an oak or rocks'^ and not
e from the dispositions of the men in the cities, which, tipping the scale
as it were, draw the rest along with them?"
"No," he said. "I don't at all think they arise from anything other
than this."
"Therefore if there are five arrangements of cities, there would al-
so be five for the soul of private men."
"Surely."
222 ]
Book VIII / 543c-S46a socrates/glaucon
"Well, we have already described the man who is like the 544 e
aristocracy, a man of whom we rightly assert that he is both good and
just."
"Yes, we have described him." 545 a
"Must we next go through the worse men— the man who loves
victory and honor, fixed in relation to the Laconian regime; and then,
in turn, an oligarchic and a democratic man, and the tyrannic man, so
that seeing the most unjust man, we can set him in opposition to the
most just man? If so, we can have a complete consideration of how
pure justice is related to pure injustice with respect to the happiness
and wretchedness of the men possessing them. In this way we may be
persuaded either by Thrasymachus and pursue injustice, or by the
argument that is now coming to light and pursue justice." b
"That," he said, "is most certainly what must be done."
"Then, just as we began by considering the various dispositions in
the regimes before considering them in the private men, supposing that
to be the more luminous way; so must we now consider first the regime
that loves honor— I can give no other name that is used for it in com-
mon parlance; it should be called either timocracy or timarchy.^ And,
in relation to this regime, we shall consider the like man, and after that
oligarchy and an oligarchic man. Later, after having looked at c
democracy, we'll view a democratic man; and fourth, having gone to
the city that is under a tyranny and seen it, then looking into a tyran-
nic soul, we shall try to become adequate judges of the subject we pro-
posed for ourselves."
"It would, in any case," he said, "be a reasonable way for the ob-
servation and judgment to take place."
"Well, come, then," I said, "let's try to tell the way in which a
timocracy would arise from an aristocracy. Or is it simply the case that
change in every regime comes from that part of it which holds the d
ruling offices— when faction arises in it— while when it is of one mind,
it cannot be moved, be it composed of ever so few?"
"Yes, that's so."
"Then, Glaucon," I said, "how will our city be moved and in v/hat
way will the auxiliaries and the rulers divide into factions against each
other and among themselves? Or do you want us, as does Homer, to
pray to the Muses to tell us how 'faction first attacked,'^ and shall we e
say that they speak to" us with high tragic talk, as though they were
speaking seriously, playing and jesting with us like children?"
"How?"
"Something like this. A city so composed is hard to be moved. 546 a
But, since for everything that has come into being there is decay, not
even a composition such as this will remain for all time; it will be
[ 223 ]
socbates/glaucon the REPUBLIq
546 a dissolved. And this will be its dissolution: bearing and barrenness of
soul and bodies come not only to plants in the earth but to animals on
the earth when revolutions complete for each the bearing round of
circles; for ones with short lives, the journey is short; for those whose
lives are the opposite, the journey is the opposite. Although they are
b wise, the men you educated as leaders of the city will nonetheless fail to
hit on the prosperous birth and barrenness of your kind with calcula-
tion aided by sensation, but it will pass them by, and they will at some
time beget children when they should not. For a divine birth there is a
period comprehended by a perfect number; for a human birth, by the
first number in which root and square increases, comprising three
distances and four limits, of elements that make like and unlike, and
that wax and wane, render everything conversable and rational. Of
c these elements, the root four-three mated with the five, thrice in-
creased, produces two harmonies. One of them is equal an equal num-
ber of times, taken one hundred times over. The other is of equal length
in one way but is an oblong; on one side, of one hundred rational
diameters of the five, lacking one for each; or, if of irrational diameters,
lacking two for each; on the other side, of one hundred cubes of the
three. This whole geometrical number is sovereign of better and worse
d begettings.^ And when your guardians from ignorance of them cause
grooms to live with brides out of season, the children will have neither
good natures nor good luck. Their predecessors will choose the best of
these children; but, nevertheless, since they are unworthy, when they,
in turn, come to the powers of their fathers, they will as guardians first
begin to neglect us by having less consideration than is required, first,
for music, and, second, for gymnastic; and from there your young will
become more unmusical. And rulers chosen from them won't be guar-
e dians very apt at testing Hesiod's races^ and yours — gold and silver
'47 a and bronze and iron. And the chaotic mixing of iron with silver and of
bronze with gold engenders unlikeness and inharmonious irregularity,
which, once they arise, always breed war and hatred in the place where
they happen to arise. Faction must always be said to be 'of this ances-
try"^ wherever it happens to rise."
"And we'll say," he said, "that what the Muses answer is right."
"Necessarijy," I said. "For they are Muses."
b "What," he said, "do the Muses say next?"
"Once faction had arisen," I said, "each of these two races, the
iron and bronze, pulled the regime toward money-making and the
possession of land, houses, gold, and silver; while the other two, the
gold and the silver— not being poor but rich by nature— led the souls
toward virtue and the ancient establishment. Struggling and straining
against one another, they came to an agreement on a middle way: they
[ 224 ]
Book VIII 1 546a-548c socrates/glaucon
distributed land and houses to be held privately, while those who pre- 547 c
viously were guarded by them as free friends and supporters they then
enslaved and held as serfs and domestics; and they occupied themselves
with war and with guarding against these men."
"In my opinion," he said, "this is the source of this transforma-
tion."
"Wouldn't this regime," I said, "be a certain middle between
aristocracy and oligarchy?"
"Most certainly."
"This will be the way of the transformation. But once transformed,
how will it be governed? Or is it evident that in some things it will imitate d
the preceding regime; in others oligarchy, because it is a middle; and
that it will also have something peculiar to itself?"
"That's the way it is," he said.
"In honoring the rulers, and in the abstention of its war-making
part from farming and the manual arts and the rest of money-making;
in its provision for common meals and caring for gymnastic and the ex-
ercise of war — in all such ways won't it imitate the preceding regime?"
"Yes."
"But in being afraid to bring the wise to the ruling offices — be- e
cause the men of that kind it possesses are no longer simple and
earnest, but mixed — and in leaning toward spirited and simpler men,
men naturally more directed to war than to peace; in holding the wiles
and stratagems of war in honor; and in spending all its time making 548 a
war; won't most such aspects be peculiar to this regime?"
"Yes."
"And such men," I said, "will desire money just as those in oligar-
chies do, and under cover of darkness pay fierce honor to gold and sil-
ver, because they possess storehouses and domestic treasuries where
they can deposit and hide them; and they will have walls around their
houses, exactly like private nests, where they can make lavish expen-
ditures on women and whomever else they might wish." b
"Very true," he said.
"Then they will also be stingy with money because they honor it
and don't acquire it openly; but, pushed on by desire, they will love to
spend other people's money; and they will harvest pleasures stealthily,
running away from the la^ like boys from a father. This is because they
weren't educated by persuasion but by force — the result of neglect of
the true Muse accompanied by arguments and philosphy while giving
more distinguished honor to gymnastic than music." c
"You certainly speak of a reigme," he said, "which is a mixture of
bad and good. "
"Yes, it is mixed," I said, "but due to the dominance of
[ 225 ]
socrates/glaucon/adeimantus the republic
548 c spiritedness one thing alone is most distinctive in it: love of victories
and of honors."
"Very much so," he said.
"Then " I said, "this is the way this regime would come into being
and what it would be like— given the fact that we are only outlining a
d regime's figure in speech and not working out its details precisely, since
even the outline is sufficient for seeing the justest man and the unjustest
one, and it is an impractically long job to go through all regimes and all
dispositions and leave nothing out."
"Right," he said.
"Who, then, is the man corresponding to this regime? How did he
come into being and what sort of man is he?"
"I suppose," said Adeimantus, "that as far as love of victory goes,
he'd be somewhere near to Glaucon here."
e "Perhaps in that," I said, "but in these other respects his nature
does not, in my opinion, correspond to Glaucon's."
"Which respects?"
"He must be more stubborn," 1 said, "and somewhat less apt at
music although he loves it, and must be a lover of hearing although he's
549 a by no means skilled in rhetoric. With slaves such a man would be
brutal, not merely despising slaves as the adequately educated man
does. But with freemen he would be tame and to rulers most obedient.
He is a lover of ruling and of honor, not basing his claim to rule on
speaking or anything of the sort, but on warlike deeds and everything
connected with war; he is a lover of gymnastic and the hunt."
"Yes," he said, "that is the disposition belonging to this regime."
"Wouldn't such a man," I said, "when he is young also despise
b money, but as he grows older take ever more delight in participating in
the money-lover's nature and not be pure in his attachment to virtue,
having been abandoned by the best guardian?"
"What's that?" Adeimantus said.
"Argument mixed with music," I said. "It alone, when it is
present, dwells within the one possessing it as a savior of virtue
throughout life."
"What you say is fine," he said.
"Such, then," I said, "is the timocratic youth, like the timocratic
city." i
c "Most certainly."
"And this is how he comes into being," I said. "Sometimes he is
the young son of a good father who lives in a city that is not under a
good regime, a father who flees the honors, the ruling offices, the law-
[ 226 ]
iBook VIII / 548c-550c sochates/adeimantus
suits, and everything of the sort that's to the busybody's taste, and who 549 c
is wilhng to be gotten the better of so as not to be bothered."
"In what way, then, does he come into being?" he said.
"When," I said, "in the first place, he listens to his mother com-
plaining. Her husband is not one of the rulers and as a result she is at a
disadvantage among the other women. Moreover, she sees that he isn't d
very serious about money and doesn't fight and insult people for its
sake in private actions in courts and in public but takes everything of
the sort in an easygoing way; and she becomes aware that he always
turns his mind to himself and neither honors nor dishonors her very
much. She complains about all this and says that his father is lacking in
courage and too slack, and, of course, chants all the other refrains such
as women are likely to do in cases of this sort." e
"Yes, indeed," said Adeimantus, "it's just like them to have many
complaints."
"And you know," I said, "that the domestics of such men — those
domestics who seem well-disposed — ^sometimes also secretly say
similar things to the sons, and if they see someone who owes him
money or does some other injustice and whom the father doesn't
prosecute, they urge the son to punish all such men when he becomes a
man, and thus to be more of a man than his father. And when the son 550 a
goes out, he hears and sees other similar things — those in the city who
mind their own business called simpletons and held in small account,
and those who don't, honored and praised. Now when the young man
hears and sees all this, and, on the other hand, hears his father's argu-
ments and sees his practices at close hand contrasted with those of the
others, he is drawn by both of these influences. His father waters the
calculating part of his soul, and causes it to grow; the others, the desir- b
ing and spirited parts. Because he doesn't have a bad man's nature, but
has kept bad company with others, drawn by both of these influences,
he came to the middle, and turned over the rule in himself to the mid-
dle part, the part that loves victory and is spirited; he became a
haughty-minded man who loves honor."
"In my opinion," he said, "you have given a complete description
of this man's genesis."
"Therefore," I said, "we have the second regime and the second c
man." i
"We have," he said.
"Then, next, shall we, with Aeschylus, tell of 'another man set
against another city,'^ or rather, shall we follow our plan and tell first
of the city?"
[ 227 ]
ADETMANTUS/SOCRATES THE REPUBLJQ
550 c "Most certainly," he said.
"And, I suppose, oligarchy would come after such a regime."
"What kind of arrangement do you mean by oligarchy?" he said
"The regime founded on a property assessment,"^ I said, "in
d which the rich rule and the poor man^* has no part in ruling ofBce."
"I understand," he said.
"Mustn't it first be told how the transformation from timarchy to
oligarchy takes place?"
"Yes."
"And really," I said, "the way it is transformed is plain even to a
blind man."
"How?"
"The treasure house full of gold," I said, "which each man has
destroys that regime. \ First they seek out expenditures for themselves
and pervert the laws in that direction; they themselves and their wives
disobey them."
"That's likely," he said.
e "Next, I suppose, one man sees the other and enters into a rivalry
with him, and thus they made the multitude like themselves."
"That's likely."
"Well, then," I said, "from there they progress in money-making,
and the more honorable they consider it, the less honorable they con-
sider virtue. Or isn't virtue in tension with wealth, as though each were
lying in the scale of a balance, always inclining in opposite directions?"
"Quite so," he said.
55J a "Surely, when wealth and the wealthy are honored in a city, virtue
and the good men are less honorable."
"Plainly."
"Surely, what happens to be honored is practiced, and what is
without honor is neglected."
"That's so."
"Instead of men who love victory and honor, they finally become
lovers of money-making and money; and they praise and admire the
wealthy man and bring him to the ruling offices, while they dishonor
the poor man."
"Certainly."
"Therefore, don't they then set down a law defining an oligar-
h chic regime by fixing an assessment of a sum of money — where it's
more of an oligarchy, the sum is greater, where less of an oligarchy,
less? Prescribing that the man whose substance is not up to the level of
the fixed assessment shall not participate in the ruling offices, don't
[ 228 ]
iBook VIII 1 550c-552a socrates/adeimantus
5 they either put this into effect by force of arms or, before it comes to 551 b
that, they arouse fear and so estabhsh this regime? Or isn't it that
iway?"
"It certainly is."
"This is, then, speaking generally, its establishment."
"Yes," he said. "But what is the character of the regime? And
iwhat are the mistakes which we were saying it contains?" c
"First," I said, "the very thing that defines the regime is one.
Reflect: if a man were to choose pilots of ships in that way — on the basis of
property assessments — and wouldn't entrust one to a poor man, even if he
were a more skilled pilot — "
"They would make a poor sailing, " he said.
"Isn't this also so for any other kind of rule watsoever?"
"So I suppose, at least."
"Except for a city?" I said. "Or does it also apply to a city?"
"Certainly," he said, "most of all, insofar as it is the hardest and
greatest kind of rule."
"Then oligarchy would contain this one mistake that is of such d
proportions."
"It looks like it."
"And what about this? Is this a lesser mistake than the former
one?"
"What?"
"Such a city's not being one but of necessity two, the city of the
poor and the city of the rich, dwelling together in the same place, ever
plotting against each other. "
"No, by Zeus, " he said, "that's no less of a mistake."
"And further, this isn't a fine thing: their being perhaps unable to
fight any war, first, on account of being compelled either to use the
multitude armed and be more afraid of it than the enemy, or not to use e
it and thus show up as true oligarchs ^^ on the field of battle; and,
besides, on account of their not being willing to contribute money be-
cause they love it."
"No, it's not a fine thing."
"And what about this? That tendency to be busybodies we were
condemning long ago — the same men in such a regime engaged in
farming, money-making and war-making at the same time — does that 552 a
seem right?"
"In no way whatsoever."
"Now see whether this regime is the first to admit the greatest of
all these evils."
[ 229 ]
ADEtMANTUs/sOCRATES THE REPUBLIP
552 a 'rWhatr
"Allowing one man to sell everything that belongs to him and
another to get hold of it; and when he has sold it, allowing him to live
in the city while belonging to none of its parts, called neither a money-
maker, nor a craftsman, nor a knight, nor a hoplite, but a poor man
without means."
h "Yes," he said, "it is the first."
"Then this sort of thing is at least not prevented in oligarchies.
Otherwise some wouldn't be super rich while others are out-and-out
poor."
"Right."
"Reflect on this. When such a man was wealthy and was spending
was he then of any more profit to the city with respect to the functions
we were mentioning just now? Or did he seem to belong to the rulers
while in truth he was neither a ruler nor a servant of the city but a
spender of his means?"
-c "That's the way it was," he said, "he seemed, but was nothing
other than a spender."
"Do you wish us," I said, "to say of him that, as a drone growing
up in a cell is a disease of a hive, such a man growing up in a house is a
drone and a disease of a city?"
"Most certainly, Socrates," he said.
"Hasn't the god made all drones with wings stingless, Adeiman-
tus, but only some drones with feet stingless while others have terrible
stings? From the stingless ones come those who end up as beggars in
d old age, while from those who have stings come all who are called
wrongdoers."
"Very true," he said.
"It's plain, therefore," I said, "that in a city where you see beg-
gars, somewhere in the neighborhood thieves, cutpurses, temple rob-
bers, and craftsmen of all such evils are hidden."
"It is plain," he said.
"What then? In cities under oligarchies don't you see beggars
present?"
"Just about everyone except .the rulers," he said.
e "Aren't we to suppose," I said, "that there are also many
wrongdoers with stings among them, whom the ruling offices diligently
hold down by force?"
"We must certainly suppose so," he said.
"Shall we assert that such men arise there as a result of want of
education, bad rearing, and a bad arrangement of the regime?"
[ 230 ]
figook VIII 1 552a-553e ADElMA^JTus/socRATEs
? "We shall assert it." 552 e
"Well, anyhow, such would be the city under an oligarchy and it
would contain all these evils, and perhaps even more."
"That's pretty nearly it," he said.
"Then let's take it," I said, "that we have developed the regime 553 a
called oligarchy, one that gets its rulers on the basis of a property
assessment, and next let's consider how the man similar to it comes into
being and what he's like once he has come into being."
"Most certainly," he said.
"Is this the principal way in which the transformation from that
timocratic man to an oligarchic one takes place?"
"How?"
"When his son is bom and at first emulates his father and follows
in his footsteps, and then sees him blunder against the city as against a b
reef and waste his property as well as himself. He had either been a
general or had held some other great ruling office, and then got entan-
gled with the court — suffering at the hands of sycophants — and under-
went death, exile, or dishonori^ and lost his whole substance."
"That's likely," he said.
"And the son, my friend, seeing and suffering this and having lost
his substance, is frightened, I suppose, and thrusts love of honor and
spiritedness headlong out of the throne of his soul; and, humbled by c
poverty, he turns greedily to money-making; and bit by bit saving and
working, he collects money. Don't you suppose that such a man now
puts the desiring and money-loving part on the throne, and makes it the
great king within himself, girding it with tiaras, collars, and Persian
swords?"!^
"I do," he said.
"And, I suppose, he makes the calculating and spirited parts sit by d
it on the ground on either side and be slaves, letting the one neither cal-
culate about nor consider anything but where more money will come
from less; and letting the other admire and honor nothing but wealth
and the wealthy, while loving the enjoyment of no other honor than
that resulting from the possession of money and anything that happens
to contribute to getting it."
"There is," he said, "no other transformation so quick and so sure
from a young man who loves honor to one who loves money."
"Is this, then," I said, "the oligarchic man?" e
"At least he is transformed out of a man who was like the regime
out of which oligarchy came."
"Then, let's consider if he would be like."
[ 231 ]
ADEIMANTUS/SOCRATES THE REPUfiLlp"
554 a "Yes, let's consider that. "
"In the first place, wouldn't he be similar in giving the highest
place to money?"
"Of course. "
"And, further, in being stingy and a toiler, satisfying only hj^
necessary desires and not providing for other expenditures, but enslav-
ing the other desires as vanities."
"Most certainly."
"A sort of squalid man," I said, "getting a profit out of everything
filling up his storeroom — exactly the kind of men the multitude
b praises — isn't this the one vi^ho is Uke such a regime?"
"In my opinion, at least," he said. "Money, in any event, is held
in honor above all by the city and by the man like it."
"For I don't suppose," I said, "such a man has devoted himself to
education. "
"Not in my opinion," he said. "Otherwise he vi^ouldn't have set a
blind leader^^ over the chorus and honored it above all."
"Good," I said. "But consider this. Won't w^e say that due to lack
of education dronelike desires come to be in him — some of the beggar
c variety, others of the wrongdoing variety — ^held dovioi forcibly by his
general diligence. "
"Surely," he said.
"Do you know," I said, "to what you must look if you want to see
the wrongdoings of these men?"
"To what?" he said.
"To their guardianship of orphans and any occasion of the kind
that comes their way and gives them a considerable license to do in-
justice. "
Irue.
"Isn't it plain from this that when such a man has a good reputa-
tion in other contractual relations — ^because he seems to be just — he is
d forcibly holding dovioi bad desires, which are there, with some decent
part of himself He holds them dovioi not by persuading them that they
'had better not' nor by taming them vdth argument, but by necessity
and fear, doing so because he trembles for his whole substance."
"Very much so," he said.
"And, by Zeus, my friend," I said, "you'll find the desires that are
akin to the drone present in most of them when they have to spend
what belongs to others."
"Indeed you most certainly will," he said.
"Such a man, therefore, wouldn't be free from faction viithin him-
self; nor would he be simply one, but rather in some sense twofold, al-
[ 232 ]
fi^ook Vin I 554a-55Sd socrates Adeimantus
though for the most part his better desires would master his worse 554 e
desires."
Ihats so.
"Then on this account, I suppose such a man would be more
graceful than many, but the true virtue of the single-minded and har-
monized soul would escape far from him."
"That's my opinion."
"Furthermore, the stingy man is a poor contestant when with his
private means he competes for some victory or any other noble object 555 a
of ambition in a city; he's not willing to spend money for the sake of
good reputation or any such contests. Afraid to awaken the spendthrift
desires and to summon them to an alliance and a love of victory, he
makes war like an oligarch, with a few of his troops, is defeated most of
the time, and stays rich."
"Quite so," he said.
"Do we then still doubt," I said, "that the stingy, money-making
man, in virtue of his likeness, corresponds to the oligarchic city?"
"Not at all," he said. b
"Then, democracy, must, as it seems, be considered next— in
what way it comes into being and, once come into being, what it is
like— so that when we know the character of such a man in his turn, we
can bring him forward for judgment."
"In that," he said, "we would at least be proceeding just as we
were."
"Doesn't," I said, "the transformation from an oligarchy to a
democracy take place in something like the following way, as a restilt
of the insatiable character of the good that oligarchy proposes for it-
self—the necessity of becoming as rich as possible?"
"How?" he said.
"I suppose that because the rulers rule in it thanks to possessing c
much, they are unwilling to control those among the youth who become
licentious by a law forbidding them to spend and waste what belongs
to them— in order that by buying and making loans on the property
of such men they can become richer and more honored."
"That they do above all."
"Isn't it by now plain that it's not possible to honor wealth in a
city and at the same time adequately to maintain moderation among
the citizens, but one or the other is necessarily neglected?" d
"That's fairly plain," he said.
"Then, by their neglect and encouragement of licentiousness in
oligarchies, they have sometimes compelled human beings who are not
ignoble to become poor." ^
[ 233 ]
ADEIMANTUS/SOCRATES THE REPUBLIQ
555 d "Quite so."
"Then I suppose these men sit idly in the city, fitted out with
stings and fully armed, some owing debts, some dishonored, and some
both, hating and plotting against those who acquired what belongs to
them and all the rest too, gripped by a love of change."
e "That's so."
"And these money-makers, with heads bent down, not seeming to
see these men, wound with injections of silver any man among the re-
mainder who yields; and carrying off from the father a multiple oJBF-
556 a spring in interest, ^^ they make the drone and the beggar great in
the city."
"Very great indeed," he said.
"And, at all events," I said, "they aren't vsilling to quench this
kind of evil — as it is bursting into flame — either by preventing a man
from doing what he wants with his property, or, alternatively, by
instituting another law that resolves such cases."
"What law?"
"The one that takes second place to the former law and which
compels the citizens to care for virtue. For if someone were to
b prescribe that most voluntary contracts are to be made at the con-
tractor's own risk, the citizens would make money less shamelessly in
the city and fewer evils of the kind we were just describing would grow
in it."
"Far fewer," he said.
"But, as it is," I said, "for all these reasons, the rulers in the city
treat the ruled in this way. And as for themselves and their own, aren't
their young luxurious and without taste for work of body or of soul, too
c soft to resist pleasures and pains, and too idle?"
"What else could they be?"
"And haven't they themselves neglected everything except money-
making and paid no more attention to virtue than the poor? "
"Yes, they have."
"When the rulers and the ruled, each prepared in this fashion,
come alongside of each other — either wayfaring or in some other com-
munity, on trips to religious festivals or in campaigns, becoming ship-
d mates or fellow soldiers, or even observing one another in dangers
themselves — the poor are now in no wise despised by the rich. Rather
it is often the case that a lean, tanned poor man is ranged in battle next
to a rich man, reared in the shade, surrounded by a great deal of alien
flesh, and sees him panting and full of perplexity. Don't you suppose he
believes that it is due to the vice of the poor that such men are rich, and
when the poor meet in private, one passes the word to the other: 'Those
men are ours. For they are nothing?"
[ 234 ]
Book VIII / 555d-557d adeimantus/socrates
"I certainly know very well," he said, "that this is what they do." 556 e
"Just as a sickly body needs only a slight push from outside to be-
come ill, and sometimes even without any external influence becomes
divided by factions within itself, so too doesn^t a city that is in the same
kind of condition as that body, on a small pretext— men brought in as
allies from outside, from a city under an oligarchy, by the members of
one party, from a city under a democracy by the members of the
other— fall sick and do battle with itself, and sometimes even without
any external influence become divided by faction?"
"That is very much the case." 557 a
"Then democracy, I suppose, comes into being when the poor
win, killing some of the others and casting out some, and share the
regime and the ruling offices with those who are left on an equal basis;
and, for the most part, the offices in it are given by lot."
"Yes," he said, "this is the establishment of democracy, whether
it comes into being by arms or by the others' withdrawing due to fear."
"In what way do these men live?" I said. "And what is the charac-
ter of such a regime? For it's plain that the man who is like it will turn b
out to be democratic."
"Yes, it is plain," he said.
"In the first place, then, aren't they free? And isn't the city full of
freedom and free speech? And isn't there license in it to do whatever
one wants?"
"That is what is said, certainly," he said.
"And where there's license, it's plain that each man would
organize his life in it privately just as it pleases him."
"Yes, it is plain."
"Then I suppose that in this regime especially, all sorts of human c
beings, come to be."
"How could they fail to?"
"It is probably the fairest of the regimes," I said. "Just like a
many-colored cloak decorated in all hues, this regime, decorated with
all dispositions, would also look fairest, and many perhaps," I said,
"like boys and women looking at many -colored things, would judge this
to be the fairest regime."
"Quite so," he said.
"And, what's more, you blessed man," I said, "it's a convenient d
place to look for a regime."
"Why is that?"
"Because, thanks to its license, it contains all species of regimes,
and it is probably necessary for the man who wishes to organize a city,
as we were just doing, to go to a city under a democracy. He would
choose the sort that pleases him, like a man going into a general store
[ 235 ]
socrates/adeimantus > THEREPUBLjp
557 d of regimes, and, once having chosen, he would thus establish his
regime."
e "Perhaps," he said, "he wouldn't be at a loss for patterns at least "
"And the absence of any compulsion to rule in this city," I said
"even if you are competent to rule, or again to be ruled if you don't
want to be, or to make war when the others are making war, or to keep
peace when the others are keeping it, if you don't desire peace; and if
some law prevents you from ruling or being a judge, the absence of any
558 a compulsion keeping you from ruling and being a judge anyhow, if you
long to do so — isn't such a way of passing the time divinely sweet for
the moment?"
"Perhaps," he said, "for the moment."
"And what about this? Isn't the gentleness toward^^ some of
the condemned exquisite? Or in such a regime haven't you yet seen
men who have been sentenced to death or exile, nonetheless staying
and carrying on right in the middle of things; and, as though no one
cared or saw, stalking the land like a hero?"^'^
"Yes, many," he said.
b "And this regime's sympathy and total lack of pettiness in despis-
ing what we were saying so solemnly when we were founding the
city — that unless a man has a transcendent nature he would never be-
come good if from earliest childhood his play isn't noble and all his
practices aren't such— how magnificently it tramples all this underfoot
and doesn't care at all from what kinds of practices a man goes to
c political action, but honors him if only he says he's well disposed
toward the multitude?"
"It's a very noble regime," he said.
"Then, democracy," I said, "would have all this and other things
akin to it and would be, as it seems, a sweet regime, without rulers and
many-colored, dispensing a certain equality to equals and unequals
alike."
"What you say," he said, "is quite well known."
"Reflect, then," I said, "who is the private man like this? Or, just
as we did in the case of the regime, must we first consider how he
comes to be?"
"Yes," he said.
"Isn't it this way? I suppose a son would be born to that stingy,
d oligarchic man, a son reared by his father in his dispositions."
"Of course."
"Now, this son too, forcibly ruling all the pleasures in himself that
are spendthrifty and do not conduce to money-making, those ones that
are called unnecessary — "
"Plainly," he said.
[ 236 ]
Book Vin / 557d-559d socrates/adeimantus
"So that we don't discuss in the dark," I said, "do you want us to 558 d
define the necessary and the unnecessary desires?"
"Yes," he said, "that's what I want."
"Wouldn't those we aren't able to turn aside justly be called
necessary, as well as all those whose satisfaction benefits us? We are by e
nature compelled to long for both of these, aren't we?"
"Quite so."
"Then we shall justly apply the term necessary to them.'' 559 a
"That is just."
"And what about this? If we were to affirm that all those are un-
necessary of which a man could rid himself if he were to practice from
youth on and whose presence, moreover, does no good — and sometimes
even does the opposite of good— would what we say be fine?"
"Fine it would be."
"Then shall we choose an example of what each of them is so that
we can grasp their general types?"
"Yes, we must."
"Wouldn't the desire of eating — as long as it is for health and
good condition, the desire of mere bread and relish — ^be necessary?" b
"I suppose so."
"The desire for bread, at least, is presumably necessary on both
counts, in that it is beneficial and in that it is capable of putting an end
to life."
"Yes."
"And so is the desire for relish, if in any way it is beneficial to
good condition."
"Most certainly."
"But what about the desire that goes beyond toward sorts of food
other than this, of which the many can be rid if it is checked in
youth and educated, and is harmful to the body and to the soul with
respect to prudence and moderation? Wouldn't it rightly be called un- c
necessary?"
"Most rightly indeed."
"Then wouldn't we also assert that the latter desires are
spendthrifty, while the former are money-making because they are
useful^^ for our works?"
"Surely."
"Then won't we also assert the same about sex and the other
desires?"
"Yes, we'll assert the same."
"And weren't we also saying that the man we just named a drone
is full of such pleasures and desires and is ruled by the unnecessary
ones, while the stingy oligarchic man is ruled by the necessary ones?" d
[ 237 ]
ADEIMANTUS/SOCRATES THE REPUBLJQ
559 d "Of course we were."
"Well, then, going back again," I said, "let's say how the demo-
cratic man comes out of the oligarchic one. And it looks to me as
though it happens in most cases like this."
"How?"
"When a young man, reared as we were just saying without educa-
tion and stingily, tastes the drones' honey, and has intercourse with
fiery, clever beasts who are able to purvey manifold and subtle
pleasures with every sort of variety, you presumably suppose that at
e this point he begins his change from an oligarchic regime within himself
to a democratic one."
"Most necessarily," he said.
"Then, just as the city was transformed when an alliance from
outside brought aid to one party, like to like, is the young man also
transformed in the same way when desires of a kindred and like form
from without bring aid to one party of desires within him?"
"That's entirely certain."
"And, I suppose, if a counteralliance comes to the aid of the
oligarchic party in him, either from the advice and scolding of his father
560 a or from other relatives, then faction and counterfaction arise in him and
he does battle with himself."
"Surely."
"And I suppose that at times the democratic party gives way to
the oligarchic; and, with some of the desires destroyed and others ex-
iled, a certain shame arose in the young man's soul, and order was re-
established."
"Sometimes that does happen," he said.
"But I suppose that once again other desires, akin to the exiled
b ones, reared in secret due to the father's lack of knowledge about rear-
ing, came to be, many and strong."
"At least," he said, "that's what usually happens."
"Then, drawn to the same associations, their secret intercourse
bred a multitude."
"Of course."
"And, finally, I suppose they took the acropolis of the young
man's soul, perceiving that it was empty of fair studies and practices
and true speeches, .and it's these that are the best watchmen and guard-
ians in the thought of men whom the gods love."
c "They are by far the best," he said.
"Then, in their absence, false and boasting speeches and opinions
ran up and seized that place in such a young man."
"Indeed they did," he said.
[ 238 ]
^Book VIII / 559d'561c socrates/adeimantus
i "Doesn't he go back again to those Lotus-eaters and openly settle 560 c
E among them? And if some help should come to the stingy element in
t his soul fj-om relatives, those boasting speeches close the gates of the
f kingly wall within him; they neither admit the auxiliary force itself nor
j do they receive an embassy of speeches of older^^ private men, but d
doing battle they hold sway themselves; and naming shame simplicity,
, they push it out with dishonor, a fugitive; calling moderation
cowardliness and spattering it with mud, they banish it;^" persuading
that measure and orderly expenditure are rustic and illiberal, they join
with many useless desires in driving them over the frontier."
"Indeed they do."
"Now, once they have emptied and purged these from the soul of
the man whom they are seizing and initiating in great rites, they pro- e
ceed to return insolence, anarchy, wastefulness, and shamelessness
from exile, in a blaze of light, crowned and accompanied by a
numerous chorus, extolling and flattering them by calling insolence
good education;2i anarchy, freedom; wastefulness, magnificence;
and shamelessness, courage. Isn't it in some such way," I said, "that a 561 a
man, when he is young, changes from his rearing in necessary desires to
the liberation and unleashing of unnecessary and useless pleasures?"
"Yes," he said, "it's quite manifestly that way."
"Then, I suppose that afterward such a man lives spending no
more money, effort, and time on the necessary than on the unnecessary
pleasures. However, if he has good luck and his frenzy does not go
beyond bounds — and if, also, as a result of getting somewhat older and
the great disturbances having passed by, he readmits a part of the exiles b
and doesn't give himself wholly over to the invaders— then he lives his
life in accord with a certain equality of pleasures he has established. To
whichever one happens along, as though it were chosen by the lot, he
hands over the rule within himself until it is satisfied; and then again to
another, dishonoring none but fostering them all on the basis of
equality."
"Most certainly."
"And," I said, "he doesn't admit true speech or let it pass into the
guardhouse, if someone says that there are some pleasures belonging to
fine and good desires and some belonging to bad desires, and that the c
ones must be practiced and honored and the others checked and
enslaved. Rather, he shakes his head at all this and says that all are
alike and must be honored on an equal basis."
"That's exactly," he said, "what a man in this condition does."
"Then," I said, "he also lives along day by day, gratifying the
desire that occurs to him, at one time drinking and listening to the
[ 239 ]
socrates/adeimantus the REPUBLJp
561 c flute, at another downing water and reducing; now practicing gyii^,
d nastic, and again idling and neglecting e:verything; and sometimes
spending his time as though he were occupied with philosophy. Often
he engages in politics and, jumping up, says and does whatever chances
to come to him; and if he ever admires any soldiers, he turns in that
direction; and if it's money-makers, in that one. And there is neither
order nor necessity in his life, but calling this life sweet, free, and
blessed he follows it throughout."22
e "You have," he said, "described exactly the life of a man attached
to the law of equality."
"Well," I said, "I suppose that this man is all-various and full of
the greatest number of dispositions, the fair and many-colored man
like the city. Many men and women would admire his life because it
contains the most patterns of regimes and characters."
"Yes, that is he," he said.
562 a "What then? Shall we set the man of this sort over against
democracy as the one who would rightly be called democratic?"
"Let's do so," he said.
"Then," I said, "the fairest regime and the fairest man would be
left for us to go through, tyranny and the tyrant."
"Certainly," he said.
"Come, now, my dear comrade, what is the manner of tyranny's
coming into being? For it is pretty plain that it is transformed out of
democracy."
"Yes, it is plain."
"Does tyranny come from democracy in about the same manner
b as democracy from oligarchy?"
"How?"
"The good that they proposed for themselves," I said, "and for the
sake of which oligarchy was established, was wealth, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"And then the greediness for wealth and the neglect of the rest for
the sake of money-making destroyed it."
"True," he said.
"And does the greediness for what democracy defines as good also
dissolve it?"
"What do y6u say it defines that good to be?"
"Freedom," I said. "For surely in a city under a democracy you
c would hear that this is the finest thing it has, and that for this rea-
son it is the only regime worth living in for anyone who is by nature
free."
"Yes indeed," he said, "that's an often repeated phrase."
[ 240 ]
Book VIII / 561c-563c socrates/adeimantus
"Then," I said, "as I was going to say just now, does the insatiable 562 c
desire of this and the neglect of the rest change this regime and prepare
a need for tyranny?"
"How?" he said.
"I suppose that when a democratic city, once it's thirsted for free-
dom, gets bad winebearers as its leaders and gets more drunk than it d
should on this unmixed draught, then, unless the rulers are very gentle
and provide a great deal of freedom, it punishes them, charging them
with being polluted and oligarchs."
"Yes," he said, "that's what they do."
"And it spatters with mud those who are obedient, alleging that
they are willing slaves of the rulers and nothings," I said, "while it
praises and honors— both in private and in public— the rulers who are
like the ruled and the ruled who are like the rulers. Isn't it necessary in
such a city that freedom spread to everything?" e
"How could it be otherwise?"
"And, my friend," I said, "for it to filter down to the private
houses and end up by anarchy's being planted in the very beasts?"
"How do we mean that?" he said.
"That a father," I said, "habituates himself to be like his child and
fear his sons, and a son habituates himself to be like his father and to
have no shame before or fear of his parents— that's so he may be free;
and metic is on an equal level with townsman and townsman with
metic, and similarly with the foreigner."^^ 563 a
"Yes," he said, "that's what happens."
"These and other small things of the following kind come to
pass," I said. "As the teacher in such a situation is frightened of the
pupils and fawns on them, so the students make light of their teachers,
as well as of their attendants. And, generally, the young copy their el-
ders and compete with them in speeches and deeds while the old come
down to the level of the young; imitating the young, they are overflow-
ing with facility and charm, and that's so that they won't seem to be b
unpleasant or despotic."
"Most certainly," he said.
"And the ultimate in the freedom of the multitude, my friend," I
said, "occurs in such a city when the purchased slaves, male and
female, are no less free than those who have bought them. And we al-
most forgot to mention the extent of the law of equality and of freedom
in the relations of women with men and men with women."
"Won't we," he said, "with Aeschylus, 'say whatever just came to c
our lips'?"24
"Certainly," 1 said, "I shall do just that. A man who didn't have
[ 241 ]
socrates/adeimantus the republic
563 c the experience couldn't be persuaded of the extent to which beasts sub-
ject to human beings are freer here than in another city. The bitches
follow the proverb exactly and become like their mistresses;^^ and
of course, there come to be horses and asses who have gotten the habit
of making their way quite freely and solemnly, bumping into whomever
they happen to meet on the roads, if he doesn't stand aside, and all else
d is similarly full of freedom."
"You're telling me my own dream," he said. "I, myself, re-
peatedly suffer that very thing when journeying to the country."
"Then, summing up all of these things together," I said, "do you
notice how tender they make the citizens' soul, so that if someone pro-
poses anything that smacks in any way of slavery, they are irritated and
can't stand it? And they end up, as you well know, by paying no atten-
tion to the laws, written or unwritten, in order that they may avoid hav-
e ing any master at all."
"Of course, I know it," he said.
"Well, then, my friend," I said, "this is the beginning, so fair and
heady, from which tyranny in my opinion naturally grows."
"It surely is a heady beginning," he said, "but what's next?"
"The same disease," I said, "as that which arose in the oligarchy
and destroyed it, arises also in this regime — ^but bigger and stronger as
a result of the license — and enslaves democracy. And, really, anything
that is done to excess is likely to provoke a correspondingly great
change in the opposite direction— in seasons, in plants, in bodies, and,
564 a in particular, not least in regimes."
"That's probable," he said.
"Too much freedom seems to change into nothing but too much
slavery, both for private man and city."
"Yes, that's probable."
"Well, then," I said, "tyranny is probably established out of no
other regime than democracy, I suppose— the greatest and most savage
slavery out of the extreme of freedom."
"Yes," he said, "that's reasonable."
"But I suppose you weren't asking that," I said, "but rather what
b disease, growing naturally in oligarchy and democracy alike, enslaves
the latter."
"What you say is true," he said.
"Well, then," I said, "I meant that class of idle, extravagant men.
The most courageous part of them leads, the less courageous part
follows. It's just these whom we liken to drones, some equipped with
stings, others without stings."
"That's right," he said.
[ 242 ]
Book VIII / 563c-565a socrates/adeimantus
"Well, then," I said, "when these two come into being in any 564 b
regime, they cause trouble, like phlegm and bile in a body. And it's
against them that the good doctor and lawgiver of a city, no less than a c
wise beekeeper, must take long-range precautions, preferably that they
not come into being, but if they do come into being, that they be cut out
as quickly as possible, cells and all."
"Yes, by Zeus," he said, "completely."
"Well, then," I said, "let's take it like this so that we may more
distinctly see what we want."
"How?" ^
"In the argument let's divide the city under a democracy into three
parts, which is the way it actually is divided. One class is surely that which, d
thankstothelicense, grows naturally in itnoless than in theoligarchiccity."
Thats so.
"But it's far fiercer here than in the other."
"How's that?"
"There, due to its not being held in honor but being driven from
the ruling offices, it is without exercise and isn't vigorous. But in a
democracy, presumably, this class, with few exceptions, leads, and its
fiercest part does the speaking and the acting, while the rest alight near
the platform and buzz and don't endure the man who says anything
else; the result is that everything, apart from a certain few exceptions, e
is governed by this class in such a regime."
"Quite so," he said.
"Well, there is also another class that always distinguishes itself
from the multitude,"
"What class?"
"Presumably when all are engaged in money-making, the men
most orderly by nature become, for the most part, richest."
"Likely."
"Then I suppose that it is there that the most honey, and that
easiest to get to, can be squeezed out by the drones."
"How," he said, "could one squeeze it out of those who have lit-
tle?"
"Then I suppose such rich men are called the drones' pasture."
"Just about," he said.
"And the people wotild be the third class, all those who do their 565 a
ovi^n work, don't meddle in affairs, and don't possess very much.
Whenever they assemble, they constitute the most numerous and most
sovereign class in a democracy."
"Yes, they do," he said. "But they aren't willing to assemble very
frequently unless they get some share of the honey."
[ 243 ]
ocrates/adeimantus the republic
565 fl "Therefore, they always get a share," 1 said, "to the extent that
the leaders, in taking away the substance of those who have it and
distributing it among the people, are able to keep the greatest part for
themselves."
b "Yes," he said, "they do get a share in that way."
"Then I suppose that those men whose property is taken away are
compelled to defend themselves by speaking before the people and by
doing whatever they can."
"Of course."
"For this they are charged by the others, even if they don't desire
to make innovations, with plotting against the people and being
oligarchs."
"Of course."
"And, therefore, when they see that the people are trying to do
them an injustice, not willingly but out of ignorance and because they
c are deceived by the slanderers, they at last end up, whether they want
to or not, by becoming truly oligarchs; they do not do so willingly, but
the drone who stings them engenders this evil too."
"That's entirely certain."
"And then come impeachments, judgments, and contests against
one another."
"Quite so."
"Aren't the people always accustomed to set up some one man as
their special leader and to foster him and make him grow great?"
"Yes, they are accustomed to do that."
d "It's plain, therefore," I said, "that when a tyrant grows naturally,
he sprouts from a root of leadership and from nowhere else."
"That is quite plain."
"What is the beginning of the transformation from leader to
tyrant? Or is it plainly when the leader begins to act out the tale that is
told in connection with the temple of Lycaean Zeus in Arca-
dia?"26
"What's that?"
'That the man who tastes of the single morsel of human inwards
cut up with those of other sacrificial victims must necessarily become a
e wolf. Or haven't you heard that speech?"
"I have."
"Isn't it also the same for the leader of a people who, taking over
a particularly obedient mob, does not hold back from shedding the
blood of his tribe but unjustly brings charges against a man— which is
exactly what they usually do — and, bringing him before the court, mur-
ders him, and, doing away with a man's life, tastes of kindred blood
[ 244 ]
Book VIII 1 565a-566d socrates/adeimantxjs
with unholy tongue and mouth, and banishes, and Idlls, and hints at 565 e
cancellations of debts and redistributions of land; isn't it also 566 a
necessarily fated, I say, that after this such a man either be slain by his
enemies or be tyrant and turn from a human being into a wolf?"
"Quite necessarily," he said.
"Then this," I said, "is the man who incites faction against those
who have wealth."
"This is he."
"If he's exiled and comes back in spite of his enemies, does he
come back a complete tyrant?"
"Plainly."
"But if they are unable to exile him or to kill him by slandering b
him to the city, they plot to do away with him stealthily by a violent
death."
"At least," he said, "that's what usually happens."
"All those, then, whose careers have progressed to this stage now
hit upon the notorious tyrannical request — to ask the people for some
bodyguards to save the people's defender for them."
"Quite so," he said. c
"Then I suppose the people grant the request, frightened for him
and sure of themselves."
"Quite so."
"Consequently when a man sees this, one who possesses money
and is charged not only with having money but also with hating the
people, he, my comrade, then follows the oracle that was given to
Croesus and
Flees along many-pebbled Hermus;
He doesn't stay nor is he ashamed to be a coward. "^'^
"For he couldn't be ashamed a second time," he said.
"And I suppose," I said, "that if he's caught, he's given death."
"Necessarily."
"And surely it's plain that this leader himself doesn't lie 'great in
his greatness' on the ground, but, having cast down many others, stands d
in the chariot of the city, now a perfected tyrant instead of a
leader. "28
"Of course," he said. '
"Then let us," I said, "go through the happiness of the man and
the city in which such a mortal comes to be. "
"Most certainly," he said, "let's go through it."
"In the first days of his time in office," I said, "doesn't he smile at
and greet whomever he meets, and not only deny he's a tyrant but prom-
[ 245 ]
socrates/adeimantus THE REPUBLiri
566 e ise much in private and public, and grant freedom from debts and
distribute land to the people and those around himself, and pretend to
be gracious and gentle to all?"
"Necessarily," he said.
"But I suppose that when he is reconciled with some of his ene-
mies outside and has destroyed the others, and there is rest from con-
cern with them, as his first step he is always setting some war in mo-
tion, so that the people will be in need of a leader."
"That's likely."
567 a "And, also, so that, becoming poor from contributing money, they
will be compelled to stick to their daily business and be less inclined to
plot against him?"
"Plainly."
"Then, too, I suppose— if he suspects certain men of having free
thoughts and not putting up with his>ruling— so that he can have a pre-
text for destroying them by giving them to the enemy? For all these
reasons isn't it necessary for a tyrant always to be stirring up war?"
"It is necessary."
"And is, consequently, all this activity a preparation for being
h more hateful to the citizens?"
"Of course."
"Also, don't some of those who helped in setting him up and are
in power — the manliest among them — speak frankly to him and to one
another, criticizing what is happening?"
"That's likely."
"Then the tyrant must gradually do away with all of them, if he's
going to rule, until he has left neither friend nor enemy of any worth
whatsoever."
"Plainly."
"He must, therefore, look sharply to see who is courageous, who
c is great-minded, who is prudent, who is rich. And so happy is he that
there is a necessity for him, whether he wants to or not, to be an enemy
of all of them and plot against them until he purges the city."
"A fine purgation," he said.
"Yes," I said, "the opposite of the one the doctors give to bodies.
For they take off the worst and leave the best, while he does the op-
posite."
"For it seems," he said, "to be a necessity for him, if he is to
rule."
d "Therefore," I said, "he is bound by a blessed necessity that
prescribes that he either dwell with the ordinary many, even though
hated by them, or cease to live."
"That is precisely his situation," he said.
[ 246 ]
Book VIII / 566e-568c socrates/adeimantus
"To the extent that he is more hateful to the citizens for doing 567 d
these things, won't he have more need of more — and more trustw^orthy
—armed guards?"
"Of course."
"Who are these trustworthy men? And where will he send for
them?"
"On their own, many will come flying," he said, "if he gives the
wages."
"These are drones, by the dog," I said, "of whom you are, in my
opinion, again speaking, foreign ones of all sorts." e
"Your opinion is true," he said.
"And who are the trustworthy ones on the spot? Wouldn't he be
willing — "
"What?"
"—to take away the slaves from the citizens, free them and
include them among the armed guards surrounding himself?"
"Oh, he would be very willing," he said, "since these are,
doubtless, the men most trustworthy for him."
"The tyrant of whom you speak," I said, "is a blessed thing, if he
uses such men as friends and trustworthy helpers after he has destroyed 568 a
his former ones."
"But he certainly does use such men," he said.
"And these companions admire him," I said, "and the new
citizens have intercourse with him, while the decent men hate him and
flee from him."
"What else would they do?"
"It's not for nothing," I said, "that tragedy in general has the
reputation of being wise and, within it, Euripides of being particularly
so.
"Why is that?"
"Because, among other things, he uttered this phrase, the product
of shrewd thought, 'tyrants are wise from intercourse with the b
wise.'2* And he plainly meant that these men we just spoke of are the
wise with whom a tyrant has intercourse."
"And he and the other poets," he said, "extol tyranny as a con-
dition 'equal to that of a god'^" and add much else, too."
"Therefore," I said, 'Tjecause the tragic poets are wise, they par-
don us, and all those who have regimes resembling ours, for not admit-
ing them into the regime on the ground that they make hymns to
tyranny."
"I suppose," he said, "they pardon us, at least all the subtle ones
among them." c
"And I suppose that, going around to the other cities, gathering
[ 247 ]
socrates/adeimantus the REPUBLIpI
568 c crowds, and hiring fine, big and persuasive voices, they draw the
regimes toward tyrannies and democracies."
"Quite so."
"And, besides this, they get wages and are honored too, most of
all by tyrants, as is to be expected, and, in the second place, by
democracy. But the higher they go on the slope of the regimes, the
d more their honor fails, as though it were unable to proceed for want of
breath."
"Most certainly."
"But here we've digressed," I said. "Let's return to the tyrant's
camp, that fair, numerous, many-colored thing that is never the same
and tell from where its support vwll come. "
"It's plain," he said, "that if there is sacred money in the city,
he'll spend it as long as it lasts, along with the property of the men he
has destroyed, 31 so that people won't be compelled to bring in
such large contributions."
e "And what happens when that source gives out?"
"It's plain," he said, "that he and his drinking fellows and com-
rades, male and female, will get their support from his father's proper-
"I understand," I said. "The people that begot the tyrant will sup-
port him and his comrades. "
"A great necessity will compel it," he said.
"But what do you have to say to this?" I said. "What if the people
are discontented and say that it is not just for a son in his prime to be
supported by his father, but the reverse, the father should be supported
569 a by the son; and that they didn't beget and set him up so that when he
had grown great they should be slaves to their own slaves and support
him and the slaves along vwth other flotsam, but so that with him as
leader they would be freed from the rich and those who are said to be
gentlemen in the city; and they now bid him and his comrades to go
away from the city^ — like a father driving a son along with his trouble-
some drinking fellows out of the house?"
"By Zeus, how this kind ofa people will then know," he said, "the kind
b of a beast they have begotten, welcomed, and made great, and that
they are the weaker driving out the stronger! "
"What are you saying?" I said. "Will the tyrant dare to use
force on his father, and if he doesn't obey, strike him?"
"Yes," he said, "once he's taken away his father's arms. "
"You speak of the tyrant as a parricide and a harsh nurse of old
age,"32 J sai(]^ "and, as it seems, this would at last be self-admitted
tyranny and, as the saying goes, the people in fleeing the smoke of
[ 248 ]
Book VIII 1 568e-569c sochates/adeimantus
enslavement to free men would have fallen into the fire of being under 569 c
the mastery of slaves; in the place of that great and unseasonable free-
dom they have put on the dress of the harshest and bitterest enslave-
ment to slaves."
"That's exactly what happens," he said.
"Well then," I said, "wouldn't we be speaking appropriately if we
asserted that we have given an adequate presentation of how a tyranny
is transformed out of a democracy, and what it is like when it has come
into being?"
"Most certainly," he said, "it was adequate."
[ 249 ]
BOOK IX
"Well," I said, "the tyrannic man himself remains to be consid- 571 a
ered— how he is transformed out of the democratic man, and, once
come into being, what sort of man he is and how he lives, wretchedly
or blessedly."
"Yes," he said, "he is the one who still remains."
"Do you know," I said, "what I still miss?"
"What?"
"In my opinion we haven't adequately distinguished the kinds and
number of the desires. And with this lacking, the investigation we are
making will be less clear." b
"Isn't it," he said, "still a fine time to do so?"
"Most certainly. And just consider that aspect of them I wish to
observe. It's this. Of the unnecessary pleasures and desires, there are, in
my opinion, some that are hostile to law and that probably come to be
in everyone; but, when checked by the laws and the better desires, with
the help of argument, in some human beings they are entirely gotten rid
of or only a few weak ones are left, while in others stronger and more
numerous ones remain." c
"Which ones do you mean?" he said.
"Those," I said, "that wake up in sleep when the rest of the
soul— all that belongs to the calculating, tame, and ruling part of
it— slumbers, while the beastly and wild part, gorged with food or
[ 251 ]
socrates/adeimantus the REPUBLIq
571 c drink, is skittish and, pushing sleep away, seeks to go and satisfy its
dispositions. You know that in such a state it dares to do everything as
though it were released from, and rid of, all shame and prudence. And
it doesn't shrink from attempting intercourse, as it supposes, with a
d mother or with anyone else at all — human beings, gods, and beasts; or
attempting any foul murder at aU, and there is no food from which it
abstains. And, in a word, it omits no act of folly or shamelessness."
"What you say," he said, "is very true."
"But, on the other hand, I can suppose a man who has a healthy
and moderate relationship to himself and who goes to sleep only after
he does the following: first, he awakens his calculating part and feasts it
on fair arguments and considerations, coming to an understanding with
e himself; second, he feeds the desiring part in such a way that it is
neither in want nor surfeited — in order that it will rest and not disturb
572 a the best part by its joy or its pain, but rather leave that best part alone
pure and by itself, to consider and to long for the perception of some-
thing that it doesn't know, either something that has been, or is, or is
going to be; and, third, he soothes the spirited part in the same way and
does not fall asleep with his spirit aroused because there are some he
got angry at. When a man has silenced these two latter forms
and set the third — the one in which prudent thinking comes to be — in
motion, and only then takes his rest, you know that in such a state he
most lays hold of the truth and at this time the sights that are hostile to
b law show up least in his dreams. "
"I suppose, " he said, "it's exactly that way. "
"Well now, we have been led out of the way and said too much
about this. What we wish to recognize is the following: surely some ter-
rible, savage, and lawless form of desires is in every man, even in some
of us who seem to be ever so measured. And surely this becomes plain
in dreams. Now reflect whether I seem to be saying something and
whether you agree with me. "
"I do agree."
"Well then, recall the character we attributed to the man of the
c people. He was presumably produced by being reared from youth by a
stingy father who honored only the money-making desires while despis-
ing the ones that aren't necessary but exist for the sake of play and
showing off. Isn't that so?"
"Yes."
"And once having had intercourse with subtler men who are full
of those desires we just went through, he began by plunging himself in-
to every insolence and assuming the form of these men, out of hatred of
his father's stinginess. But, because he has a nature better than that of
[ 252 ]
iBook IX / 571c -57 3c socrates/adeimantus
i bis corrupters, he was drawn in both directions, and settled down ex- 572 c
; actly in the middle between the two ways; and enjoying each in d
f measure, as he supposed, he lives a life that is neither illiberal nor
f hostile to law, a man of the people come from an oligarchic man."
"That was and is," he said, "the opinion about this kind of man."
"Well, then," I said, "assume again that such a man, now grown
older, has a young son reared, in turn, in his father's dispositions."
"I shall assume that."
"Well, assume further that those same things happen to the son
that also happened to his father and he is drawn to complete hostility to
law, though it is named complete freedom by those who are introducing e
him to it, and that his father and his other relatives bring aid to those
middle desires while these dread enchanters and tyrant-makers give aid
to the other side. And when they have no hope of getting hold of the
young man in any other way, they contrive to implant some love in
him— a great winged drone— to be the leader of the idle desires that in-
sist on all available resources being distributed to them. Or do you sup- 573 a
pose that love in such men is anything other than a winged drone?"
"I suppose," he said, "that it is nothing but this."
"Then, when the other desires— overflowing with incense, myrrh,
crowns, wines and all the pleasures^ with which such societies are
rife— buzz around the drone, making it grow great and fostering it,
they plant the sting of longing in it. Now this leader of the soul takes
madness for its armed guard and is stung to frenzy. And if it finds in b
the man any opinions or desires accounted good and still admitting of
shame, it slays them and pushes them out of him until it purges him of
moderation and fills him with madness brought in from abroad."
"Your account," he said, "of a tyrannic man's genesis is quite
perfect."
"Is it for this reason, too," I said, "that love has from old been
called a tyrant?"
"That's likely," he said.
"And, my friend," I said, "doesn't a drunken man also have some-
thing of a tyrannic turn of mind?" c
"Yes, he does."
"And, further, the man who is mad and deranged undertakes and
expects to be able to rule not only over human beings but gods, too."
"Quite so," he said.
"And, you demonic man," I said, "a man becomes tyrannic in
the precise sense when, either by nature or by his practices or both, he
has become drunken, erotic, and melancholic."^
"That's perfectly certain."
[ 253 ]
socrates/adeimantus THEREPUBLjpl
573 c "This, as it seems, is also the way such a man comes into beine
Now how does he live?"
d "As those who play say," he said, "you'll tell me this too."''
"I shall," I said. "I suppose that next there are among them feasts
revels, parties, courtesans, and everything else of the sort that belongs
to those in whom the tryant love dwells and pilots all the elements of
the soul."
"Necessarily," he said.
"Don't many terrible and very needy desires sprout up beside it
every day and night?"
"They are indeed many."
"So that whatever revenues there may be are quickly used up."
"Of course."
e "And next surely come borrowing and the stripping away of his
estate. "
"What else?"
"Then when all this gives out, won't the crowd of intense desires
hatched in the nest necessarily cry out; and won't these men, driven as
it were by the stings of the other desires but especially by love itself,
which guides all the others as though they were its armed guards, rage
and consider who has anything they can take away by deceit or
574 a force?"
"Very much so, " he said.
"Then it is necessary to get contributions from every source or be
caught in the grip of great travail and anguish."
"Yes, it is necessary."
"Then, just as the pleasures that came to be in him later got the
better of the old ones and took away what belonged to them, so won't
he, a younger man, claim he deserves to get the better of his father and
mother and, if he has spent his own part, take away and distribute the
paternal property? "
"Of course, " he said.
b 'And then if they won't turn it over to him, wouldn't he first at-
tempt to steal from his parents and deceive them?"
"Exactly."
"And where he's not able to, won't he next seize it and use
force?"
"I suppose so," he said.
"And then, you surprising man, if the old man and the old woman
hold their ground and fight, would he watch out and be reluctant to do
any tyrannic deeds?"
"I'm not," he said, "very hopeful for such a man's parents."
[ 254 ]
Book IX 1 573c-575b socrates/adeimantus
"But, in the name of Zeus, Adeimantus, is it your opinion that for 574 b
the sake of a newly-found lady friend and unnecessary concubine such c
a man will strike his old friend and necessary mother, or that for the
sake of a newly-found and unnecessary boy friend, in the bloom of
youth, he will strike his elderly and necessary father who is no longer in
the bloom of youth and is the oldest of friends, and that he will enslave
his parents to them if he should bring them into the same house?"
"Yes, by Zeus," he said, "it is."
"How very blessed it seems to be," I said, "to bear a tyrannic
son."
"Oh, quite," he said.
"What then? When what belongs to his father and mother gives d
out on such a man and there's already quite a swarm of pleasures densely
gathered in him, won't he begin by taking hold of the walP of
someone's house or the cloak of someone who goes out late at night,
and next, sweep out some temple? And throughout all this, those
opinions he held long ago in childhood about fine and base things, the
opinions accounted just,^ are mastered by the opinions newly re-
leased from slavery, now acting as love's bodyguard and conquering
along with it. These are the opinions that were formerly released as
dreams in sleep when, still under laws and a father, there was a dem- e
ocratic regime in him. But once a tyranny was established by love,
what he had rarely been in dreams, he became continuously while
awake. He will stick at no terrible murder, or food, or deed. Rather,
love lives like a tyrant within him in all anarchy and lawlessness; and, 575 a
being a monarch, will lead the man whom it controls, as though he
were a city, to every kind of daring that will produce wherewithal for it
and the noisy crowd around it — one part of which bad company
caused to come in from outside; the other part was from within and
was set loose and freed by his own bad character. Or isn't this the life
of such a man?"
"It certainly is," he said.
"And if," I said, "there are few such men in a city and the rest of
the multitude is behaving moderately, they emigrate and serve as b
bodyguards to some other tyrant or as auxiliaries for wages, if there is
war somewhere. And if they come to be in a period of peace and quiet,
then they remain there in the city and do many small evil deeds."
"What kind of deeds do you mean?"
"Oh, they steal, break into houses, cut purses, go off with people's
clothes, rob temples, and lead men into slavery; at times they are syco-
phants, if they are able to speak, and they bear false witness and take
bribes."
[ 255 ]
adeimantus/socrates/glaucon the REPUBLIq
575 c "These are small evils you speak of," he said, "if such men are
few."
"That's because small things," I said, "are small compared to big
ones; and for the badness and wretchedness of a city all of these things
together surely don't, as the saying goes, come within striking distance
of a tyrant. But when such men and the others who follow them be-
come many in a city, and they become aware of their own multitude, it
is then that they, together with the folly of the people, generate the
tyrant, that one among them who in particular has the biggest and most
d extreme tyrant within his own soul."
"Fitting," he said. "For he would be the most tyrannic."
"That's if they submit willingly. But if the city doesn't offer itself,
just as he then punished his mother and father, so now he will, if he
can, punish the fatherland, bringing in new comrades; and his way of
keeping and cherishing his dear old motherland — as the Cretans
say— and fatherland will be to enslave them to these men. And this
must surely be the end toward which such a man's desire is direct-
ed."
e "That's exactly it," he said.
"When these men are in private life, before they rule, aren't they
like this: in the first place, as to their company, either they have in-
tercourse with their flatterers, who are ready to serve them in every-
thing, or, if they have need of anything from anyone, they themselves
cringe and dare to assume any posture, acting as though they belonged
576 a to hirn, but when they have succeeded they become quite alien."
"Very much so," he said.
"Therefore, they live their whole life without ever being friends of
anyone, always one man's master or another's slave. The tyrannic na-
ture never has a taste of freedom or true friendship."
"Most certainly."
"Wouldn't we be right in calling such men faithless?"
"Of course."
"And, further, could we call them as unjust as they can be, if our
b previous agreement about what justice is was right?"
"But surely it was right," he said.
"Well, then," I said, "let's sum up the worst man. He is awake,
presumably, what we described a dreaming man to be."
"Most certainly."
"And he comes from a man who is by nature most tyrannic and
gets a monarchy; and the longer he lives in tyranny, the more he be-
comes like that."
"Necessarily," Glaucon said, as he took over the argument.
"The man who turns out to be worst," I said, "will he also turn
[ 256 ]
Book IX I 575c-577b scxirates/glaucon
out to be most wretched? And he who is for the longest time the most a 576 c
tyrant, will he also have been most wretched for the longest time — in
the light of the truth? However, the many have many opinions."
"But, regardless," he said, "this is necessarily so."
"With respect to likeness," I said, "does the tyrannic man corre-
spond to anything other than the city under a tyranny, and the man of
the people to anything other than the city under a democracy, and simi-
larly with the other men?"
"Of course not." d
"And as city is to city with respect to virtue and happiness so is man to
man?"
"Of course."
"With respect to virtue, what is the relation between a city under
a tyranny and the one under a kingship such as we first described?"
"Everything is the opposite," he said. "The one was the best, the
other the worst."
"I won't ask you which you mean," I said. "It's plain. But as to
their happiness and wretchedness, do you judge similarly or dif-
ferently? And let's not be overwhelmed at the sight of the tyrant — one
man — or a certain few around him; but, as one must, let's go in and
view the city as a whole, and, creeping down into every comer and e
looking, only then declare our opinion."
"What you suggest is right," he said. "And it's plain to everyone
that there is no city more wretched than one under a tyranny and none
happier than one under a kingship."
"And about these same things, as they exist in the men," I said,
"would I also be right in suggesting that that man should be deemed fit 577 a
to judge them who is able with his thought to creep into a man's disposi-
tion and see through it — a man who is not like a child looking from out-
side and overwhelmed by the tyrannic pomp set up as a facade for those
outside, but who rather sees through it adequately? And what if I were
to suppose that all of us must hear that man who is both able to judge
and has lived together with the tyrant in the same place and was
witness to his actions at home and saw how he is with each of his ov^ti,
among whom he could most be seen stripped of the tragic gear; and, again, b
has seen him in public dangers; and, since he has seen all that,
we were to bid him to report how the tyrant stands in relation to the
others in happiness and wretchedness?"
"You would," he said, "be quite right in suggesting these things
too."
"Do you want us," I said, "to pretend that we are among those
who would be able to judge and have already met up with such men, so
that we'll have someone to answer what we ask?"
[ 257 ]
glaucon/socrates THEREPUBLIc
577 b "Certainly."
c "Come, then," I said, "and consider it in this way for me
Recalhng for yourself the likeness of the city and the man, and reflect-
ing on each in turn, tell of the states of both."
"Which ones?" he said.
"In the first place," I said, "speaking of a city, will you say that
one under a tyranny is free or slave?"
"Slave," he said, "in the highest possible degree."
"However, you do see masters and free men in it too."
"I do," he said, "see a small part of the land, but virtually the
whole of it and the most decent part is slave, without honor, and wret-
ched."
d "If, then," I said, "a man is like his city, isn't it also necessary that
the same arrangement be in him and that his soul be filled with much
slavery and illiberality, and that, further, those parts of it that are most
decent be slaves while a small part, the most depraved and maddest, be
master?"
"That is necessary," he said.
"What, then? Will you assert that such a soul is slave or free?"
"Slave, of course."
"And, further, doesn't the city that is slave and under a tyranny
least do what it wants?"
"By far."
e "And therefore, the soul that is under a tyranny will least do what
it wants — speaking of the soul as a whole. Always forcibly drawn by a
gadfly, it will be frill of confrision and regret. "
"Of course."
"And is the city under a tyranny necessarily rich or poor?"
"Poor."
578 a "And, therefore, the tyrannic soul is necessarily always poverty-
ridden and insatiable."
"That's so," he said.
"And what about this? Isn't such a city necessarily as
full of fear as such a man?"
"Quite necessarily."
"Do you suppose you'll find more complaining, sighing, lamenting
or suffering in any other city?"
"Not at all."
"But, in a man, do you believe there is more of this sort of thing
in anyone other than this tyrannic man maddened by desires and
loves?"
"How could I?" he said.
b "I suppose, then, that you looked to all these things and others
[ 258 ]
f^ook IX / 577b-578e socrates/glaucon
$'
tf
-like them and judged this city to be the most wretched of cities." 578 b
I "Wasn't I right in doing so?" he said.
I "Quite right," I said. "But, now, what do you say about the tyran-
ffac man in looking at these same things?"
I "That he is by far," he said, "the most wretched of all men."
[ "In saying that," I said, "you are no longer right."
I "How's that?" he said.
b "This man," I said, "is not yet, I suppose, the most wretched."
"Then who is?"
"Perhaps this man will, in your opinion, be even more wretched
than the other."
"What man?"
"The man," I said, "who is tyrannic and doesn't live out a c
private life but has bad luck and by some misfortune is given the occa-
sion to become a tyrant."
"I conjecture," he said, "on the basis of what was said before, that
what you say is true."
"Yes," I said. "But in an argument such as this, one must not just
suppose such things but must consider them quite well. For, you know,
the consideration is about the greatest thing, a good life and a bad
one."
"Quite right," he said.
"Well, thenj consider whether, after all, I am saying anything. In d
my opinion we must reflect on it from this point of view."
"Which one?"
"The point of view of the individual private men who are rich in
cities and possess many bondsmen. For they are similar to the tyrant in
ruling many, although the multitude of the tyrant is greater."
"Yes, it is greater."
"You know that they are confident, and not frightened, of the
domestics?"
"What would they be frightened of?"
"Nothing," I said. "But do you recognize the cause?"
"Yes, that the city as a whole defends the individual private
man."
"What you say is fine," I said. "But what if some one of the gods ^
were to lift one man who has fifty or more bondsmen out of the
city— him, his wife, and his children— and set them along with the rest
of his property and the domestics in a desert place where none of the
free men is going to be able to help him? What do you suppose will be
the character and extent of his fear that he, his children, and his wife
will be destroyed by the domestics?"
"I think it will be extreme," he said.
[ 259 ]
socrates/glaucon the REPUBLIp-
579 a "Wouldn't he now be compelled to fawn on some of his own
slaves and promise them much and free them although there is
obligation for him to do so? And wouldn't he himself turn out to be the
flatterer of servants?"
"He's certainly compelled to, " he said, "or else be destroyed."
"And," 1 said, "what if the god settled many other neighbors all
around him who won't stand for any man's claiming to be another's
master, and if they ever can get their hands on such a one, they subject
him to extreme punishments."
b '"He would," he said, "'1 suppose, be in an even greater extreme of
evil, watched on all sides by nothing but enemies."
"Isn't the tyrant bound in such a prison, he who has a nature such
as we described, full of many fears and loves of all kinds? And he, whose
soul is so gourmand, alone of the men in the city can't go anywhere
abroad or see all the things the other free men desire to see; but, stuck
in his house for the most part, he lives like a "woman, envying any of the
c other citizens who travel abroad and see anything good."
"That's entirely certain," he said.
"Therefore, it is a harvest greater by such ills that is reaped by a
man who has a bad regime in himself — the one you just now judged
most wretched, the tyrannic man — and who doesn't live out his life as
a private man but is compelled by some chance to be a tyrant, and
while not having control of himself attempts to rule others, just as if a
man with a body that is sick and vkithout control of itself were com-
d pelled to spend his life not in a private station but contesting and
fighting with other bodies."
""The case is in every way most similar, " he said, "'and what you
say, Socrates, is most true."
"'My dear Glaucon," I said, "isn't this a perfectly wretched condi-
tion, and doesn't the man who is a tyrant have a still harder life than the
man judged by you to have the hardest life? "
"That's entirely so," he said.
"Therefore, the real tyrant is, even if he doesn't seem so to
someone, in truth a real slave to the greatest fawning and slavery,
e and a flatterer of the most worthless men; and with his desires get-
ting no kind of satisfaction, he shows that he is most in need of the
most things and poor in truth, if one knows how to look at a soul as a
whole. Throughout his entire life his is full of fear, overflowing with
convulsions and pains, if indeed he resembles the disposition of the
city he rules. And he does resemble it, doesn't he? "
"Quite so," he said.
580 a "'And, besides, shouldn't we attribute to the man too the
[ 260 ]
wBook IX 1 579a-580e socrates/glaucon
things we spoke of before? Isn't it necessary that he be — and due 580 a
to ruling become still more than before — envious, faithless, unjust,
friendless, impious, and a host and nurse for all vice; and, thanks
to all this, unlucky in the extreme; and then, that he make those close
to him so?"
"No one with any sense," he said, "will contradict you."
"Come, then," I said, "just as the man who has the final decision
in the whole contest^ declares his choice, you, too, choose now for me b
who in your opinion is first in happiness, and who second, and the others
in order, five in all — kingly, timocratic, oligarchic, democratic, tyrannic."
"The choice is easy," he said. "For, vvith respect to virtue and
vice, and happiness and its opposite, I choose them, like choruses, in
the very order in which they came on stage."
"Shall we hire a herald then," I said, "or shall I myself announce
that Ariston's son has decided that the best^ and most just man is
happiest, and he is that man who is kingliest and is king of himself; c
while the worst and most unjust man is most wretched and he, in his
turn, happens to be the one who, being most tyrannic, is most tyrant of
himself and of the city?"
"Let it have been announced by you," he said.
"And shall I," I said, "add this to the proclamation: whether or
not in being such they escape the notice of all human beings and
gods?"
"Do add that to the proclamation," he said.
"All right, then," I said. "That would be one proof for us. Look at
this second one and see if there seems to be anything to it." d
"What is it?"
"Since," I said, 'just as a city is divided into three forms, so the
soul of every single man also is divided in three, the thesis vn'll admit
yet of another proof, in my opinion."
"What is it?"
"This. It looks to me as though there were also a threefold divi-
sion o{ pleasures corresponding to these three, a single pleasure
peculiar to each one; and similarly a threefold division of desires and
kinds of rule."
"How do you mean?" he said.
"One part, we say, was that with which a human being learns, and
another that with which he becomes spirited; as for the third, because
of its many forms, we had no peculiar name to call it by, but we named e
it by what was biggest and strongest in it. For we called it the desiring
part on account of the intensity of the desires concerned with eating,
drinking, sex, and all their followers; and so, we also called it the
[ 261 ]
socrates/glaucon the REPUBLjpl
581 a money-loving part, because such desires are most fulfilled by means
of money."
"That was right," he said.
"Then if we were to say that its pleasure and love is of gain, would
we most satisfactorily fix it in one general form for the argument, so
that when we speak of this part of the soul we will plainly indicate
something to ourselves; and would we be right in calling it money-
loving and gain-loving?"
"In my opinion, at least," he said.
"And what about this? Don't we, of course, say that the spirited
part is always wholly set on mastery, victory and good reputation?"
b "Quite so."
"If we were to designate it victory-loving, and honor-loving,
would that strike the right note?"
"Very much the right note."
"And, moreover, it's plain to everyone that the part with which
we learn is always entirely directed toward knowing the truth as it is;
and of the parts, it cares least for money and opinion."
"By far."
"Then would it be appropriate for us to call it learning-loving and
wisdom-loving?"
"Of course."
"And," I said, "doesn't this part rule in the souls of some men,
c while in that of others another of these parts rules, whichever it hap-
pens to be?"
"That's so," he said.
"Then that's why we assert that the three primary classes of hu-
man beings are also three: wisdom-loving, victory-loving, gain-loving."
"Entirely so."
"Then, also of pleasures, are there three forms, one underlying
each of these?"
"Certainly."
"Do you know," I said, "that if you were willing to ask three such
men, each in turn, what is the sweetest of these lives, each would most
d laud his own? The money-maker will assert that, compared to gaining, the
pleasure in being honored or in learning is worth nothing, unless
he makes some money from them."
"True," he said.
"And what about the lover of honor?" I said. "Doesn't he believe
the pleasure from money to be a vulgar thing and, on the other hand,
the pleasure from learning — whatever learning doesn't bring honor — ^to
be smoke and nonsense?"
[ 262 ]
Book IX 1 581a-582c glaucon/socrates
"That's so," he said. 581 d
"As for the lover of wisdom," I said, "what do we suppose he will
hold about the other pleasures as compared with that of knowing the e
truth as it is and always being in some such state of pleasure while
learning? Won't he hold them to be far behind in pleasure? And won't
he call them really necessary since he doesn't need all the others if
necessity did not accompany them?"
"That we must know well," he said.
"Since, then," I said, "the pleasures of each form, and the life it-
self, dispute with one another, not about living more nobly or
shamefully or worse or better but about living more pleasantly and
painlessly, how would we know which of them speaks most truly?" 582 a
"I certainly can't say," he said.
"Consider it in this way. By what must things that are going to be
finely judged be judged? Isn't it by experience, prudence, and argu-
ment? Or could anyone have better criteria than these?"
"How could he?" he said.
"Now, consider. Of the three men, which is most experienced in all
the pleasures of which we were speaking? Does the lover of gain, be-
cause he learns the truth itself as it is, seem to you to be more ex-
perienced in the pleasure that comes from knovidng than the lover of
wisdom is in the pleasure that comes from gaining?" b
"There's a great difference," he said. "It's necessary for the
latter to taste of the other pleasures starting in childhood. But for
the lover of gain it's not necessary to taste, or to have experience of,
how sweet is the pleasure of learning the natural characteristics of
the things which are; rather even if he were eager to, it wouldn't be
easy."
"There's a great difference, then," I said, "between the lover of
wisdom and the lover of gain in their experience of both the plea-
sures."
"Great indeed." c
"And what about the lover of wisdom's relation to the lover of
honor? Is he less experienced in the pleasure that comes from being
honored than the lover of honor is in the pleasure that comes from
thinking?"
"No," he said. "Honor accompanies them all, if each achieves its
aim. For the wealthy man is honored by many; and so are the
courageous man and the wise one. Therefore, all have experience of the
kind of pleasure that comes from being honored. But the kind of
pleasure connected vnth the vision of what is cannot be tasted by
anyone except the lover of wisdom."
[ 263 ]
socrates/glaucon the REPUBLJp
582 d "Therefore," I said, "as for experience, he is the finest judo ■
among the three men."
"By far."
"And, moreover, only he will have gained his experience in the
company of prudence."
"Of course."
"Furthermore, as to the instrument by means of which judgment
must be made, it is not the instrument of the lover of gain or the lover
of honor but that of the lover of wisdom."
"What's that?"
"We surely said that it is by means of arguments that judgment
must be made, didn't we?"
"Yes."
"And arguments are especially the instrument of the philoso-
pher."
"Of course."
"Now, if what is being judged were best judged by wealth and
e gain, what the lover of gain praised and blamed would necessarily be
most true."
"Very much so."
"And if by honor, victory, and courage, wouldn't it be what the
lover of honor and victory praised and blamed?"
"Plainly."
"But since it's by experience, prudence, and argument—"
"What the lover of wisdom and the lover of argument praise
would necessarily be most true," he said.
583 a "Therefore, of the three pleasures, the most pleasant would belong
to that part of the soul with which we learn; and the man among us in
whom this part rules has the most pleasant life."
"Of course he has," he said. "At least it is as a sovereign praiser
that the prudent man praises his own life."
"What life," I said, "does the judge say is in second place and
what pleasure is in second place?"
"Plainly that of the warlike man and lover of honor. For it is
nearer to him than that of the money-maker."
"Then the pleasure of the lover of gain is in last place, as it
seems."
"Of course," he said.
b "Well then, that makes two in a row, and twice the just man has
been victorious over the unjust one. Now the third, in Olympic fashion,
to the savior and the Olympian Zeus.'' Observe that the other men's
pleasure, except for that of the prudent man, is neither entirely true nor
pure but is a sort of shadow painting, as I seem to have heard from
[ 264 ]
Book IX / 582d-584a socrates/glaucon
some one of the wise. And yet this would be the greatest and most 583 b
sovereign of the falls."
"By far. But what do you mean?"
"With you answering and me seeking," I said, "I'll find out." c
"Ask," he said.
"Tell me," I said, "don't we say pain is the opposite of pleasured'
"Quite so."
"Don't we also say that being aflPected by neither joy nor pain is
something?"
"We do indeed say that it is."
"Is it in the middle between these two, a certain repose of the soul
with respect to them? Or don't you say it's that way?"
"Just so," he said.
"Don't you remember," I said, "the words of sick men, spoken
when they are sick?"
"What words?"
"That after all nothing is more pleasant than being healthy, but
before they were sick it had escaped them that it is most pleasant." d
"I do remember," he said.
"And don't you also hear those who are undergoing some intense
suffering saying that nothing is more pleasant than the cessation of suf-
fering?"
"I do hear them."
"And I suppose you are aware of many other similar cir-
cumstances in which human beings, while they are in pain, extol as
most pleasant not enjoyment but rather the absence of pain and repose
from it."
"For," he said, "at that time repose perhaps becomes pleasant and
enough to content them."
"And when a man's enjoyment ceases," I said, "then the repose e
from pleasure will be painful."
"Perhaps," he said.
"Therefore, what we were just saying is between the two — repose
—will at times be both, pain and pleasure."
"So it seems."
"And is it possible that what is neither can become both?"
"Not in my opinion."
"And, moreover, the pleasant and the painful, when they arise in
the soul, are both a sort of motion, aren't they?"
"Yes."
"And didn't what is neither painful nor pleasant, however, just 584 a
come to light as repose and in the middle between these two?"
"Yes, that's the way it came to light.""
[ 265 ]
socrates/glatjcon the REPUBLJpI
584 a "Then how can it be right to believe that the absence of suffering
is pleasant or that the absence of enjoyment is grievous?"
"In no way."
"Therefore it is not so," I said, "but when it is next to the painful
repose looks pleasant and next to the pleasant, painful; and in these ap-
pearances there is nothing sound, so far as truth of pleasure goes, only a
certain wizardry."
"So the argument indicates, at least," he said.
b "Well, then," I said, "look at pleasures that don't come out of
pains, so that you won't perhaps suppose in the present instance that it
is naturally the case that pleasure is rest from pain and pain rest from
pleasure."
"Where shall I look," he said, "and what pleasures do you
mean?"
"There are many others, too," I said, "but, if you are willing to
reflect on them, the pleasures of smells in particular. For these, without
previous pain, suddenly become extraordinarily great and, once having
ceased, leave no pain behind."
"Very true," he said,
c "Then, let's not be persuaded that relief from pain is pure
pleasure or that relief from pleasure is pure pain."
"No, let's not," he said.
"However," I said, "of the so-called pleasures stretched through
the body to the soul, just about most, and the greatest ones, belong to
this form; they are kinds of relief from pains."
"Yes, they are."
"Isn't this also the case with the anticipatory pleasures and pains
arising from expectation of pleasures and pains that are going to be?"
Yes, it IS.
d "Do you," I said, "know what sort of things they are and what
they are most like?"
"What?" he said.
"Do you," I said, "hold that up, down, and middle are something
in nature?"
"I do."
"Do you suppose that a man brought from the downward region
to the middle would suppose anything else than that he was being
brought up? And standing in the middle and looking away to the place
from which he was brought, would he believe he was elsewhere than in
the upper region since he hasn't seen the true up?"
"No, by Zeus," he said. "I don't suppose such a man would sup-
pose otherwise."
[ 266 ]
Book IX 1 584a-585c socrates/glaucon
"And if he were brought back," I said, "would he suppose he was 584 e
being brought down and suppose truly?"
"Of course."
"And wouldn't he undergo all this due to being inexperienced in
what is truly above, in the middle, and below?"
"Plainly."
"Then would you be surprised' if those who are inexperienced in
truth, as they have unhealthy opinions about many other things, so too they
are disposed toward pleasure and pain and what's between them in such
a way that, when they are brought to the painful, they suppose truly and 585 a
are really in pain, but, when brought from the painful to the in-
between, they seriously suppose they are nearing fulfillment and
pleasure; and, as though out of lack of experience of white they looked
from gray to black, out of lack of experience of pleasure they look from
pain to the painless and are deceived?"
"No, by Zeus," he said, "I wouldn't be surprised; I'd be far more
so if this weren't the case."
"Reflect on it this way," I said. "Aren't hunger, thirst, and such
things kinds of emptiness of the body's condition?" b
"Of course."
"Aren't ignorance and imprudence in their turn emptiness of the
soul's condition?"
"Quite so."
"And wouldn't the man who partakes of nourishment and the one
who gets intelligence become full?"
"Surely."
"As to fullness, is the truer fullness that of a thing which is less or of one
which is more."
"Plainly that of one which is more."
"Which of the classes do you believe participates more in pure
being: the class of food, drink, seasoning, and nourishment in general,
or the form of true opinion, knowledge, intelligence and, in sum, of all c
virtue? Judge it in this way: In your opinion which thing is more: one
that is connected with something always the same, immortal and true,
and is such itself and comes to be in such a thing; or one that is con-
nected with something never the same and mortal, and is such itself and
comes to be in such a thing? "
"That," he said, "which is connected with what is always the same
far exceeds."
"And the being of that which is always the same, does it par-
ticipate in being any more than in knowledge?"^
"Not at all."
[267 ]
socrates/glaucon THEREPUBLic
585 c "Any- more than in truth?"
"No, not that either."
"And if less in truth, less in being also?"
"Necessarily."
d "Generally, isn't it the case that the classes that have to do with
the care of the body participate less in truth and being than those hav-
ing to do with the care of the soul?"
"Far less."
"Don't you suppose the same is the case with body itself as com-
pared to soul?"
"I do."
"Isn't what is full of things that are more, and itself is more, really
fuller than what is full of things that are less and itself is less?"
"Of course."
"Therefore, if it is pleasant to become full of what is by nature
suitable, that which is more really full of things that are more would
e cause one to enjoy true pleasure more really and truly, while what par-
takes in things that are less would be less truly and surely full and
would partake in a pleasure less trustw^orthy and less true."
"Most necessarily," he said.
586 a "Therefore, those who have no experience of prudence and virtue
but are always living with feasts and the like are, it seems, brought
dov^Ti and then back again to the middle and throughout life wander in
this way; but, since they don't go beyond this, they don't look upward
toward what is truly above, nor are they ever brought to it; and they
aren't filled with what really is, nor do they taste of a pleasure that is
sure and pure; rather, after the fashion of cattle, always looking down
and with their heads bent to earth and table, they feed, fattening them-
b selves, and copulating; and, for the sake of getting more of these things,
they kick and butt with horns and hoofs of iron, killing each other be-
cause they are insatiable; for they are not filling the part of themselves
that is, or can contain anything, with things that are."
"That, Socrates," said Glaucon, "is exactly the life of the many
presented in the form of an oracle."
"Then isn't it also necessary that the pleasures they live with be
mixed with pains— mere phantoms and shadow paintings of true
c pleasure? Each takes its color by contrast with the others, so that they
look vivid and give birth to frenzied loves of themselves in the foolish
and are fought over, like the phantom of Helen that Stesichorus says
the men at Troy fought over out of ignorance of the truth."^
"It's most necessary," he said, "that it be something like that."
"And what about this? In what concerns the spirited part, won't
other like things necessarily come to pass for the man who brings this
[ 268 ]
Book IX / 585c-587b socrates/glauco
part to its fulfillment — either by envy due to love of honor, or by 586
violence due to love of victory, or by anger due to ill-temper— pursuing
satisfaction of honor, victory, and anger without calculation and in-
telligence?"
"Concerning this part, too," he said, "such things are necessary."
"What then?" 1 said. "Shall we be bold and say this: Of the
desires concerned with the love of gain and the love of victory,
some— followers of knowledge and argument— pursue in company
with them the pleasures to which the prudential part leads and take
only these; such desires will take the truest pleasures, so far as they can
take true ones— because they follow truth — and those that are most
their owti- if indeed what is best for each thing is also most properly
its own?"
"But, of course," he said, "that is what is most its owti."
"Therefore, when all the soul follows the philosophic and is not
factious, the result is that each part may, so far as other things are con-
cerned, mind its own business and be just and, in particular, enjoy its
own pleasures, the best pleasures, and, to the greatest possible extent,
the truest pleasures." ' 587 1
""That's entirely certain."
"And, therefore, when one of the other parts gets control, the
result is that it can't discover its owti pleasure and compels the others
to pursue an alien and untrue pleasure."
"That's so," he said.
"Doesn't what is most distant from philosophy and argument pro-
duce such results?"
"By far."
"And is what is most distant from law and order most distant
from argument?"
"Plainly."
"And didn't the erotic and tyrannic desires come to light as most
distant?"
"By far."
"And the kingly and orderly ones least distant?"
"Yes."
"Then I suppose the tyrant will be most distant from a pleasure
that is true and is properly his owti, while the king is least distant."
"Necessarily."
"And therefore," I said, "the tyrant will live most unpleasantly
and the king most pleasantly."
"Quite necessarily."
"Do you know," I said, "how much more unpleasant the tyrant's
life is than the king's?"
[ 269 ]
GLAUCON/sCXaRATES THE REPUBLIP
587 b "I will, if you tell me," he said.
"There are, as it seems, three pleasures — one genuine, and two
c bastard. The tyrant, going out beyond the bastard ones, once he has
fled law and argimient, dwells with a bodyguard of certain slave
pleasures; and the extent of his inferiority isn't at all easy to tell, except
perhaps as follows."
"How?" he said.
"The tyrant, of course, stood third from the oligarchic man; the
man of the people was between them."
"Yes."
"Then wouldn't he dwell with a phantom of pleasure that with
respect to truth is third from that other, if what went before is true?"
"That's so."
"And the oligarchic man is in his turn third from the kingly man,
d if we count the aristocratic and the kingly man as the same."
"Yes, he is third."
"Therefore," I said, "a tyrant is removed from true pleasure by a
number that is three times three."
"It looks like it."
"Therefore," I said, "the phantom of tyrannic pleasure would,
on the basis of the number of its length, be a plane?"^**
"Entirely so."
"But then it becomes clear how great the distance of separation is
on the basis of the square and the cube."
"It's clear," he said, "to the man skilled in calculation."
"Then if one turns it around and says how far the king is removed
e from the tyrant in truth of pleasure, he will find at the end of the mul-
tiplication that he lives 729 times more pleasantly, while the tyrant
lives more disagreeably by the same distance."
"You've poured forth," he said, "a prodigious calculation of the
588 a difference between the two men — the just and the unjust — in pleasure
and pain."
"And yet the number is true," I said, "and appropriate to lives
too, if days and nights and months and years are appropriate to
them ."11
"But, of course, they are appropriate," he said.
"Then if the good and just man's victory in pleasure over the bad
and unjust man is so great, won't his victory in grace, beauty, and vir-
tue of life be greater to a prodigious degree?"
"To a prodigious degree, indeed, by Zeus," he said.
b "All right, then," I said. "Since we are at this point in the argu-
ment, let's take up again the first things said, those thanks to which we
have come here. It was, I believe, said that doing injustice is profitable
[ 270 ]
Book IX / 587b-589a socrates/glaucoi
for the man who is perfectly unjust but has the reputation of being just. 533 j
Or isn't that the way it was said?"
"Yes, it was."
"Now then," I said, "let's discuss with him, since we have agreed
about the respective powers of doing injustice and doing just things."
"How?" he said.
"By molding an image of the soul in speech so that the man who
says these things will see just what he has been saying."
"What sort of image?" he said. ,
"One of those natures such as the tales say used to come into be-
ing in olden times— the Chimsera, Scylla, Cerberus, and certain others, a
throng of them, which are said to have been many ideas grown
naturally together in one."^^
"Yes," he said, "they do tell of such things."
"Well then, mold a single idea for a many-colored, many-headed
beast that has a ring of heads of tame and savage beasts and can
change them and make all of them grow from itself."
"That's a job for a clever molder," he said. "But, nevertheless, <
since speech is more easily molded than wax and the like, consider it as
molded."
"Now, then, mold another single idea for a lion, and a single one
for a human being. Let the first be by far the greatest, and the second,
second in size."
"That's easier," he said, "and the molding is done."
"Well, then, join them— they are three— in one, so that in some
way they grow naturally together with each other."
"They are joined," he said.
"Then mold about them on the outside an image of one— that of
the human being— so that to the man who's not able to see what's in-
side, but sees only the outer shell, it looks like one animal, a human
being."
"The outer mold is in place," he said.
"Then let's say to the one who says that it's profitable for this hu-
man being to do injustice, and that it's not advantageous for him to do
just things, that he's affirming nothing other than that it is profitable for
him to feast and make strong the manifold beast and the lion and
what's connected with the lion, while starving the human being and
making him weak so that he can be drawn wherever either of the others 589
leads and doesn't habituate them to one another or make them friends
but lets them bite and fight and devour each other."
"That," he said, "is exactly what would be meant by the man who
praises doing injustice."
"On the other hand, wouldn't the one who says the just things
[ 271 ]
sochates/glaucon the republic
589 a are profitable affirm that it is necessary to do and say those things
from which the human being within will most be in control of the hu-
b man being and take charge of the many-headed beast — like a fann-
er, nourishing and cultivating the tame heads, while hindering the
growth of the savage ones — making the lion's nature an ally and,
caring for all in common, making them friends with each other and
himself, and so rear them?"
"That is exactly what in turn is meant by the man who praises the
just. "
"In every respect, surely, the man who lauds the just things would
c speak the truth and the man who lauds the unjust ones would lie. For,
considering pleasure, good reputation, and benefit, the praiser of the
just tells the truth, while the blamer says nothing healthy and blames
without knowing what he blames."
"In my opinion," he said, "he doesn't know it at all."
"Well, then, let's persuade him gently — for he isn't willingly
mistaken — by questioning him: 'You blessed man, wouldn't we affirm
that law^l noble and base things have come into being on
such grounds as these; the noble things cause the bestial part of our
d nature to be subjected to the human being — or, perhaps, rather to the di-
vine part — ^while the base things enslave the tame to the savage?' Will
he agree or not?"
"He will, if he's persuaded by me," he said.
"Is it possible," I said, "on the basis of this argument, that it be
profitable for anyone to take gold unjustly if something like this hap-
pens: he takes the gold and at the same time enslaves the best part of
e himself to the most depraved? Or, if he took gold for enslaving his son
or daughter, and to savage and bad men, it wouldn't have profited him
no matter how much he took for it; now if he enslaves the most divine
part of himself to the most godless and polluted part and has no pity,
won't he then be wretched and accept golden gifts for a destruction
590 a more terrible by far than Eriphyle's accepting the necklace for her hus-
band's soul?"^^
"Far more terrible indeed," said Glaucon. "I'll answer you on his
behalf"
"Don't you suppose that being licentious has also long been
blamed for reasons of this kind, since by that sort of thing that terrible,
great, and many-formed beast is given freer rein than it ought to
have?"
"Plainly," he said.
"And aren't stubbornness and bad temper blamed when they in-
[ 272 ]
Book IX / 589a-591b socrates/glaucoi
harmoniously strengthen and strain the lion-like and snake-like part?" 590 i
"Most certainly."
"And aren't lixxury and softness blamed for slackening and relax-
ing this same part when they introduce cowardice in it?"
"Of course."
"And aren't flattery and illiberality blamed when a man subjects
this same part, the spirited, to the mob-like beast; and, letting it be in-
sulted for the sake of money and the beast's insatiability, habituates it
from youth on to be an ape instead of a lion?"
"Quite so," he said.
"And why do you suppose mechanical and manual art bring
reproach? Or shall we say that this is because of anything else than
when the form of the best is by nature so weak in a man that he isn't
capable of ruling the beasts in himself, but only of serving them, and is
capable of learning only the things that flatter them?"
"So it seems," he said.
"In order that such a man also be ruled by something similar to
what rules the best man, don't we say that he must be the slave of that
best man who has the divine rule in himself? It's not that we suppose
the slave must be ruled to his own detriment, as Thrasymachus sup-
posed about the ruled; but that it's better for all to be ruled by what is
divine and prudent, especially when one has it as his own within him-
self; but, if not, set over one from outside, so that insofar as possible all
will be alike and friends, piloted by the same thing."
"Yes," he said, "that's right."
"And the law," I said, "as an ally of all in the city, also makes it
plain that it wants something of the kind; and so does the rule over the
children, their not being set free until we establish a regime in them as
in a city, and until— having cared for the best part in them with the like 591
in ourselves— we establish a similar guardian and ruler in them to take
our place; only then, do we set them free."
"Yes," he said, "they do make that plain."
"Then in what way, Glaucon, and on the basis of what argument,
will we affirm that it is profitable to do injustice, or be licentious, or do
anything base, when as a result of these things one will be worse, even
though one acquires more money or more of some other power?"
"In no way," he said.
"And in what way is it profitable to get away with doing injustice
and not pay the penalty? Or doesn't the man who gets away with it be-
come still worse; while, as for the man who doesn't get away with it and
is punished, isn't the bestial part of him put to sleep and tamed, and the
[ 273 ]
socrates/glaucon THEREPUBLIc
591 b tame part freed, and doesn't his whole soul — brought to its best nature
acquiring moderation and justice accompanied by prudence— gain a
habit more worthy of honor than the one a body gains with strength
and beauty accompanied by health, in proportion as soul is more
honorable than body?"
"That's entirely certain," he said.
c "Then won't the man who has intelligence strain all of his powers
to that end as long as he lives; in the first place, honoring the studies
that will make his soul such, while despising the rest?"
"Plainly," he said.
"Next," I said, "not only won't he turn the habit and nourishment of
the body over to the bestial and irrational pleasure and live turned in that
direction, but he'll not even look to health, nor give precedence to being
d strong, healthy, or fair unless he's also going to become moderate as a result
of them; rather he will always be seen adjusting the body's harmony for the
sake of the accord in the soul."
"That's entirely certain," he said, "if he's going to be truly
musical."
"And won't he also maintain order and concord in the acquisition
of money? " I said. "And, since he's not impressed with what the many
deem to be blessedness, will he give boundless increase to the bulk of
his property and thus possess boundless evils?"
"rdon't suppose he will," he said. ,
"Rather, he looks fixedly at the regime within him," I said, "and
e guards against upsetting anything in it by the possession of too much or
too little substance. In this way, insofar as possible, he governs his ad-
ditions to, and expenditure of, his substance. "
"That's quite certain," he said.
592 a "And, further, with honors too, he looks to the same thing; he will
willingly partake of and taste those that he believes will make him bet-
ter, while those that would overturn his established habit he will flee, in
private and in public."
"Then," he said, "if it's that he cares about, he won't be willing to
mind the political things. "
"Yes, by the dog," I said, "he will in his own city, very much so.
However, perhaps he won't in his fatherland unless some divine chance
coincidentally comes to pass."
"I understand," he said. "You mean he will in the city whose
foundation we have now gone through, the one that has its place in
b speeches, since I don't suppose it exists anywhere on earth."
[ 274 ]
Book IX / 591b-592b scxsrates/glaucon
"But in heaven," I said, "perhaps, a pattern is laid up for the man 592 b
who wants to see and found a city within himself on the basis of what
he sees. It doesn't make any difference whether it is or will be
somewhere. For he would mind the things of this city alone, and of no
other."
"That's likely," he said.
[ 275 ]
BOOKX
"And, indeed, " I said, "I also recognize in many other aspects of 595 a
this city that we were entirely right in the way we founded it, but I say
this particularly when reflecting on poetry."
"What about it?" he said.
"In not admitting at all any part of it that is imitative. For that the
imitative, more than anything, must not be admitted looks, in my opin-
ion, even more manifest now that the soul's forms have each been
separated out." b
"How do you mean?"
"Between us — and you all won't denounce me to the tragic poets and
all the other imitators — all such things seem to maim the thought of
those who hear them and do not as a remedy have the knowledge of how
they really are."
"What are you thinking about in saying that?" he said.
"It must be told," I said. "And yet, a certain friendship for
Homer, and shame before him, which has possessed me since child-
hood, prevents me from speaking. For he seems to have been the first
teacher and leader of all these fine tragic things. Still and all, a man c
must not be honored before the truth, but, as I say, it must be told."
"Most certainly," he said.
"Then listen, or rather, answer. "
"Ask."
[ 277 ]
socrates/glaucon the republic
595 c "Could you tell me what imitation in general is? For I myself
scarcely comprehend what it wants to be."
"Then it follows," he said, "that I, of course, will comprehend it."
"That wouldn't be anything strange," I said, "since men with
596 a duller vision have often, you know, seen things before those who see
more sharply."
"That's so," he said. "But vdth you present I couldn't be very
eager to say whatever might occur to me, so look yourself. "
"Do you want us to make our consideration according to our
customary procedure, beginning from the following point? For we are,
presumably, accustomed to set down some one particular form for each
of the particular 'manys' to which we apply the same name. Or don't
you understand?"
"I do."
"Then let's now set down any one of the 'manys' you please; for
b example, if you wish, there are surely many couches and tables."
"Of course:"
"But as for ideas for these furnishings, there are presumably two,
one of couch, one of table."
"Yes."
"Aren't we also accustomed to say that it is in looking to the idea
of each implement that one craftsman makes the couches and another
the chairs we use, and similarly for other things? For presumably none
of the craftsmen fabricates the idea itself. How could he?"
"In no way."
"Well, now, see what you call this craftsman here."
c "Which one?"
"He who makes everything that each one of the manual artisans
makes separately. "
"That's a clever and wonderful man you speak of. "
"Not yet. In an instant you'll say that even more. For this same
manual artisan is not only able to make all implements but also makes
everything that grows naturally from the earth, and he produces all
animals — the others and himself too — and, in addition to that, pro-
duces earth and heaven and gods and everything in heaven and every-
thing in Hades under the earth. "
d "That's quite a wonderful sophist you speak of," he said.
"Are you distrustful?" I said. "And tell me, in your opinion could
there be altogether no such craftsman; or in a certain way, could a
maker of all these things come into being and in a certain way not? Or
aren't you aware that you yourself could in a certain way make all these
things?"
278 ]
Book X I 595c-597b glaucon/socrates
"And what," he said, "is that way?" 596 d
"It's not hard," I said. "You could fabricate them quickly in many
ways and most quickly, of course, if you are willing to take a mirror and
carry it around everywhere; quickly you will make the sun and the e
things in the heaven; quickly, the earth; and quickly, yourself and the
other animals and implements and plants and everything else that was
just now mentioned."
"Yes," he said, "so that they look like they are; however, they
surely are not in truth."
"Fine," I said, "and you attack the argument at just the right
place. For I suppose the painter is also one of these craftsmen, isn't
he?"
"Of course he is. "
"But 1 suppose you'll say that he doesn't truly make what he
makes. And yet in a certain way the painter too does make a couch,
doesn't he?"
"Yes," he said, "he too makes what looks like a couch."
"And what about the couchmaker? Weren't you just saying that 597 a
he doesn't make the form, which is what we, of course, say is just a couch,
but a certain couch?"
"Yes," he said, "I was saying that."
"Then, if he doesn't make what is, he wouldn't make the being but
something that is like the being, but is not being. And if someone were
to assert that the work of the producer of couches or of any other
manual artisan is completely being, he would run the risk of saying
what's not true."
"Yes," he said, "at least that would be the opinion of those who
spend their time in arguments of this kind."
"Therefore, let's not be surprised if this too turns out to be a dim
thing compared to the truth. "
"No, let's not." b
"Do you," I said, "want us on the basis of these very things to
investigate who this imitator is?"
"If you want to," he said.
"There turn out, then, to be these three kinds of couches: one that
is in nature, which we would say, I suppose, a god produced. Or who
else?"
"No one else, 1 suppose."
"And then one that the carpenter produced."
"Yes," he said.
"And one that the painter produced, isn't that so?"
"Let it be so."
[ 279 ]
socrates/glaucon the republic
597 h "Then painter, couchmaker, god — these three preside over three
forms of couches . "
"Yes, three."
c "Now, the god, whether he didn't want to or whether some
necessity was laid upon him not to produce more than one couch in
nature, made only one, that very one which is a couch. And two or
more such weren't naturally engendered by the god nor will they be
begotten."
"How's that?" he said.
"Because," I said, "if he should make only two, again one would
come to light the form of which they in turn would both possess, and
that, and not the two, would be the couch that is. "
"Right," he said.
d "Then, I suppose, the god, knowing this and wanting to be a real
maker of a couch that really is and not a certain couchmaker of a cer-
tain couch, begot it as one by nature."
"So it seems."
"Do you want us to address him as its nature-begetter or some-
thing of the kind?"
"That's just at any rate," he said, "since by nature he has made
both this and everything else."
"And what about the carpenter? Isn't he a craftsman of a couch?"
"Yes."
"And is the painter also a craftsman and maker of such a thing?"
"Not at all."
"But what of a couch will you say he is?"
e "In my opinion," he said, "he would most sensibly be addressed as
an imitator of that of which these others are craftsmen. '
"All right," I said, "do you, then, call the man at the third genera-
tion from nature an imitator? "
"Most certainly," he said.
"Therefore this will also apply to the maker of tragedy, if he is
an imitator; he is naturally third from a king and the truth, as
are all the other imitators."
"Probably."
"Then we have agreed about the imitator. Now tell me this
598 a about the painter. In your opinion, does he in each case attempt to
imitate the thing itself in nature, or the works of the craftsmen?"
"The works of the craftsmen, " he said.
"Such as they are or such as they look? For you still have to make
this further distinction."
"How do you mean?" he said.
[ 280 ]
Book X I 597b-599c sockates/glaucon
"Like this. Does a couch, if you observe it from the side, or 598 a
from the front, or from anywhere else, differ at all from itself? Or
does it not differ at all but only look different, and similarly with the
rest?"
"The latter is so," he said. "It looks different, but isn't."
"Now consider this very point. Toward which is painting directed b
in each case— toward imitation of the being as it is or toward its looking
as it looks? Is it imitation of looks or of truth?"
"Of looks," he said.
"Therefore, imitation is surely far from the truth; and, as it
seems, it is due to this that it produces everything— because it lays
hold of a certain small part of each thing, and that part is itself only a
phantom. For example, the painter, we say, will paint for us a shoe-
maker, a carpenter, and the other craftsmen, although he doesn't
understand the arts of any one of them. But, nevertheless, if he is a c
good painter, by painting a carpenter and displaying him from far
off, he would deceive children and foolish human beings into think-
ing that it is truly a carpenter."
"Of course."
"But, in any event, I suppose, my friend, that this is what
must be understood about all such things: when anyone reports to
us about someone, saying that he has encountered a human being
who knows all the crafts and everything else that single men several-
ly know, and there is nothing that he does not know more precisely
than anyone else, it would have to be replied to such a one that he d
is an innocent human being and that, as it seems, he has encountered
some wizard and imitator and been deceived. Because he himself is
unable to put knowledge and lack of knowledge and imitation to the
test, that man seemed all-wise to him."
"Very true," he said.
"Then, next," I said, "tragedy and its leader, Homer, must be
considered, since we hear from some that these men know all arts e
and all things human that have to do with virtue and vice, and the
divine things too. For it is necessary that the good poet, if he is go-
ing to make fair poems about the things his poetry concerns, be in
possession of knowledge when he makes his poems or not be able
to make them. Hence, we must consider whether those who tell us
this have encountered these imitators and been deceived; and
whether, therefore, seeing their works, they do not recognize that
these works are third from what is and are easy to make for the man 599 a
who doesn't know the truth— for such a man makes what look like
beings but are not. Or, again, is there also something to what they
[ 281 ]
socrates/gi^ucon the republic
599 a say, and do the good poets really know about the things that, in the
opinion of the many, they say well?"
"Most certainly," he said, "that must be tested."
"Do you suppose that if a man were able to make both, the thing
to be imitated and the phantom, he would permit himself to be serious
about the crafting of the phantoms and set this at the head of his own
b life as the best thing he has?"
"No, I don't."
"But, I suppose, if he were in truth a knower of these things that
he also imitates, he would be far more serious about the deeds than the
imitations and would try to leave many fair deeds behind as memorials
of himself and would be more eager to be the one who is lauded rather
than the one who lauds."
"I suppose so," he said. "For the honor and the benefit coming
from the two are hardly equal."
"Well, then, about the other things, let's not demand an account
c from Homer or any other of the poets by asking, if any one of them was
a doctor and not only an imitator of medical speeches, who are the men
whom any poet, old or new, is said to have made healthy, as Asclepius
did; or what students of medicine he left behind as Asclepius did his
ofiFspring.^ Nor, again, will we ask them about the other arts, but
we'll let that go. But about the greatest and fairest things of which
Homer attempts to speak — about wars and commands of armies and
d governances of cities, and about the education of a human being — it
is surely just to ask him and inquire, 'Dear Homer, if you are not
third from the truth about virtue, a craftsman of a phantom, just the
one we defined as an imitator, but are also second and able to recog-
nize what sorts of practices make human beings better or worse in
private and in public, tell us which of the cities was better governed
thanks to you, as Lacedaemon was thanks to Lycurgus, and many
e others, both great and small, were thanks to many others? What
city gives you credit for having proved a good lawgiver and ben-
efited them? Italy and Sicily do so for Charondas, and we for So-
lon;2 now who does it for you?' Will he have any to mention? '
"I don't suppose so," said Glaucon. "At least, the Homeridae
themselves do not tell of any."
"Well, is any war in Homer's time remembered that was well
600 a fought with his ruling or advice?"
"None."
"Well, then, as is appropriate to the deeds of a wise man, do they
tell of many ingenious devices for the arts or any other activities,
just as for Thales the Milesian or Anacharsis the Scythian?"^
"Not at all; there's nothing of the sort."
[ 282 ]
Book X I 599a-601a socrates/glaucon
"Well, then, if there is nothing in public, is it told that Homer, 600 a
while he was himself alive, was in private a leader in education for
certain men who cherished him for his intercourse and handed down
a certain Homeric way of life to those who came after, just as Py- b
thagoras himself was particularly cherished for this reason, and his
successors even now still give Pythagoras' name to a way of life that
makes them seem somehow outstanding among men."
"Again," he said, "nothing of the sort is said. For Creophylos,
Homer's comrade, would, Socrates, perhaps turn out to be even
more ridiculous in his education than in his name,^ if the things
said about Homer are true. For it is told that Homer suffered consid-
erable neglect in his own day, when he was alive." c
"Yes, that is told," I said. "But, Glaucon, if Homer were really
able to educate human beings and make them better because he is in
these things capable not of imitating but of knowing, do you suppose
that he wouldn't have made many comrades and been honored and
cherished by them? But Protagoras, the Abderite, after all, and Prot
dicus, the Cean,^ and very many others are able, by private in-
tercourse, to impress upon the men of their time the assurance that they
will be able to govern neither home nor city unless they themselves d
supervise their education, and they are so intensely loved for this
wisdom that their comrades do everything but carry them about on
their heads. Then do you suppose that if he were able to help human
beings toward virtue, the men in Homer's time would have let him or
Hesiod go around being rhapsodes and wouldn't have clung to them
rather than to their gold? And wouldn't they have compelled these
teachers to stay with them at home; or, if they weren't persuaded, e
wouldn't they themselves have attended^ them wherever they went,
until they had gained an adequate education?"
"In my opinion, Socrates," he said, "what you say is entirely
true."
"Shouldn't we set down all those skilled in making, beginning
with Homer, as imitators of phantoms of virtue and of the other sub-
jects of their making? They don't lay hold of the truth; rather, as we
were just now saying, the painter wdll make what seems to be a
shoemaker to those who understand as little about shoemaking as he 601 a
understands, but who observe only colors and shapes."
"Most certainly. "
"Then, in this way, I suppose we'll claim the poetic man also
uses names and phrases to color each of the arts. He himself doesn't
understand; but he imitates in such a way as to seem, to men whose
condition is like his own and who observe only speeches, to speak
very well. He seems to do so when he speaks using meter, rhythm.
[ 283 ]
socrates/glaucon the REPUBLIp
601 a and harmony, no matter whether the subject is shoemaking, general-
b ship, or anything else. So great is the charm that these things by na-
ture possess. For when the things of the poets are stripped of the
colors of the music and are said alone, by themselves, I suppose you
know how they look. For you, surely, have seen."
"I have indeed," he said.
"Don't they," I said, "resemble the faces of the boys who are
youthful but not fair in what happens to their looks when the bloom
has forsaken them?"
"Exactly," he said.
"Come now, reflect on this. The maker of the phantom, the
imitator, we say, understands nothing of what is but rather of what
c looks like it is. Isn't that so?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, let's not leave it half- said, but let's see it adequately."
"Speak," he said.
"A painter, we say, will paint reins and a bit."
"Yes."
"But a shoemaker and a smith will make them."
"Certainly."
"Then does the painter understand how the reins and the bit must
be? Or does even the maker not understand— the smith and the leather-
cutter — ^but only he who knows how to use them, the horseman?"
"Very true."
"And won't we say that it is so for everything?"
"How?"
d "For each thing there are these three arts— one that will use, one
that will make, one that will imitate."
"Yes."
"Aren't the virtue, beauty, and rightness of each implement,
animal, and action related to nothing but the use for which each was
made, or grew naturally?"
"That's so."
"It's quite necessary, then, that the man who uses each thing be
most experienced and that he report to the maker what are the good or
bad points, in actual use, of the instrument he uses. For example, about
flutes, a flute player surely reports to the flute-maker which ones would
e serve him in playing, and he will prescribe how they must be made, and
the other will serve him."
"Of course."
"Doesn't the man who knows report about good and bad flutes,
and won't the other, trusting him, make them?"
"Yes."
[ 284 ]
f Book X / 601a-602d socrates/glaucon
r
? "Therefore the maker of the same implement will have right trust 601 e
• concerning its beauty and its badness from being with the man who
I knows and from being compelled to listen to the man who knows, while
the user will have knowledge." 602 a
"Certainly."
"And will the imitator from using the things that he paints have
knowledge of whether they are fair and right or not, or right opinion
due to the necessity of being with the man who knows and receiving
prescriptions of how he must paint?"
"Neither."
"Therefore, with respect to beauty and badness, the imitator will
neither know nor opine rightly about what he imitates."
"It doesn't seem so."
"The imitator, in his making, would be a charming chap, so far as
wisdom about what he makes goes."
"Hardly." _
"But all the same, he will imitate, although he doesn't know in b
what way each thing is bad or good. But as it seems, whatever looks to
be fair to the many who don't know anything— that he will imitate."
"Of course he will."
"Then it looks like we are pretty well agreed on these things: the
imitator knows nothing worth mentioning about what he imitates;
imitation is a kind of play and not serious; and those who take up tragic
poetry in iambics and in epics are all imitators in the highest possible
degree."
"Most certainly."
"In the name of Zeus," I said, "then, isn't this imitating con- c
cerned with something that is third from the truth? Isn't that so?"
"Yes."
"Now, then, on which one of the parts of the human being does it
have the power it has?"
"What sort of part do you mean?"
"This sort. The same magnitude surely doesn't look equal to our
sight from near and from far."
"No, it doesn't."
"And the same things look bent and straight when seen in water
and out of it, and also both concave and convex, due to the sight's
being misled by the colors, and every sort of confusion of this kind is
plainly in our soul. And, then, it is because they take advantage of this d
affection in our nature that shadow painting, and puppeteering, and
many other tricks of the kind fall nothing short of wizardry."
True.
"And haven't measuring, counting, and weighing come to light as
[ 2S5 ]
sockates/glaucon THEREPUBLI
602 d most charming helpers in these cases? As a result of them, we are not
ruled by a thing's looking bigger or smaller or more or heavier; rather
we are ruled by that which has calculated, measured, or, if you please
weighed."
"Undeniably."
e "But this surely must be the work of the calculating part in a
soul."
"Yes, it is the work of that part."
"And to it, when it has measured and indicates that some things
are bigger or smaller than others, or equal, often contrary appearances
are presented at the same time about the same things."
"Yes."
"Didn't we say that it is impossible for the same thing to opine
contraries at the same time about the same things?"
"And what we said is right."
603 a "Therefore, the part of the soul opining contrary to the measures
would not be the same as the part that does so in accordance with the
measures."
"No, it wouldn't."
"And, further, the part which trusts measure and calculation
would be the best part of the soul."
"Of course."
"Therefore, the part opposed to it would be one of the ordinary
things in us."
"Necessarily."
"Well, then, it was this I wanted agreed to when I said that paint-
ing and imitation as a whole are far from the truth when they produce
their work; and that, moreover, imitation keeps company with the part
h in us that is far from prudence, and is not comrade and friend for any
healthy or true purpose."
"Exactly," he said.
"Therefore, imitation, an ordinary thing having intercourse with
what is ordinary, produces ordinary offspring."
"It seems so."
"Does this," I said, "apply only to the imitation connected with
the sight or also to that connected with the hearing, which we name
poetry?"
"It is likely," he said, "that it applies also to this."
"Well, then," I said, "let's not just trust the likelihood based on
painting; but let's now go directly to the very part of thought with
^ which poetry's imitation keeps company and see whether it is ordinary
or serious."
[ 286 ]
Book X / 602d-604b glaucon/socrates
"We must." 603 c
"Let's present it in this way. Imitation, we say, imitates human
beings performing forced or voluntary actions, and, as a result of the
action, supposing themselves to have done well or badly, and in all of
this experiencing pain or enjoyment. Was there anything else beyond
this?"
"Nothing."
"Then, in all this, is a human being of one mind? Or, just as with
respect to the sight there was faction and he had contrary opinions in d
himself at the same time about the same things, is there also faction in
him when it comes to deeds and does he do battle with himself? But I
am reminded that there's no need for us to come to an agreement about
this now. For in the previous arguments we came to sufficient agree-
ment about all this, asserting that our soul teems with ten thousand
such oppositions arising at the same time."
"Rightly," he said.
"Yes, it was right," I said. "But what we then left out, it is now
necessary to go through, in my opinion." e
"What was that?" he said.
"A decent man," I said, "who gets as his share some such chance
as losing a son or something else for which he cares particularly, as we
were surely also saying then, will bear it more easily than other men."
"Certainly."
"Now let's consider whether he won't be grieved at all, or whether
this is impossible, but that he will somehow be sensible in the face of
pain."
"The latter," he said, "is closer to the truth."
"Now tell me this about him. Do you suppose he'll fight the pain 604 a
and hold out against it more when he is seen by his peers, or when he is
alone by himself in a deserted place?"
"Surely," he said, "he will fight it far more when seen."
"But when left alone, I suppose, he'll dare to utter many things of
which he would be ashamed if someone were to hear, and will do many
things he would not choose to have anyone see him do."
"That's so," he said.
"Isn't it argument and law that tell him to hold out, while the suf-
fering itself is what draws him to the pain?" h
True.
"When a contradictory tendency arises in a human being about
the same thing at the same time, we say that there are necessarily two
things in him."
"Undeniably."
[287 ]
socrates/gi^ucon the REPUBLIq
604 h "Isn't the one ready to be persuaded in whatever direction the law
leads?"
"How so?"
"The law presumably says that it is finest to keep as quiet as possi-
ble in misfortunes and not be irritated, since the good and bad in such
things aren't plain, nor does taking it hard get one anywhere, nor are
c any of the human things worthy of great seriousness; and being in pain
is an impediment to the coming of that thing the support of which we
need as quickly as possible in these cases."
"What do you mean?" he said.
"Deliberation," I said, "about what has happened. One must ac-
cept the fall of the dice and settle one's affairs accordingly~in
whatever way argument declares would be best. One must not behave
like children who have stumbled and who hold on to the hurt place and
spend their time in crying out; rather one must always habituate the
d soul to turn as quickly as possible to curing and setting aright what has
fallen and is sick, doing away with lament by medicine."
"That," he said, "at all events, would be the most correct way for
a man to face what chance brings."
"And, we say, the best part is willing to follow this calculation—"
"Plainly."
"—whereas the part that leads to reminiscences of the suffering
and to complaints and can't get enough of them, won't we say that it is
irrational, idle, and a friend of cowardice?"
"Certainly we'll say that."
e "Now then, the irritable disposition affords much and varied
imitation, while the prudent and quiet character, which is always
nearly equal to itself, is neither easily imitated nor, when imitated,
easily understood, especially by a festive assembly where all sorts of
human beings are gathered in a theater. For the imitation is of a condi-
tion that is surely alien to them."
605 a "That's entirely certain."
"Then plainly the imitative poet isn't naturally directed toward
any such part of the soul, and his wisdom isn't framed for satisfying
it— if he's going to get a good reputation among the many— but rather
toward the irritable and various disposition, because it is easily
imitated."
"Plainly."
"Therefore it would at last be just for us to seize him and set him
beside the painter as his antistrophe. For he is like the painter in mak-
ing things that are ordinary by the standard of truth; and he is also
b similar in keeping company with a part of the soul that is on the same
[ 288 ]
^ook X I 604b-606b socrates/glaucon
ilevel and not with the best part. And thus we should at last be justified 605 b
Ijn not admitting him into a city that is going to be under good laws, be-
^cause he awakens this part of the soul and nourishes it, and, by making
lit strong, destroys the calculating part, just as in a city when someone,
|by making wicked men mighty, turns the city over to them and cor-
Irupts the superior ones. Similarly, we shall say the imitative poet pro-
Induces a bad regime in the soul of each private man by making phan-
^toms that are very far removed from the truth and by gratifying the c
soul's foolish part, which doesn't distinguish big from little, but
believes the same things are at one time big and at another little."
"Most certainly."
"However, we haven't yet made the greatest accusation against
imitation. For the fact that it succeeds in maiming even the decent
men, except for a certain rare few, is surely quite terrible."
"Certainly, if it does indeed do that."
"Listen and consider. When even the best of us hear Homer or
any other of the tragic poets imitating one of the heroes in mourning
and making quite an extended speech with lamentation, or, if you like, d
singing and beating his breast, you know that we enjoy it and that we
give ourselves over to following the imitation; suffering along with the
hero in all seriousness, we praise as a good poet the man who most puts
us in this state."
"I know it, of course."
"But when personal sorrow comes to one of us, you are aware
that, on the contrary, we pride ourselves if we are able to keep quiet
and bear up, taking this to be the part of a man and what we then e
praised to be that of a woman."
"I do recognize it," he said.
"Is that a fine way to praise?" I said. "We see a man whom we
would not condescend, but would rather blush, to resemble, and,
instead of being disgusted, we enjoy it and praise it?"
"No, by Zeus," he said, "that doesn't seem reasonable."
"Yes, it is," I said, "if you consider it in this way." 606 a
"In what way?"
"If you are aware that what is then held down by force in our own
misfortunes and has hungered for tears and sufficient lament and
satisfaction, since it is by nature such as to desire these things, is that
which now gets satisfaction and enjoyment from the poets. What is by
nature best in us, because it hasn't been adequately educated by argu-
ment of habit, relaxes its guard over this mournful part because it sees
another's sufferings, and it isn't shameful for it, if some other man who b
claims to be good laments out of season, to praise and pity him; rather
[ 289 ]
socrates/glaucon the republic
606 b it believes that it gains the pleasure and wouldn't permit itself to be
deprived of it by despising the whole poem. I suppose that only a cer-
tain few men are capable of calculating that the enjoyment of other
people's sufferings has a necessary effect on one's own. For the pitying
part, fed strong on these examples, is not easily held down in one's own
sufferings."
c "Very true," he said.
"Doesn't the same argument also apply to the laughing part? If
there are any jokes that you would be ashamed to make yourself, but
that you enjoy very much hearing in comic imitation or in private, and
you don't hate them as bad, you do the same as with things that evoke
pity. For that in you which, wanting to make jokes, you then held down
by argument, afraid of the reputation of buffoonery, you now release,
and, having made it lusty there, have unawares been carried away in
your own things so that you become a comic poet."
d "Quite so," he said.
"And as for sex, and spiritedness, too, and for all the desires,
pains, and pleasures in the soul that we say follow all our action, poetic
imitation produces similar results in us. For it fosters and waters them
when they ought to be dried up, and sets them up as rulers in us when
they ought to be ruled so that we may become better and happier in-
stead of worse and more wretched."
"I can't say otherwise," he said.
e "Then, Glaucon," I said, "when you meet praisers of Homer who
say that this poet educated Greece, and that in the management and
education of human affairs it is worthwhile to take him up for study
and for living, by arranging one's whole life according to this poet, you
607 a must love and embrace them as being men who are the best they can
be, and agree that Homer is the most poetic and first of the tragic poets;
but you must know that only so much of poetry as is hymns to gods or
celebration of good men should be admitted into a city. And if you ad-
mit the sweetened muse in lyrics or epics, pleasure and pain will jointly
be kings in your city instead of law and that argument which in each
instance is best in the opinion of the community."
"Very true," he said.
b "Well," I said, "since we brought up the subject of poetry again,
let it be our apology that it was then fitting for us to send it away from
the city on account of its character. The argument determined us. Let
us further say to it, lest it convict us for a certain harshness and
rusticity, that there is an old quarrel between philosophy and poetry.
For that 'yelping bitch shrieking at her master,' and 'great in the empty
c eloquence of fools,' 'the mob of overwise men holding sway,' and 'the
refined thinkers who are really poor'^ and countless others are signs of
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this old opposition. All the same, let it be said that, if poetry directed 607 c
to pleasure and imitation have any argument to give showing that they
should be in a city with good laws, we should be delighted to receive
them back from exile, since we are aware that we ourselves are
channed by them. But it isn't holy to betray what seems to be the truth.
Aren't you, too, my friend, channed by it, especially when you con-
template it through the medium of Homer?" d
"Very much so."
"Isn't it just for it to come back in this way— when it has made an
apology in lyrics or some other meter?"
"Most certainly."
"And surely we would also give its protectors, those who aren't
poets but lovers of poetry, occasion to speak an argument without
meter on its behalf, showing that it's not only pleasant but also benefi-
cial to regimes and human life. And we shall listen benevolently. For
surely we shall gain if it should turn out to be not only pleasant but also e
beneficial."
"We would," he said, "undeniably gain"
"But if not, my dear comrade, just like the men who have once
fallen in love with someone, and don't believe the love is beneficial,
keep away from it even if they have to do violence to themselves; so we
too — due to the inborn love of such poetry we owe to our rearing in
these fine regimes— we'll be glad if it turns out that it is best and truest. 608 a
But as long as it's not able to make its apology, when we listen to it,
well chant this argument we are making to ourselves as a coun-
tercharm, taking care against falling back again into this love, which is
childish and belongs to the many. We are, at all events, aware that such
poetry mustn't be taken seriously as a serious thing laying hold of truth,
but that the man who hears it must be careful, fearing for the regime in b
himself, and must hold what we have said about poetry."
"Entirely," he said. "I join you in saying that."
"For the contest is great, my dear Glaucon," I said, "greater than
it seems— this contest that concerns becoming good or bad— so we
mustn't be tempted by honor or money or any ruling office or, for that
matter, poetry, into thinking that it's worthwhile to neglect justice and
the rest of virtue."
"I join you in saying that," he said, "on the basis of what we have
gone through. And I suppose anyone else would too."
"And, yet," I said, "we haven't gone through the greatest rewards c
and prizes proposed for virtue."
"You are speaking of an inconceivable greatness," he said, "if
there are others greater than those mentioned."
"What that is great could come to pass in a short time?" I said.
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608 c "For surely, the whole of the time from childhood to old age would h
short when compared with all time."
"Rather, it's nothing at all," he said.
"What then? Do you suppose that an immortal thing ought to be
d serious about so short a time and not about all time?"
"I do suppose so," he said. "But what do you mean by this?"
"Haven't you perceived," I said, "that our soul is immortal and is
never destroyed?"
And he looked me in the face with wonder and said, "No, by
Zeus, I haven't. Can you say that?"
"If I am not to do an injustice," I said. "And I suppose you can
too, for it's nothing hard."
"It is for me," he said. "But I would gladly hear from you this
thing that isn't hard."
"You must hear it," I said.
"Just speak," he said.
"Do you," I said, "call something good and something bad?"
"I do."
e "Then do you have the same understanding of them as I do?"
"What's that?"
"What destroys and corrupts everything is the bad, and what saves
and benefits is the good."
"I do," he said.
"And what about this? Do you say there is something bad and
something good for each thing— for example, ophthalmia for the eyes,
609 a and sickness for the entire body, blight for grain, rot for wood, rust for
iron and bronze, and, as I say, for nearly all things is there an evil and
illness naturally connected with each?"
"I do," he said.
"When one of these attaches itself to something, doesn't it make
the thing to which it attaches itself bad and, in the end, wholly dissolve
and destroy it?"
"Undeniably."
"Therefore the evil naturally connected with each thing and its
particular badness destroys it, or if this doesn't destroy it, surely there
h is nothing else that could still corrupt it. For surely the good would
never destroy anything, nor, again, would what is neither bad nor
good."
"How could they?" he said.
"Therefore, if we find any existing thing that has an evil that
makes it bad but is, however, not able to dissolve and destroy it, then
won't we know that for a thing that is naturally so there is no destruc-
tion?"
[ 292 ]
mpok X / 608c-610b glaucon/sockates
t "That's likely," he said. 609 b
' "What then?" I said. "Doesn't the soul have something that makes
rjt bad?"
f> "Very much so/' he said, "all the things we were just going
^ through— injustice, licentiousness, cowardice, and lack of learning." c
f "Does any one of them dissolve and destroy it? And reflect, so
rthat we won't be deceived into supposing that the unjust and foolish
IJiuman being, when he is caught doing injustice, is then destroyed due
g|o the injustice, which is a badness of soul. But do it this way: just as
I jhe badness of body, which is disease, melts and destroys a body and
Ibrings it to the point where it is not even a body, similarly all the things
tof which we were just speaking are corrupted by their own specific
? vice, which attaches itself to them and is present in them, and they d
tfinally come to the point where they are not. Isn't that so?"
k Yes.
|; "Come, then, and consider soul in the same way. Do injustice
; and the rest of vice, when they are present in it, by being present and
; attaching themselves, corrupt and wither it until, brought to the point
t of death, they separate it from the body?"
I "That's not at all the way it is," he said.
& "But it is, on the contrary, unreasonable," I said, "that a thing be
[destroyed by a badness that is alien and not by one that is its own."
"It is unreasonable."
% "Reflect, Glaucon," I said, "that we don't suppose a body should e
i; be destroyed by the badness of foods, whatever it may be— whether it
f is their oldness, rottenness, or anything else. But if the badness of the
; foods themselves introduces the badness of body into the body, we shall
say that due to them it was destroyed by its own vice, which is disease.
But we shall never admit that the body, which is one thing, is corrupted 610 a
[ by the badness of food, which is another thing, if the alien evil does not
; introduce the evil that is naturally connected with the body."
t^ "What you say," he said, "is quite right."
"Well, then," I said, "according to the same argument, if badness
of body doesn't introduce badness of soul into a soul, we would never
admit that a soul is destroyed by an alien evil that does not bring with it
; the specific badness of a soul— that is, we would not admit that one
: thing is destroyed by the evil of another."
"That's reasonable," he said.
"Well then, either let's refute what we are saying and show that
■ it's not fine, or, as long as it's unrefuted, let's never assert that by fever, b
I or by another illness, or, again, by slaughter— even if someone cuts the
whole body up into the smallest pieces— a soul is ever closer to being
destroyed as a result of these things, before someone proves that due to
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610 b these sufferings of the body the sou] itself becomes unjuster and
unholier. But when an ahen vice comes to be in something else and its
c own peculiar vice does not come to be in it, let's not permit anyone to
assert that a soul or anything else is destroyed."
"On the contrary," he said, "no one will ever show that when men
are dying their souls become unjust due to death."
"And," I said, "if someone dares to come to close quarters with
the argument and say that the dying man becomes worse and unjuster
just so as not to be compelled to agree that souls are immortal, we shall
surely insist that, if the man who says this says the truth, injustice is
d fatal to him who has it, even as disease is, and that, since by its nature it
kills, those who get it die Irom it — those who get most, more quickly
those who get less, in more leisurely fashion. They would be unlike the
unjust men who, as things now stand, do indeed die from injustice, but
at the hands of other men who administer the penalty."
"By Zeus," he said, "then injustice won't look like such a very ter-
rible thing if it will be fatal to the one who gets it. For it would be a
relief from evils. But I suppose rather that it will look, all to the con-
e trary, like it kills other men, if it can, but makes its possessor very
much alive and, in addition to alive, sleepless. So far surely, as it seems,
does its camp lie from fatality."
"What you say is fine," I said. "For surely, whenever its own
badness and its own evil are not sufficient to kill and destroy a soul, an
evil assigned to the destruction of something else will hardly destroy a
soul, or anything else except that to which it is assigned."
"Yes, hardly," he said, "at least as is likely."
"Therefore, since it's not destroyed by a single evil— either its
611 a own or an alien— it's plainly necessary that it be always and, if it is al-
ways, that it be immortal."
"That is necessary," he said.
"Well, then," I said, "let this be so. And if it is, you recognize that
there would always be the same souls. For surely they could not be-
come fewer if none is destroyed, nor again more numerous. For if any
of the immortal things should become more numerous, you know that
they would come from the mortal, and everything would end up by
being immortal."
"What you say is true."
"But," I said, "let's not suppose this— for the argument won't per-
b mit it— nor that soul by its truest nature is such that it is full of much
variety, dissimilarity, and quarrel with itself"
"How do you mean?" he said.
"It's not easy," I said, "for a thing to be eternal that is both com-
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Book X / 610b-612c socrates/glaucon
posed out of many things and whose composition is' not of the finest, as 611 b
the soul now looked to us."
"No; at least it's not likely."
"Well then, that soul is immortal both the recent argument and
the others would compel us to accept. But it must be seen such as it is
in truth, not maimed by community with body and other evils, as we c
now see it. But what it is like when it has become pure must be exam-
ined sufficiently by calculation. And one will find it far fairer and
discern justice and injustice^ and everything we have now gone
through more distinctly. Now we were telling the truth about it as it
looks at present. However that is based only on the condition in which
we saw it. Just as those who catch sight of the sea Glaucus^ would no d
longei- easily see his original nature because some of the old parts of his
body have been broken off and the others have been ground down and
thoroughly maimed by the waves at the same time as other things have
grown on him — shells, seaweed, and rocks — so that he resembles any
beast rather than what he was by nature, so, too, we see the soul in such
a condition because of countless evils. But, Glaucon, one must look
elsewhere."
"Where?" he said.
"To its love of wisdom, and recognize what it lays hold of and e
with what sort of things it longs to keep company on the grounds that it
is akin to the divine and immortal and what is always, and what it
would become like if it were to give itself entirely to this longing and
were brought by this impulse out of the deep ocean in which it now is,
and the rocks and shells were hammered off— those which, because it
feasts on earth, have grown around it in a wild, earthy, and rocky profu- 612 a
sion as a result of those feasts that are called happy. And then one
would see its true nature— whether it is many-formed or single-formed,
or in what way it is and how. But now, as I suppose, we have fairly
gone through its affections and forms in its human life."
"That's entirely certain," he said.
"In the argument," I said, "haven't we both cleared away the
other parts of the criticism and also not brought in the wages and b
reputations connected with justice as you said Hesiod and Homer do?
But we found that justice by itself is best for soul itself, and that the
soul must do the just things, whether it has Gyges' ring or not, and, in
addition to such a ring. Hades' cap."^^
"What you say is very true," he said.
"Then, Glaucon," I said, "isn't it now, at last, unobjectionable, in
addition, also to give back to justice and the rest of virtue the
wages— in their quantity and in their quality— that they procure for c
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612 c the soul from human beings and gods, both while the human being is
still alive and when he is dead?"
"That's entirely certain," he said.
"Then, will you give back to me what you borrowed in the argu-
ment?"
"What in particular?"
"I gave you the just man's seeming to be unjust and the unjust
man just. You both asked for it; even if it weren't possible for this to
escape gods and human beings, all the same, it had to be granted for the
argument's sake so that justice itself could be judged as compared with
d injustice itself. Or don't you remember?"
"If I didn't," he said, "I should indeed be doing an injustice."
"Well, then," I said, "since they have been judged, on justice's
behalf I ask back again the reputation it in fact has among gods and
among human beings; and I ask us to agree that it does enjoy such a
reputation, so that justice may also carry off the prizes that it gains
from seeming and bestows on its possessors, since it has made clear that
it bestows the good things that come from being and does not deceive
those who really take possession of it."
e "What you ask," he said, "is only just."
"Then," I said, "won't you first give this back: that it doesn't
escape the notice of gods, at least, what each of the two men is?"
"Yes," he said, "we shall give that back."
"And if they don't escape notice, the one would be dear to the
gods and the other hateful, as we also agreed at the beginning?"
That s so.
"And won't we agree that everything that comes to the man dear
613 a to the gods— insofar as it comes from gods— is the best possible, except
for any necessary evil that was due to him for former mistakes?"
"Most certainly."
"Thus, it must be assumed in the case of the just man that, if he
falls into poverty, diseases, or any other of the things that seem bad, for
him it will end in some good, either in life or even in death. For, surely,
gods at least will never neglect the man who is eagerly willing to be-
come just and, practicing virtue, likens himself, so far as is possible for
i> a human being, to a god."
"It's quite likely," he said, "that such a man isn't neglected by his
like."
"And, in the case of the unjust man, mustn't we think the opposite
of these things?"
"Very much so."
"Then such would be some of the prizes from gods to the just
man."
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Book X I 612c-614b glaucon/socbates
"In my opinion, at least," he said. 613 b
"And what does he get from human beings?" I said. "Or, if that
which is must be asserted, isn't it this way? Don't the clever unjust men
do exactly as do all those in a race who run well from the lower end of
the course but not from the upper?ii ^t tjjg start they leap sharply
away but end up by becoming ridiculous and, with their ears on their c
shoulders,^2 j-^jj off uncrowned? But those who are truly run-
ners come to the end, take the prizes, and are crowned. Doesn't it also for
the most part turn out that way with the just? Toward the end of every
action, association, and life they get a good reputation and bear off
the prizes from human beings."
"Quite so."
"Will you, then, stand for my saying about them what you your-
self said about the unjust? For I shall say that it's precisely the just, d
when they get older, who rule in their city if they wish ruling offices,
and marry wherever they wish and give in marriage to whomever they
want. And everything you said about the unjust, I now say about these
men. And, again, about the unjust, I shall say that most of them, even if
they get away unnoticed when they are young, are caught at the end of
the race and ridiculed; and when they get old, they are insulted in their
wretchedness by foreigners and townsmen. As for being whipped and
the things that you, speaking truly, said are rustic— that they will be e
racked and burned— suppose that you have also heard from me that
they suffer all these things. But, as I say, see if you'll stand for it."
"Very much so," he said. "For what you say is just."
"Well, then," I said, "such would be the prizes, wages, and gifts
coming to the just man while alive from gods and human beings, in ad- 614 a
dition to those good things that justice itself procured."
"And they are," he said, "quite fair and sure ones."
"Well," I said, "they are nothing in multitude or magnitude com-
pared to those that await each when dead. And these things should be
heard so that in hearing them each of these men will have gotten back
the full measure of what the argument owed him."
"Do tell," he said, "since there aren't many other things that b
would be more pleasant to hear."
"I will not, however, tell you a story of Alcinous," I said, "but
rather of a strong man, Er, son of Armenius, by race a Pam-
phylian.13 Once upon a time he died in war; and on the tenth day,
when the corpses, already decayed, were picked up, he was picked up
in a good state of preservation. Having been brought home, he was
about to be buried on the twelfth day; as he was lying on the pyre, he
came back to life, and, come back to life, he told what he saw in the
other world. He said that when his soul departed, it made a journey in
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614 c the company of many, and they came to a certain demonic place, where
there were two openings in the earth next to one another, and, again
two in the heaven, above and opposite the others. Between them sat
judges who, when they had passed judgment, told the just to continue
their journey to the right and upward, through the heaven; and they at-
tached signs of the judgments in front of them. The unjust they told to
continue their journey to the left and down, and they had behind them
d signs of everything they had done. And when he himself came forward
they said that he had to become a messenger to human beings of the
things there, and they told him to listen and to look at everything in the
place. He saw there, at one of the openings of both heaven and earth,
the souls going away when judgment had been passed on them. As to
the other two openings, souls out of the earth, full of dirt and dust,
came up from one of them; and down from the other came other souls,
e pure from heaven. And the souls that were ever arriving looked as
though they had come from a long journey: and they went away with
delight to the meadow, as to a public festival, and set up camp there.
All those who were acquaintances greeted one another; and the souls
that came out of the earth inquired of the others about the things in the
other place, and those from heaven about the things that had happened
to those from the earth. And they told their stories to one another, the
tl5 a ones lamenting and crying, remembering how much and what sort of
things they had suffered and seen in the journey under the earth— the
journey lasts a thousand years — and those from heaven, in their turn,
told of the inconceivable beauty of the experiences and the sights there.
Now to go through the many things would take a long time, Glaucon.
But the sum, he said, was this. For all the unjust deeds they had done
anyone and all the men to whom they had done injustice, they had paid
the penalty for every one in turn, ten times over for each. That is, they
were punished for each injustice once every hundred years; taking this
h as the length of human life, in this way they could pay off the penalty
for the injustice ten times over. Thus, for example, if some men were
causes of the death of many, either by betraying cities or armies and
had reduced men to slavery, or were involved in any other wrongdoing,
they received for each of these things tenfold sufferings; and again, if
they had done good deeds and had proved just and holy, in the same
c measure did they receive reward. And about those who were only just
born and lived a short time, he said other things not worth mentioning.
And he told of still greater wages for impiety and piety toward gods
and parents and for murder. For he said he was there when one man
was asked by another, 'Where is Ardiaeus the Great?' This Ardiaeus
[ 298 ]
Book X I 614c-616e socrates
had been tyrant in a certain city of Pamphylia just a thousand years 615 c
before that time; he had, as was said, killed his old father and elder
brother and done many other unholy deeds." Now Er said that the d
man asked responded, 'He hasn't come. Nor will he come here,' he
asserted. 'For this too, of course, was one of the terrible sights we saw.
When we were near the mouth about to go up and had suffered every-
thing else, we suddenly saw him and others. Just about all of them were
tyrants, but there were also some private men, of those who had com-
mitted great faults. They supposed they were ready to go up, but the e
mouth did not admit thern; it roared when one of those whose badness
is incurable or who had not paid a sufficient penalty attempted to go
up. There were men at that place,' he said, 'fierce men, looking fiery
through and through, standing by and observing the sound, who took
hold of some and led them away, but who bound Ardiaeus and others
hands, feet, and head, threw them down and stripped off their skin. 616 a
They dragged them along the wayside, carding them like wool on
thorns; and they indicated to those who came by for what reason this
was done and that these men would be led away and thrown into Tar-
tarus.' They had experienced many fears of all kinds, he said, but more
extreme than any was the fear that each man experienced lest the sound
come as he went up; and when it was silent, each went up with the
greatest delight. Such then were the penalties and punishments; and, on
the other hand, the bounties were the antistrophes of these.
"When each group had spent seven days in the plain, on the b
eighth they were made to depart from there and continue their journey.
In four days they arrived at a place from which they could see a
straight light, like a column, stretched from above through all of heaven
and earth, most of all resembling the rainbow but brighter and purer.
They came to it after having moved forward a day's journey. And
there, at the middle of the light, they saw the extremities of its bonds c
stretched from heaven; for this light is that which binds heaven, like the
undergirders of triremes, thus holding the entire revolution together.
From the extremities stretched the spindle of Necessity, by which all
the revolutions are turned. Its stem and hook are of adamant, and its
whorl is a mixture of this and other kinds. The nature of the whorl is
like this: its shape is like those we have here; but, from what he said, it d
must be conceived as if in one great hollow whorl, completely scooped
out, lay another like it, but smaller, fitting into each other as bowls fit
into each other; and there is a third one like these and a fourth, and
four others. For there are eight whorls in all, lying in one another with
their rims showing as circles from above, while from the back they e
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THE REPUBLIC
16 e form one continuous whorl around the stem, which is driven right '
through the middle of the eighth.*^ Now the circle formed by the lip
of the first and outermost whorl is the broadest; that of the sixth, sec-
ond; that of the fourth, third; that of the eighth, fourth; that of the sev-
enth, fifth; that of the fifth, sixth; that of the.third, seventh; and that of
the second, eighth. And the lip of the largest whorl is multicolored; that
17 a of the seventh, brightest; that of the eighth gets its color from the sev-
enth's shining on it; that of the second and the fifth are like each
other, yellower than these others; the third has the whitest color; the
fourth is reddish; and the sixth is second in whiteness. The whole
spindle is turned in a circle with the same motion, but within the
revolving whole the seven inner circles revolve gently in the opposite
direction from the whole; of them, the eighth goes most quickly, second
b and together with one another are the seventh, sixth and fifth. Third in
swiftness, as it looked to them, the fourth circled about; fourth, the
third; and fifth, the second. And the spindle turned in the lap of
Necessity. Above, on each of its circles, is perched a Siren, accompany-
ing its revolution, uttering a single sound, one note; from all eight is
produced the accord of a single harmony. Three others are seated
c round about at equal distances, each on a throne. Daughters of
Necessity, Fates— Lachesis, Clotho, and Atropos*^ — clad in white
with wreaths on their heads, they sing to the Sirens' harmony, Lachesis
of what has been, Clotho of what is, and Atropos of what is going to be.
And Clotho puts her right hand to the outer revolution of the spindle
and joins in turning it, ceasing from time to time; and Atropos with her
left hand does the same to the inner ones; but Lachesis puts one hand
to one and the other hand to the other, each in turn.
d "Now, when they arrived, they had to go straight to Lachesis. A
certain spokesman first marshaled them at regular distances from each
other; then, he took lots and patterns of lives from Lachesis' lap, and
went up to a high platfoiin and said, 'This is the speech of Necessity's
maiden daughter, Lachesis. Souls that live a day, this is the beginning
of another death bringing cycle for the mortal race. A demon will not
e select you, but you will choose a demon. Let him who gets the first lot
make the first choice of a life to which he will be bound by necessity.
Virtue is without a master; as he honors or dishonors her, each will have
more or less of her. The blame belongs to him who chooses; god is
blameless.'
"When he had said this, he cast the lots among them all, and each
picked up the one that fell next to him— except for Er who wasn't per-
mitted to do so. To the man who picked it up it was plain what number
he had drawn. After this, in turn, he set the patterns of the lives on the
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Book X I 616e-619b socrates
ground before them; there were far more than there were souls present. ^^^ "
There were all sorts; lives of all animals, and, in particular, all the
varieties of hurrian lives. There were tyrannies among them, some last-
ing to the end, others ruined midway, ending both in poverty and exile
and in beggary. And there were lives of men of repute— some for their
forms and beauty and for strength in general as well as capacity in
contests; others for their birth and the virtues of their ancestors — and b
there were some for men without repute in these things; and the same
was the case for women, too. An ordering of the soul was not in them,
due to the necessity that a soul become different according to the life it
chooses. But all other things were, mixed with each other and with
wealth and poverty and with sickness and health, and also with the
states intermediate to these.
"Now here, my dear Glaucon, is the whole risk for a human
being, as it seems. And on this account each of us must, to the neglect
of other studies, above all see to it that he is a seeker and student of c
that study by which he might be able to learn and find out who will give
him the capacity and the knowledge to distinguish the good and the bad
life, and so everywhere and always to choose the better from among
those that are possible. He will take into account all the things we have
just mentioned and how in combination and separately they affect the
virtue of a life. Thus he may know the effects, bad and good, of beauty
mixed with poverty or wealth and accompanied by this or that habit of d
soul; and the effects of any particular mixture with one another of good
and bad birth, private station and ruling office, strength and weakness,
facility and difBculty in learning, and all such things that are connected
with a soul by nature or are acquired. From all this he will be able to
draw a conclusion and choose — in looking off toward the nature of the
soul— between the worse and the better life, calling worse the one that e
leads it toward becoming more unjust, and better the one that leads it
to becoming juster. He will let everything else go. For we have seen
that this is the most important choice for him in life and death. He
must go to Hades adamantly holding to this opinion so that he won't be 619 a
daunted by wealth and such evils there, and rush into tyrannies and
other such deeds by which he would work many irreparable evils, and
himself undergo still greater suffering; but rather he will know how al-
ways to choose the life between such extremes and flee the excesses in
either direction in this life, so far as is possible, and in all of the next
life. For in this way a human being becomes happiest. b
"And the messenger from that place then also reported that the
spokesman said the following: 'Even for the man who comes forward
last, if he chooses intelligently and lives earnestly, a life to content him
[ 301 ]
^CRATES THEREPUBtj
19 b is laid up, not a bad one. Let che one who begins not be careless ^^
his choice. Let not the one who is last be disheartened.' *
"He said that when the spokesman had said this the man who v.
drawn the first lot came forward and immediately chose the gre^*.
tyranny, and, due to folly and gluttony, chose without having ^
sidered everything adequately; and it escaped his notice that eating , .~
own children and other evils were fated to be a part of that life. Wu
he considered it at his leisure, he beat his breast and lamentecj .,
choice, not abiding by the spokesman's forewarning. For he (Jjj f
blame himself for the evils but chance, demons, and anything r^^-L
than himself. He was one of those who had come from heaven, h^v '^
lived in an orderly regime in his former life, participating in virt^^ , ^
d habit, without philosophy. And, it may be said, not the least number
those who were caught in such circumstances came from heaven i
cause they were unpracticed in labors. But most of those who q„ ~
from the earth, because they themselves had labored and had see^ 4.1
labors of others, weren't in a rush to make their choices. On just ty,.
account, and due to the chance of the lot, there was an exchange
evils and goods for most of the souls. However, if a man, whe^ 1
comes to the life here, always philosophizes in a healthy way and th
e lot for his choice does not fall out among the last, it's likely, on o
basis of what is reported from there, that he will not only be hanvN
here but also that he will journey from this world to the other ^^
back again not by the underground, rough road but by the smootv.
one, through the heavens.
"He said that this was a sight surely worth seeing: how each of 4-1^
20 a several souls chose a life. For it was pitiable, laughable, and won(Jgj.r.
to see. For the most part the choice was made according to the haK-
nation of their former life. He said he saw a soul that once belong^j
Orpheus choosing a life of a swan, out of hatred for womankind; dije t
his death at their hands, he wasn't willing to be born, generated j^^
woman. He saw Thamyras' soul choosing the life of a nightingale, a v^j
he also saw a swan changing to the choice of a human life; oth
musical animals did the same thing. The soul that got the twentieth 1
b chose the life of a lion; it was the soul of Ajax, son of Telamon, ^^^
shunned becoming a human being, remembering the judgment of ^v
arms. And after him was the soul of Agamemnon; it too hated v
mankind as a result of its sufferings and therefore changed to the Ijfg -
an eagle. Atalanta's soul had drawn one of the middle lots; she saw \u
great honors of an athletic man and couldn't pass them by but tooV
c them. After this soul he saw that of Epeius, son of Panopeus, going jj^.
the nature of an artisan woman. And far out among the last he saw \}.
[ 302 ]
Book X / 614c-616e socrates
had been tyrant in a certain city of Pamphylia just a thousand years 615 c
before that time; he had, as was said, killed his old father and elder
brother and done many other unholy deeds.^* Now Er said that the d
man asked responded, 'He hasn't come. Nor will he come here,' he
asserted. 'For this too, of course, was one of the terrible sights we saw.
When we were near the mouth about to go up and had suffered every-
thing else, we suddenly saw him and others. Just about all of them were
tyrants, but there were also some private men, of those who had com-
mitted great faults. They supposed they were ready to go up, but the e
mouth did not admit them; it roared when one of those whose badness
is incurable or who had not paid a sufficient penalty attempted to go
up. There were men at that place,' he said, 'fierce men, looking fiery
through and through, standing by and observing the sound, who took
hold of some and led them away, but who bound Ardiaeus and others
hands, feet, and head, threw them down and stripped off their skin. 616 a
They dragged them along the wayside, carding them like wool on
thorns; and they indicated to those who came by for what reason this
was done and that these men would be led away and thrown into Tar-
tarus.' They had experienced many fears of all kinds, he said, but more
extreme than any was the fear that each man experienced lest the sound
come as he went up; and when it was silent, each went up with the
greatest delight. Such then were the penalties and punishments; and, on
the other hand, the bounties were the antistrophes of these.
"When each group had spent seven days in the plain, on the b
eighth they were made to depart from there and continue their journey.
In four days they arrived at a place from which they could see a
straight light, like a column, stretched from above through all of heaven
and earth, most of all resembling the rainbow but brighter and purer.
They came to it after having moved forward a day's journey. And
there, at the middle of the light, they saw the extremities of its bonds c
stretched from heaven; for this light is that which binds heaven, like the
undergirders of triremes, thus holding the entire revolution together.
From the extremities stretched the spindle of Necessity, by which all
the revolutions are turned. Its stem and hook are of adamant, and its
whorl is a mixture of this and other kinds. The nature of the whorl is
like this: its shape is like those we have here; but, from what he said, it d
must be conceived as if in one great hollow whorl, completely scooped
out, lay another like it, but smaller, fitting into each other as bowls fit
into each other; and there is a third one like these and a fourth, and
four others. For there are eight whorls in all, lying in one another with
their rims showing as circles from above, while from the back they e
[ 299 ]
)CRATEs THEREPUBLIG
16 e form one continuous whorl around the stem, which is driven right
through the middle of the eighth.^^ Now the circle formed by the lip
of the first and outermost whorl is the broadest; that of the sixth, sec-
ond; that of the fourth, third; that of the eighth, fourth; that of the sev-
enth, fifth; that of the fifth, sixth; that of the.third, seventh; and that of
the second, eighth. And the lip of the largest whorl is multicolored; that
17 a of the seventh, brightest; that of the eighth gets its color from the sev-
enth's shining on it; that of the second and the fifth are like each
other, yellower than these others; the third has the whitest color; the
fourth is reddish; and the sixth is second in whiteness. The whole
spindle is turned in a circle with the same motion, but within the
revolving whole the seven inner circles revolve gently in the opposite
direction from the whole; of them, the eighth goes most quickly, second
b and together with one another are the seventh, sixth and fifth. Third in
swiftness, as it looked to them, the fourth circled about; fourth, the
third; and fifth, the second. And the spindle turned in the lap of
Necessity. Above, on each of its circles, is perched a Siren, accompany-
ing its revolution, uttering a single sound, one note; from all eight is
produced the accord of a single harmony. Three others are seated
c round about at equal distances, each on a throne. Daughters of
Necessity, Fates— Lachesis, Clotho, and Atropos^^ — clad in white
with wreaths on their heads, they sing to the Sirens' harmony, Lachesis
of what has been, Clotho of what is, and Atropos of what is going to be.
And Clotho puts her right hand to thie outer revolution of the spindle
and joins in turning it, ceasing from time to time; and Atropos with her
left hand does the same to the inner ones; but Lachesis puts one hand
to one and the other hand to the other, each in turn.
d "Now, when they arrived, they had to go straight to Lachesis. A
certain spokesman first marshaled them at regular distances from each
other; then, he took lots and patterns of lives from Lachesis' lap, and
went up to a high platform and said, 'This is the speech of Necessity's
maiden daughter, Lachesis. Souls that live a day, this is the beginning
of another death bringing cycle for the mortal race. A demon will not
e select you, but you will choose a demon. Let him who gets the first lot
make the first choice of a life to which he will be bound by necessity.
Virtue is without a master; as he honors or dishonors her, each will have
more or less of her. The blame belongs to him who chooses; god is
blameless.'
"When he had said this, he cast the lots among them all, and each
picked up the one that fell next to him— except for Er who wasn't per-
mitted to do so. To the man who picked it up it was plain what number
he had drawn. After this, in turn, he set the patterns of the lives on the
[ .300 ]
Book X I 616e-619b socrates
ground before them; there were far more than there were souls present. 618 a
There were all sorts; lives of all animals, and, in particular, all the
varieties of human lives. There were tyrannies among them, some last-
ing to the end, others ruined midway, ending both in poverty and exile
and in beggary. And there were lives of men of repute— some for their
forms and beauty and for strength in general as well as capacity in
contests; others for their birth and the virtues of their ancestors— and b
there were some for men without repute in these things; and the same
was the case for women, too. An ordering of the soul was not in them,
due to the necessity that a soul become different according to the life it
chooses. But all other things were, mixed with each other and with
wealth and poverty and with sickness and health, and also with the
states intermediate to these.
"Now here, my dear Glaucon, is the whole risk for a human
being, as it seems. And on this account each of us must, to the neglect
of other studies, above all see to it that he is a seeker and student of c
that study by which he might be able to learn and find out who will give
him the capacity and the knowledge to distinguish the good and the bad
life, and so everywhere and always to choose the better from among
those that are possible. He will take into account all the things we have
just mentioned and how in combination and separately they affect the
virtue of a life. Thus he may know the effects, bad and good, of beauty
mixed with poverty or wealth and accompanied by this or that habit of d
soul; and the effects of any particular mixture with one another of good
and bad birth, private station and ruling office, strength and weakness,
facility and difficulty in learning, and all such things that are connected
with a soul by nature or are acquired. From all this he will be able to
draw a conclusion and choose — in looking off toward the nature of the
soul— between the worse and the better life, calling worse the one that e
leads it toward becoming more unjust, and better the one that leads it
to becoming juster. He will let everything else go. For we have seen
that this is the most important choice for him in life and death. He
must go to Hades adamantly holding to this opinion so that he won't be 619 a
daunted by wealth and such evils there, and rush into tyrannies and
other such deeds by which he would work many irreparable evils, and
himself undergo still greater suffering; but rather he will know how al-
ways to choose the life between such extremes and flee the excesses in
either direction in this life, so far as is possible, and in all of the next
life. For in this way a human being becomes happiest. b
"And the messenger from that place then also reported that the
spokesman said the following: 'Even for the man who comes forward
last, if he chooses intelligently and lives earnestly, a life to content him
[ 301 ]
SOCRATES THEREPUBLIC
619 b is laid up, not a bad one. Let die one who begins not be careless about
his choice. Let not the one who is last be disheartened.'
"He said that when the spokesman had said this the man who had
drawn the first lot came forward and immediately chose the greatest
tyranny, and, due to folly and gluttony, chose without having con-
c sidered everything adequately; and it escaped his notice that eating his
own children and other evils were fated to be a part of that life. When
he considered it at his leisure, he beat his breast and lamented the
choice, not abiding by the spokesman's forewarning. For he didn't
blame himself for the evils but chance, demons, and anything rather
than himself He was one of those who had come from heaven, having
lived in an orderly regime in his former life, participating in virtue by
d habit, without philosophy. And, it may be said, not the least number of
those who were caught in such circumstances came from heaven, be-
cause they were unpracticed in labors. But most of those who came
from the earth, because they themselves had labored and had seen the
labors of others, weren't in a rush to make their choices. On just this
account, and due to the chance of the lot, there was an exchange of
evils and goods for most of the souls. However, if a man, when he
comes to the life here, always philosophizes in a healthy way and the
e lot for his choice does not fall out among the last, it's likely, on the
basis of what is reported from there, that he will not only be happy
here but also that he will journey from this world to the other and
back again not by the underground, rough road but by the smooth
one, through the heavens.
"He said that this was a sight surely worth seeing: how each of the
620 a several souls chose a life. For it was pitiable, laughable, and wonderful
to see. For the most part the choice was made according to the habit-
uation of their former life. He said he saw a soul that once belonged to
Orpheus choosing a life of a swan, out of hatred for womankind; due to
his death at their hands, he wasn't willing to be bom, generated in a
woman. He saw Thamyras' soul choosing the life of a nightingale. And
he also saw a swan changing to the choice of a human life; other
musical animals did the same thing. The soul that got the twentieth lot
b chose the life of a lion; it was the soul of Ajax, son of Telamon, who
shunned becoming a human being, remembering the judgment of the
arms. And after him was the soul of Agamemnon; it too hated hu-
mankind as a result of its sufferings and therefore changed to the life of
an eagle. Atalanta's soul had drawn one of the middle lots; she saw the
great honors of an athletic man and couldn't pass them by but took
c them. After this soul he saw that of Epeius, son of Panopeus, going into
the nature of an artisan woman. And far out among the last he saw the
[ 302 ]
Book X / 619b-621d socbates
soul of the buffoon Thersites, clothing itself as an ape." And by 620 c
chance Odysseus' soul had drawn the last lot of all and went to choose;
from memory of its former labors it had recovered from love of honor;
it went around for a long time looking for the life of a private man who
minds his own business; and with effort it found one lying somewhere^
neglected by the others. It said when it saw this life that it would have d
done the same even if it had drawn the first lot, and was delighted to
choose it. And from the other beasts, similarly some went into human
lives and into one another — the unjust changing into savage ones, the
just into tame ones, and there were all kinds of mixtures.
"When all the souls had chosen lives, in the same order as the lots
they had drawn, they went forward to Lachesis. And she sent with each
the demon he had chosen as a guardian of the life and a fulfiller of what e
was chosen. The demon first led the soul to Clotho— under her hand as
it turned the whirling spindle— thus ratifying the fate it had drawn and
chosen. After touching her, he next led it to the spinning of Atropos,
thus making the threads irreversible.^* And from there, without
turning around, they went under Necessity's throne. And, having come 621 a
out through it, when the others had also come through, all made their
way through terrible stifling heat to the plain of Lethe. ^^ For it was
barren of trees and all that naturally grows on earth. Then they made
their camp, for evening was coming on, by the river of Carelessness
whose water no vessel can contain. Now it was a necessity for all to
drink a certain measure of the water, but those who were not saved by
prudence drank more than the measure. As he drank, each forgot
everything. And when they had gone to sleep and it was midnight, b
there came thunder and an earthquake; and they were suddenly carried
from there, each in a different way, up to their birth, shooting like
stars.20 But he himself was prevented from drinking the water.
However, in what way and how he came into his body, he did not
know; but, all of a sudden, he recovered his sight and saw that it was
morning and he was lying on the pyre.
"And thus, Glaucon, a tale was saved and not lost;2i ^nd it
could save us, if we were persuaded by it, and we shall make a good c
crossing of the river of Lethe and not defile our soul. But if we are per-
suaded by me, holding that soul is immortal and capable of bearing all
evils and all goods, we shall always keep to the upper road and practice
justice with prudence in every way so that we shall be friends to our-
selves and the gods, both while we remain here and when we reap the
rewards for it like the victors who go about gathering in the prizes. And d
so here and in the thousand year journey that we have described we
shall fare well. "22
r 303 ]
INTERPRETIVE ESSAY
INTERPRETIVE ESSAY
The Republic is the true Apology of Socrates, for only in the Republic
does he give an adequate treatment of the theme which was forced on
him by Athens' accusation against him. That theme is the relationship
of the philosopher to the political community.
Socrates was accused of doing unjust things — of not believing in
the gods which the city believed in and of corrupting the youth. These
charges do not relate simply to the man Socrates who happens to be a
philosopher but are meant to be a condemnation of the philosophic ac-
tivity itself— and not on behalf simply of the city of Athens, but on
behalf of the political community as such. From the city's point of
view, there seems to be something about the thought and way of life of
the philosopher which calls into question the city's gods, who are the
protectors of its laws, and which hence makes him a bad citizen, or
rather no citizen at all. Such a man's presence in the city and his asso-
ciation with the most promising young men make him a subversive.
Socrates is unjust not only because he breaks Athens' laws but also be-
cause he apparently does not accept those fundamental beliefs which
make civil society possible.
Philosophy required a defense if it was to be admitted into civil
society. At the time of Socrates' trial, philosophy was new to the cities,
and it could easily have been crushed. The philosopher had to defend
himself before the city, or the city would have been legitimated in
discouraging philosophy's entrance into it as vigorously as possible. Soc-
[ 307 ]
THE REPUBLIC
rates' trial was the crisis of philosophy, and its life was at stake. And
contrary to what modem men might be inclined to believe, it is not
simply clear that philosophy is salutary, or even harmless, for the city.
Socrates indicates this by the fact that he is at pains in the Apology to
distinguish himself from other philosophers. He seems to agree that it
is somewhat questionable whether a city which wants its sons to care
for it should permit them to consort with philosophers.
The city sees only the apparent atheism of the philosopher and his
effect on the young; the poet Aristophanes, who ridiculed Socrates in
the Clouds and paved the way for his later official accusation, shows'
why the philosopher is subversive. He depicts Socrates as a man "who
has investigated all the things in the air and under the earth and who
makes the weaker argument stronger." The meaning of this charge is
that the philosopher studies nature, particularly the heavens, and there
he finds a true account of the celestial phenomena differing widely
from that given in the religious myths; for example, he learns of a
purely mechanical explanation of Zeus' thunderbolt. The philosopher's
contemplation of the heavens dissolves the perspective of the city, the
laws of which now seem to be mere conventions with no natural status.
His way of life turns him from the duties of citizenship, and what he
learns teaches him to despise the human, political things. What is more,
the philosopher's understanding of the causes of all things makes it im-
possible for him to grasp man on his own level; man is reduced to non-
man, the political to the subpolitical. The philosophers are alienated
from the human things, which only poetry can adequately reproduce.
The poet, in a more profound way, joins the city in its condemnation of
philosophy as an enemy of political man.
Socrates must show, then, that the philosopher is just and that it is
he, not the poet, who is the one able to treat of political things respon-
sibly. This is not easy to do since it would appear that the philosopher
calls into question the natural character of justice as a virtue and that
his science of being has no special place for man in it. The Apology
does not adequately accomplish this task, since it is a description of Soc-
rates' life directed to a large, hostile audience composed of generally
ignorant jurors sworn to uphold the defective laws of Athens. The
Republic, on the other hand, is a leisurely discussion among cultivated,
friendly men. The Apology, in which Socrates defends himself against
the charge of injustice, makes no attempt to define justice: his accusers
mean by an unjust man one who breaks the laws; and Socrates' justice
is surely not that of a law-abiding man. Only the Republic makes the
attempt to define justice and elaborate the science which can give
ground to such a definition. In it, Socrates— who had argued in the
[ 308 ]
Interpretive Essay
Apology that his only knowledge was ignorance and who had thus ap-
parently admitted his incompetence in political things— presents a teach-
ing about the nature of things political.
That teaching culminates in the famous declaration that "unless
philosophers rule as kings, or those now called kings and chiefs gen-
uinely and adequately philosophize . . . there is no rest from ills for
the cities . . . nor, I think, for human kind. . . ." This means that there is
a perfect harmony between philosophy and the city, science and so-
ciety. Socrates has reformed philosophy so that it is now the one thing
most needful for the city; and the philosopher is its greatest benefactor.
We are, however, likely to be misled by this apparent Socratic op-
timism concerning the best case— the regime where philosophers rule.
Careful reading will reveal that this alleged harmony is more of a
paradox than a solution, that it covers a host of tensions which come to
light in the less than perfect cases. Socrates may well have reformed
philosophy so that it was no longer indifferent to politics, but it was
certainly no less subversive of all existing regimes than was the older
philosophy. If philosophers are the natural rulers, they are the rivals of
all the actual rulers; philosophy, rather than being simply useless,
seems to be conspiratorial. Philosophy may very well be harmful to real
regimes, and it is very unlikely that the regime at which it aims can
come into being. In fact, the Republic tacitly admits the truth of the
charges made against Socrates: he is not orthodox in his beliefs about
the gods and sets up new beings, the ideas, which are superior to the
gods; the philosophers he trains will be men who both know the nature
of things in the air and below the earth and are able to speak with con-
summate skill; and he teaches young men to despise Athens because he
teaches them to love a regime in which philosophers are kings. Socrates
denies that he is unjust because of this, but there must be a revolution
in men's understanding of justice for just deeds to be recognized as
such. In all imperfect regimes, his presence is problematic, and he must
behave prudently: he undermines the attachment to the regime and
laws of the city, but he is the salvation of all those in it who wish to live
the good life.
The Republic shows us why Socrates was accused and why there
was good reason to accuse him. Not only does he tell us about the good
regime, but we see his effect on the young men he was said to have cor-
rupted. Socrates, in leading them to a justice which is not Athenian, or
even Greek, but is rather human, precisely because it is rational, shows
the way to the truth about political things and develops the extremely
complex relationship of that truth to civil society. These questions are
most relevant to modern man, although they are perhaps harder for
[ 309 ]
THE REPUBLIC
him to understand than for men of any previous generation. They are
relevant to him because he admits his need for "values" and because
the progress of publicly useful science now threatens him with destruc-
tion; they are harder for him to understand because he has been taught
that "values" cannot be established by reason and that science is simply
salutary for society.
For these reasons it behooves us to study the Republic. For it is
the first book which brings philosophy "down into the cities"; and we
watch in it the foundation of political science, the only discipline which
can bring the blessings of reason to the city. We will learn that the
establishment of political science cannot be carried out without
sacrifice of the dearest convictions and interests of most men; these
sacrifices are so great that to many they do not seem worthwhile: one of
the most civilized cities which has ever existed thought it better to
sacrifice philosophy in the person of Socrates rather than face the al-
ternative he presented. This is why philosophy needs an apology; it is a
dangerous and essentially questionable activity. Socrates knew that his
interests were not, and could not be, the interests of most men and their
cities. We frequently do not see this and assume that his execution was
a result of the blind prejudices of the past. Therefore we do not see the
true radicalness of the philosophic life. The Republic is the best an-
tidote to our prejudice. The proper starting point for the study of So-
cratic philosophy is the nonphilosophic orientation of the city within
which philosophy must take its place. Hostility to philosophy is the
natural condition of man and the city. Socrates, in admitting his guilt,
will show what higher concerns pardon him for it.
(327a-328b) As in the Apology the city compels Socrates to
speak and defend himself, so in the Republic a group of men compels
Socrates to remain with them and finally to give an account of himself.
Apparently he does not wish to do so; other activities might be more to
his taste, and he would like to hurry to them. But these men who accost
him have power, and Socrates must adjust to them. If he cannot carry
on his preferred activities unimpeded by the need for a compromise
with his fellows, he must earn their good will and teach them to respect
his tastes. Otherwise he would have to give up his way of life. He will
only give as much of himself as is required to regain his freedom. This
situation is a paradigm of the relation of the philosopher to the city.
The difference between the Republic and the Apology is that the threat
of compulsion used in the Republic is only playful while that of the
Athenian law court in the Apology is in deadly earnest. In the Apology
Socrates is condemned to death because a compromise acceptable to
[ 310 ]
Interpretive Essay
the people would have meant his spiritual death; in the Republic,
dealing with a different audience, he emerges as the ruler of a tamed
city which may not understand him but which is at least willing to per-
mit him the unbridled pursuit of philosophy and access to the noble
youth.
Socrates had accompanied Glaucon to the Piraeus both to pray
and to see; he was motivated by piety and by theory— in the primitive
and most revealing sense of that term, idle curiosity. The Athenians
were introducing a new goddess into their cult. Socrates hints that it is
the Athenians who bring in new divinities; if he, too, does so, he only
imitates the democracy, with which he has more kinship than appears
on the surface. (Adeimantus finally persuades Socrates to stay in the
Piraeus by the promise of another innovation: a torch race on horse-
back. The conversation, also an innovation and itself innovating,
takes the place of that torch race and is parallel to it. Socrates has a
taste for newness which is antithetical to the best political orders and
which he shares with the democracy. The difference between Athenian
and Socratic tastes, however, can be measured by the difference be-
tween a torch race in honor of the goddess and a friendly discussion
about justice.) Socrates' piety brings him down to the Piraeus with
Glaucon and puts him into the situation where he must discuss the city,
and that piety disposes him to care for the city. But his piety is
somewhat lax; it is open to change and mixed with curiosity. He does
not tell us the result of his prayers, but his observations led him to the
recognition that the Athenian procession was no better than that of the
Thracians. Socrates' theory stands above the enthusiasm of national pride
and is somehow beyond mere citizenship. His piety belongs to the city;
his thought does not.
Polemarchus sees him hurrying off and orders a slave to order him
to stay. This little scene prefigures the three-class structure of the good
regime developed in the Republic and outhnes the whole political
problem. Power is in the hands of the gentlemen, who are not philos-
ophers. They can command the services of the many, and their
strength is such that they always hold the philosophers in their grasp.
Therefore it is part of the philosophers' self-interest to come to terms
with them. The question becomes: to what extent can the philosophers
influence the gentlemen? It is this crucial middle class which is the
primary object of the Republic and the education prescribed in it. In
this episode, the first fact is brute force, leading to the recognition that no
matter how reasonable one may be, everything depends upon the peo-
ple's willingness to listen. There is a confrontation here between wisdom,
as represented by Socrates, and power, as represented by Polemarchus
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and his friends. At first the opposition of the two principles is com-
plete, but Adeimantus and Polemarchus try to make Socrates choose to
remain by offering him pleasant occupations if he does so. Glaucon ac-
cepts on behalf of his friend, and Socrates grudgingly gives in to the fait
accomfyli. Hence wisdom and power reach a compromise, and a min-
fature community is formed. This accomplished, they take a vote and
ratify their decision, and a new principle of rule emerges: consent. It is
a mixture of powerless wisdom and unwise power. All political life will
be founded on such compromises, more or less satisfactory, until the
means can be discovered to permit the absolute rule of wisdom. Since
he is forced to become a member of this community, Socrates soon
establishes himself as its ruler by overcoming the other aspirants to the
office, and then he proceeds to found a political regime in which
philosophers will rule.
{328b-331d) Having made their social contract, the members of
the group go to Polemarchus' house where they find his father, Ceph-
alus, who dominates the scene, and who does so precisely because he
is the father. Age is his title to rule, as it is in almost all regimes
governed by ancestral custom. Age is a practical substitute for wisdom
because, unlike wisdom, it is politically recognizable and easily
defined. It is more feasible to teach force to respect age than to teach it
to respect wisdom. The reverence for age, and hence antiquity, is one
of the strongest ties which can bind a civil society together. But in or-
der to carry on a frank discussion about justice, this reverence must be
overcome, and the philosopher must take the place of the father at the
center of the circle. Socrates must induce Cephalus to leave the scene,
because Cephalus is beyond reason, and it would be impious to dispute
him.
Once authority has been banished, Socrates and his companions
can begin a critical examination of the ancestral code, of the conven-
tional view of justice. This is the burden of the rest of Book I. All tradi-
tional opinions are discredited; and unaided reason, free of limiting
prejudices, can begin the search for an understanding of justice which
is not merely opinion. This criticism is a destructive activity in the
name of liberation. It is a perilous undertaking for men who must re-
main members of civil society and could not properly take place under
the eyes of Cephalus. He stands for those restraints on body and soul
which are essential to the preservation of the city. There are certain un-
comfortable issues, the raising of which usually indicates an inclination
to vice on the part of those who do so. The practice of posing the ex-
treme questions is a bad one, for one of its necessary consequences is
corruption of the habits of the virtues. The only justification for ques-
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tioning the old way would be that as a result a new, superior, way
which Cephalus does not know of might emerge. The ancestral is by its
nature silent about its own foundations; it is an imposing presence that
awes those who might be tempted to look too closely.
Cephalus typifies the ancestral which cannot, but must, be ques-
tioned. Although his appearance is brief, by means of a few cir-
cumspect inquiries Socrates manages to reveal his character and his
principles and, hence, those of the tradition he represents. Then the old
man is delicately set aside. He is a father in the fullest sense— he was
once very erotic and he possesses a considerable store of money. He
presents himself as a lover of speeches, and thereby a friend of Soc-
rates. But he loves speeches only in his old age, and it is doubtful
whether he considers that his prime. The passions of youth led him to
bodily pleasures, and it is only with the body's decline that he turns to
the things of the soul. For Cephalus, speeches are a way of spending his
old age, for Socrates they constitute the highest human activity. Ceph-
alus' youthful passions, however appealing, seem to have led him into
activities that are contrary to justice, and his old age is spent wor-
rying about them and atoning for them. Thus, from the point of view of
justice, eros is a terrible thing, a savage beast. For a man like Cephalus,
life is always split between sinning and repenting. Only by the death of
eros and its charms can such a gentleman become fully reliable, for his
eros leads neither to justice nor philosophy but to intense, private
bodily satisfaction.
Cephalus says that it is character, an attribute of the soul, which
enables him to be contented in old age. Socrates poses a rather crude
question: doesn't money help? Aren't the things with which Cephalus is
concerned really tied to money? Isn't the insistence on character merely
a way of hiding the fact of dependence on money and of attributing
one's happiness to oneself rather than to the true material source of
one's well being? Must not the overriding concern of private men,
families and cities be the acquisition of wherewithal? The answer is yes
and no. Cephalus would be very different and much less happy without
money; he is not like Socrates who is poor and needs nothing more. But
Cephalus is not a simple money-maker. Money is necessary, but it frees
him for the fulfillment of certain family and religious duties which
sublimate his life. He inherits the money and whatever improprieties
were committed in the first making of it are lost in the mists of time. It
would be unseemly, and lead to an undu~e concentration on money if
one were to insist too much on its importance. Characteristic of Ceph-
alus and men like him is a salutary forgetting of the preconditions of
their kind of life.
The greatest good Cephalus has enjoyed from money is the avoid-
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ance of injustice and impiety. Here for the first time we touch on the
subject which is to become the theme of the Republic. The question of
money seems to lead him to the question of justice. The old man is
afraid of punishment after death, so he does not want to depart owing
debts to men or sacrifices to gods, or having cheated or deceived
anyone. With his money he can pay his debts and offer his sacrifices
and because he possesses money he is not so dependent on others that
he need deceive in order to stay alive. The tales told by the poets about
punishments in another world for injustices committed in this one con-
cerned Cephalus little when he was younger. He was inclined to laugh
them off; accordingly, he worried little about injustices he might be
committing. Only as death and death's perspective approaches does fear
cause him to become concerned about his duties to men and gods. He is
not sure that there are such punishments or even that he had really
done unjust deeds, but prudence counsels a punctilious attention to his
accounts with men and gods. Justice is a matter of self-interest: one
should care about others if there are gods who defend justice.
In response to Cephalus' moving account of how he wishes to use
his money in such a way as to live out his life in justice and piety, Soc-
rates becomes argumentative. Instead of encouraging the old man in
his laudable intentions, Socrates as much as tells him that he does not
know what justice is and thereby undermines his life. This is one of the
most decisive moments of the dialogue, for, with his question, Socrates
takes command of the little community, forces Cephalus to leave, and
makes the nature of justice the problem of the discussion. Socrates acts
as though Cephalus had tried to define justice and objects to the defini-
tion he himself constructs out of Cephalus' statement. Justice, ac-
cording to Socrates' rendition of Cephalus' view, is telling the truth and
paying one's debts. Socrates' procedure is quite strange. In the first
place he says nothing about half of what interests Cephalus: he does not
mention piety, whether this is because he thinks Cephalus' understand-
ing of piety is adequate or because he is not interested in piety. Sec-
ond, in his discussion of paying one's debts, Socrates is silent about
the gods and the sacrifices owed to them. In a word, Socrates forgets
the divine, which is Cephalus' prime preoccupation, and makes the
discussion one concerning human justice alone. This, along with his un-
willingness to face the fact that he might be ignorant of the very obliga-
tions he is trying sc? hard to meet, is what causes Cephalus to leave.
While the discussion is going on, he is elsewhere performing sacrifices
to the gods, concerned with what is forgotten in that discussion.
Socrates' objection is very simple. Everyone knows that it is just
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Interpretive Essay
to pay one's debts, but everyone is also aware that there are occasions
when one need not and should not do so. Thus, it is impossible, without
contradicting oneself, to say that justice is paying one's debts. One
must seek a noncontradictory definition of justice. Cephalus, too, is
aware that one must sometimes deviate from the principles of justice in
the name of justice, but he has never considered what the consequences
of that fact are. He must adhere to the laws, human and divine, or he
would have to spend his time in finding out what justice is rather than
in doing it. If everyone had to decide whether the laws properly apply
in each case that arises, the political result would be anarchy; and, in-
dividually, a task beyond the capacities and energies of most men
would be imposed on them. For Cephalus the just is identical to the law
of the city, and the law is protected by the gods. The problem of justice
is simply expressed in his view: if there are no gods, there is no reason
to be just or to worry; if there are, we must simply obey their laws, for
that is what they wish. But common sense tells us that laws are not al-
ways conducive to the good of those they are intended to benefit.
Cephalus, however, is content to forget this fact in his sacrifices,
even though his actions may be harming others. His lighthearted
piety can seem extreme selfishness. He leaves to his son the con-
sideration of what is truly good for other men, for it would force
him to make a distinction between the just and the legal. And he
leaves to all thoughtful selfish men the consideration of what the
profitable life would be if there are no punishments after death.
The unity of things expressed in the identification of the just and
the legal under the protection of the gods has been rent asunder by
Socrates' simple objection to Cephalus' assertion that a man should
pay his debts. Now the members of this group must try to find out
what justice is and whether justice is good for the man who
practices it.
Although the definitions of justice proposed by Cephalus,
Polemarchus, and Thrasymachus are all found wanting and must
be abandoned, the discussions concerning them are not simply
critical nor is their result only negative. From each something is
learned which is of the essence of political life and which is reflected
in the final definition and the regime that embodies it.
From Cephalus we learn that for most men justice can mean only
law-abidingness, and that rewards and punishments in this life and ttie
next are necessary to insure obedience which does not seem to them
desirable in itself. Cephalus' definition fails because it cannot account
for those instances in which one is admittedly exempted from obeying
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the law. He has no grasp of the intention or principle of law. JJp ^
believes in the sanctity of private property: injustice is taking what
belongs to others; justice, respecting what belongs to them. Belonging
is defined by the law. But insanity and the intention to injure are suffi-
cient grounds for taking away from a man what is thought to belong to
him. Rationality and good will, or to put it otherwise, capacity to use a
thing well and attachment to the community and its laws, are ap-
parently conditions of the respect of a man's right to ownership. Xhe
simple example of the insane man who demands the return of his weap-
on, if generalized, leads far from the letter of the law, which men like
Cephalus must respect. It becomes Polemarchus' responsibility to ex-
plain what standard should be loioked to when one deviates from the
letter of the law— which is equivalent to stating the purpose for which
laws are instituted.
{331d-336a) Polemarchus inherits his father's duty of defending
the law and hence of defending that property which he is going to
inherit. He fails in his attempt to define justice in a way which is con-
sistent with the maintenance of private property, and the Republic culmi-
nates in the elaboration*of a regime in which the only title to property is
virtue and which is hence communistic. Polemarchus' original intention
when he interrupted was merely to support his father's conten-
tion that one should pay what is owed. He does so by citing the
authority of a poet. In his case, however (as opposed to that of Ceph-
alus), poetic authority apparently does not refer to the even greater
authority of the gods; he expresses his own view. Socrates can, with
greater propriety, call into question the opinions of the young Polemar-
chus based on the authority of Simonides than the dogmas of the pious
old Cephalus based on the authority of the traditions about the gods.
But even here Socrates does not criticize the authority; he merely asks
Polemarchus to interpret. Socrates makes the ironic assumption that Si-
monides must be right and that, since he is right, his views must accord
with the results of rational argument. Polemarchus is compelled to
learn how to argue; this is the first step on the road from unconditional
acceptance of the ancestral order to the new regime based on reason in
which the authority ofthe father's opinions and the power of his prop-
erty play no role. By the end of his discussion with Socrates, Polemar-
chus is aware that he cannot get help from Simonides and that he must
himself find reasons if he is to be satisfied with his beliefs about justice.
Finally he and Socrates join in agreeing that Simonides could not have
said what Polemarchus asserted he said, for it is unreasonable and base.
Simonides remains respectable, but only because it is assumed that he
accepts the authority of Polemarchus and Socrates who are now free of
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Interpretive Essay
him. Polemarchus is the last participant in the discussion who attempts
to use an authority as a sufficient cause for behef. Immediately after
him comes Thrasymachus with his own definition of justice.
Polemarchus insists that justice is paying what one owes, but
Socrates again poses the same objection that silenced his father. In order
to save his definition Polemarchus must alter the sense of owing. Now
justice is not giving back to any man what he has deposited but giving
good things to friends. In general this would mean following Cephalus'
rule, but it accounts for the exceptions: one need not aid a man who in-
tends to do one damage— he must be a friend; and one must look to the
good of the other party, as Cephalus did not do. Two great themes
emerge: friendship, or community, and the good— infinite themes
which it now becomes necessary to understand if one wishes to under-
stand justice. Polemarchus, of course, does not recognize what has hap-
pened, for he does not see any problem in knowing what is good for a
friend.
Socrates explains Polemarchus' definition of justice— doing good,
and no harm, to friends — in terms of the example he used to embarrass
Cephalus. A thing is not owed if it works harm to render it. But Soc-
rates changes the thing deposited in this case: it is money, not a weap-
on. This small change is most revealing, for it broadens the scope of
the exceptions and changes their sense. Cephalus would not return the
weapon because its owner might hurt him with it; his justification is the
selfish one of his own defense; justice must be practiced until it is
manifestly harmful to oneself. Money in the hands of a madman is not
so manifestly dangerous to another man as is a weapon. If one
withholds his money, the justification for so doing is not likely to be
that he will harm others but rather that he will harm himself. Now the
focus of attention is on what it does to the one who receives rather than
to the one who gives, a question to which Cephalus was profoundly in-
different. Cephalus was interested in what justice would profit himself,
Polemarchus is interested in its advantage for others. He is really much
more of a gentleman than his father. He presents the other side of the
problem of justice— the good it does the community, as opposed to the
individual. The relation between justice conceived as one's own good
and justice conceived as the common good is the abiding concern of the
Republic; Cephalus and Polemarchus represent the two poles. Also at
this point, with the recognition that a man's property in money only ex-
tends so far as he can use that money well— only so far as is good for
him— private property becomes radically questionable.
After more prodding by Socrates, Polemarchus is led to complete
his definition by assertingthat enemies areowed harm. Justice isbenefiting
friends and harming enemies. This is Polemarchus' and the gentleman's
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view of justice. As Lessing approvingly put it, "for the ancient Greeks
moral greatness consisted in a love of friends that is as constant as the
hatred of one's enemies is unchanging." Although Socrates finds this
understanding of justice ultimately inadequate, he clearly agrees with
Lessing that it is the formula for gentlemanly and heroic nobility and
higher than most alternatives. It sounds harsh to our ears, for it is far
from the morality of universal love to which we are accustomed, and
we must make great efforts if we are to understand its dignity. That
dignity consists in unswerving loyalty, loyalty to the first, most obvious
attachments a man forms— loyalty to his family and his city. Our ad-
miration for this character is manifest in our horror at the man who is
willing to betray family or friends for gain, out of fear, or even in the
pursuit of an ideal. Such loyalty seems natural, for it springs up in us
with our first appetites and tastes; it is identical with love of our omti. It
does not have the abstract aspect of the love of a humanity which a
man cannot know in its entirety, a love which does not make distinc-
tions among men. It is more powerful because of its exclusiveness; it
stays within the limits of possible human concern.
But, although many might be willing to admit that one's duties
toward one's own take precedence over those toward mankind at
large, it might well be asked why it is necessary to harm enemies, or
why there need be enemies at all. The answer is twofold. There are un-
just men who would destroy the good things and the good life of one's
own family or nation if one did not render them impotent. And, even
though there were not men who are natively unjust, there is a scarcity
of good things in the world. The good life of one group of men leaves
other groups outside who would like, and may even be compelled, to
take away the good things of the first group. To have a family or a city
that is one's own implies the distinction between insiders and outsiders;
and the outsiders are potential enemies. Justice as helping friends and
harming enemies is peculiarly a political definition of justice, and its
dignity stands or falls with the dignity of political life. Every nation has
wars and must defend itself; it can only do so if it has citizens who care
for it and are willing to kill the citizens of other nations. If the distinc-
tion between friends and enemies, and the inclination to help the for-
mer and harm the latter, were obliterated from the heart and mind of
man, political life would be impossible. This is the necessary political
definition of justice^ and it produces its specific kind of human nobility
expressed in the virtue of the citizen. Socrates does not simply reject it
as he appears to do. The warriors in his best regime, whom he com-
pares to noble dogs, share in the most salient characteristic of noble
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Interpretive Essay
dogs: gentleness toward acquaintances and harshness toward strangers.
This is the key to the strengths and weaknesses of the political man.
Socrates' analysis of the definition is divided into three parts: (1) a
discussion of how one can do good to friends (332c-334b); (2) an at-
tempt to define a friend (334c-335b); and (3) a critique of the notion
that a just man can do harm (335b-336a).
Socrates begins by asserting that Simonides meant that the owed is
the fitting. The deposit is no longer important. Whether a man has
deposited something or not is irrelevant; the only consideration is what
is fitting for him. Justice might mean depriving him of what he thinks
belongs to him or giving him something to which he appears to have no
claim. In this reformulation, doing good to friends and harm to ene-
mies is equivalent to giving to each what is fitting. Polemarchus meant
that one gives to friends the things they want and denies to enemies the
things they want. Socrates changes Polemarchus' meaning by concen-
trating not on the wants of men but on what is objectively proper for
them. A sick friend is justly treated when given medicine whether he
likes it or not. This shift in emphasis implies that the primary concern
of the just man must be something Polemarchus has never considered:
what counts is not so much the disposition to give the good things to
friends, but knowing what those good things are. Justice must be some
kind of knowledge.
Therefore Socrates turns to the most evident, perhaps the only
sure, models of knowledge of what is fitting— the arts. A doctor wishes
to give what is fitting to bodies and knows what is fitting and how to
give it. The just man, if he is to succeed in his intention, must also
possess an art. Now the problem becomes to identify the art of justice
which, to put it mildly, common sense does not apprehend so quickly
as it does the other arts. Formally, it must be the art which gives good
to friends and harm to enemies, just as cookery gives seasoning to
foods.
However, it immediately comes to light that justice is not the only
art capable of benefiting friends and harming enemies. Medicine and
navigation are of even greater use than justice to men who are sick or
sailing. As a matter of fact, each of the arts aims at some good, and
hence each is capable of working the benefactions or injuries called for
by the definition of justice. The question is to find what justice does
that no other art does, and this is obviously a difficult, or, rather, an im-
possible, task. Polemarchus suggests that justice is most useful and in-
dispensable in the affairs of war, and, in peacetime, in keeping money
deposits. This response is more helpful for learning about Polemarchus'
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view of justice than for solving the problem of justice's subject matter.
The connection of war and money is obvious; and the kind of good
things Polemarchus means and the sense in which the just citizen is a
warrior emerge more clearly. But, as he does in the other cases, Soc-
rates could easily show that a skilled soldier is a better partner in war
than a just man, and a trained banker a better partner in peacetime
than a just man. Socrates has indicated by the examples he uses that,
for Polemarchus at least, justice is concerned with the acquisition and
distribution of good things in communities of men while keeping off
the outsiders (332c-d, 333a, 333b). The extraordinary result of this
conversation is that justice is useless in the enterprise of doing good to
friends and harm to enemies. What has happened is that Socrates and
Polemarchus discover that the world is divided up among the arts and
there is nothing left for an art of justice. A doctor may do good to his
friends and hence be just, but justice is nothing beyond the exercise of
his art, which is something other than justice. Arts are the means of
doing good and harm; arts have subject matters but justice does not;
hence justice is not an art and cannot do good. Justice has disappeared.
Moreover, Socrates insists on pointing out that the arts are
neutral, that they can effect opposite results with equal ease. This fact
is particularly shocking to Polemarchus, for its consequence is that the
practitioner of the art of justice would be as adept at stealing as at
guarding a thing and would lie as well as he tells the truth. Nothing in
the art would guide a man as to which he should do; he would merely
be technically proficient. Instead of being the model of reliability, the
just man becomes the archetype of untrustworthiness, the possessor of
power without guiding principle. He is a thief and a liar, the contrary
of the debt-paying, truth-telling just man defined by Polemarchus' father
— a definition which Polemarchus has inherited and the substance of
which he is trying to defend.
Of course, it has been admitted that the just man sometimes
would not pay his debts and would lie even to his friends, so the result
of this argument should not be surprising. But Polemarchus is un-
willing to accept it. He is a gentleman, and there are certain things —
dishonorable things— a gentleman is never supposed to do. He may
admit that they must be done, and even do them, but he refuses to rec-
ognize the consequences of what he does. If he did so, it would seem
to end in the loss of all standards. Life is ordered according to fixed
rules, and the exceptions are hidden in silence. Polemarchus could be
accused of hypocrisy, and the limitations of his kind of moralism are
exposed here. Socrates hints that the good things which Polemarchus
defends might well have been acquired in less than decent ways, the
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Interpretive Essay
memory of which is lost in the mists of time. But, even worse, his
character is such that he would probably rather work harm than use
ungentlemanly means to a good end. Socrates, as the Republic reveals,
is not averse to lies and is certainly no respecter of private property.
However that may be, the assumption that justice is an art does
lead to serious difficulties, expressed ironically in the notion that the
just man is both useless and a thief. It would seem that arts require par-
ticular subject matters and that they are morally neutral. We are forced
to abandon the assumption, and one might very well ask why it was
made in the first place. We all sense that justice is a disposition, as Ceph-
alus originally suggested, one which every man must possess in addi-
tion to his skill . A doctor must be disposed to heal liis patients as well
as be able to do so; otherwise he might just as well kill them for profit
as cure them. Just why did Socrates turn the conversation in this direc-
tion?
In the first place, it must be remembered that, with the banish-
ment of Cephalus, ancestral authority was replaced by what men can
know for themselves, by the evidence of reasoned experience. The arts
are the most obvious sources of knowledge available to all men as men
without the need of any act of faith or the instruction of a particular
tradition. The desire to know what one owes other men would most im-
mediately lead in the direction of trying to discern an art which can
guide us just as medicine guides us in matters of health. Moreover,
however much habit may play a role in the character we call just, it is
also clear that it is simply insufficient for a man to follow rules without
any knowledge of the reasons behind them. Cephalus is proof enough
of that. Our doctors are supposed to obey the Hippocratic oath, and
that obedience would, in a sense, make them reliable. But, ultimately,
the most important thing is the knowledge of the goodness of that oath,
of the reasons why following it is salutary. The worthwhileness of a
doctor's activity depends on this; and, no matter how technically profi-
cient he may be, his talents are useless or dangerous if there is no
knowledge about this first question. Justice necessarily and primarily
demands a knowledge of what is good for man and the community;
otherwise the knowledge and skills of the arts are in the service of
authoritative myths.
Now, this discussion with Polemarchus outlines in a negative way
what the character of the requisite knowledge must be. It cannot be
like any of those arts which are always present in every com-
munity— shoemaking, weaving, carpentry, etc. This is what Socrates
meant in the Apology when he told of his quest for wise men. Poets and
statesmen, he found, knew literally nothing, whereas artisans did in-
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deed know something. Unfortunately their knowledge was limited and
partial, and Socrates said that he would prefer to be ignorant as he was
than knowledgeable as they were. For they were content with their
competence and closed to the larger questions. To be ignorant in Soc-
rates' way is to be open to the whole. The artisans are models of
knowledge, but their kind of knowledge is not applicable to the domain
of poets and statesmen. The problem is to combine the concerns of
poets and statesmen with knowledge as artisans possess it. Such
knowledge is what Socrates is seeking.
The discussion with Polemarchus leads to the same result as the
questioning of the artisans described in the Apology. The artisans are
found insufficient, and the insufficiency of the arguments here shows
why. These arguments are based on the premise that the arts like
medicine are self-sufficient; but this is not so. The doctor can produce
health, but that health is good he does not learn from medicine, and
similarly with all of the arts. They deal with partial goods which
presuppose a knowledge of the whole good to which they minister. The
error of the discussion was to look for a specific subject matter for
justice, to make it one among many arts, to act as though only the doc-
tor had anything to say about medicine. To help a sick friend one needs
not only a doctor but someone who knows to whom health is fitting and
how many other goods should be sacrificed to it, and who can direct the
doctor to do what will most help the patient. There are master arts
which rule whole groups of ministerial arts and are necessary to them.
These are what Aristotle calls architectonic arts. The carpenter, the
mason, the roofer, etc. — all are in need of an architect if a house is to be
produced. He is more important than they are, he guides them, and he
does not need to be a carpenter, a mason, or a roofer himself. Without
the architect, all the other arts connected with building lack an end and
are useless or worse. Similarly, justice must be a master art, ruling the
arts which produce partial goods so as to serve the whole good. In other
words, justice must be knowledge of that good which none of the other
arts knows but which each presupposes. Lawgivers actually organize all
the arts and tell their practitioners what they can and cannot do. What
Socrates proposes is a legislative or political science. If each of the ar-
tisans obeys the law established by a legislator who is wise in this
science, he would be just, and justice would take care of itself in law-
abiding practice of the arts. In this way the arts would provide what is
fitting to each man.
The very inadequacy of this argument, which divides the world
among the arts without reflecting on that world which is divided, points
to an art which does so; that art must be justice. Hence Socrates teaches
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Interpretive Essay
that in order to be just in the full sense one must be a philosopher, and
that philosophy is necessary to justice. Philosophy does have a subject
matter which helps in doing good to friends and harm to enemies, for it
alone knows what is good or fitting. And it alone is not neutral, for, by
its very definition, it seeks the whole good. Justice in this way would be
knowledge, would be useful, and would not be able indifferently to pro-
duce opposite results. This is the solution which the argument compels
us to seek. And a community of artisans ruled by philosophers would
be one in which good would be done to friends. This solution, however,
must wait until later, for Polemarchus really has no notion of what
philosophy is, and its discovery is impossible on this level of thought.
The poets and the laws tell Polemarchus the proper place of each thing,
and this is why he sees no difficulty in doing good to friends. His is a
prephilosophic world, and its authorities must be completely dis-
credited before philosophy can even be sought.
After thoroughly confusing Polemarchus about the way to do
good to friends and harm to enemies, Socrates turns to the question of
what a friend is. He and Polemarchus agree that men consider as
friends those they believe to be good. The problem is whether they
must really be good men or only seem to be so in order to be friends.
Polemarchus answers sensibly that the reality is not so important but
rather what is thought about it. Almost all men have friends, and many
are not able to judge the true character of those they call friends.
Friendship would be very rare if both parties had to be good men and
know it. But from this simple admission follows a consequence which
is intolerable to Polemarchus: to the extent that the just man erred
about the goodness of men, he would benefit bad men and harm good
ones and hence be unjust. A simple reformulation solves the problem:
firiends are properly those who appear to be good and are.
But this little change, if it were taken seriously, would have the
profoundest of effects on Polemarchus' life. His first admission that his
friends were those who seemed to him good reflected the way he really
thinks. It is an easygoing outlook, typical of most men. He knows who
friends are. Our friends are those around us, and the insistence that
they must be good is a secondary consideration, one that has an
abstract ring to it. This condition is admitted in speech but has little ef-
fect in deed. And this means that men who loyally serve their friends
are constantly and thoughtlessly doing injustice. This consequence can-
not be avoided simply by making more effort, for Polemarchus' view is
not merely a result of his laziness but a product of his attachment to
family and city. He makes the primitive identification of the good with
his own. He is like his father who wanted Socrates as a friend and in-
[ 323 ]
THE REPUBLIC
vited him to become a member o£ the family. Men who are outsiders
can become friends only by becoming "naturalized" members of the
family; blood ties are what count. Even the loyalty to the city is under-
stood as an extension of the family. This tendency to see the good in
one's own and to devote oneself to it is one of the most powerful urges
of human nature and the source of great devotion and energy. Once the
distinction between what is good and one's own is made, the principle
of loyalty to family and city is undermined. In order to be just, one
must seek good men wherever they may be, even in nations fighting
one's own nation. If the good must be pursued, then caring for one's
own must be extinguished, or it will make one unjust and impede the
quest for the good. This undermines family and city; and they must at-
tempt to prevent the distinction from even coming to light. Certainly,
Polemarchus would regard the abandonment of his primary loyalties as
the destruction of the purpose and dignity of his life. If, however, he is
to be consistent with the argument, he must make this sacrifice. A man
who wishes to be just must be cosmopolitan.
Thus far, Socrates has led us to the observation that in order to do
good to friends and harm to enemies one need only be a philosopher
and givejip_ongj^ttachm£Qts to tho sg_^^iQm-tnQsLnign call_friends.
NowTie attacks the entire view implied by the definition. He asserts
that no just man would harm anyone, thereby opposing his own un-
derstanding of justice to that of the gentleman. His is an utterly un-
political view, one that seems to deny the distinction between friend
and enemy. It takes no account of the desire to avenge insults and ap-
pears to be predicated on the notion that life is not essentially com-
petitive. Socrates does not suggest that the just man would want to
benefit all men, only that he would want to benefit his friends and re-
main indifferent to the others. Polemarchus believes that it is impossible
to benefit friends without harming enemies, for every city is in competi-
tion with other cities for the possession of scarce things. There cannot
be cities without enemies, and a man cannot be a good citizen
without wishing ill to his city's enemies. One can be indifferent to ene-
mies if one divorces oneself from the city's perspective and if the things
one considers good are not threatened or scarce. Only the things of the
mind are such as to belong to all men without neciessary exclusion of
some men and the war consequent on that exclusion. Nobody need take
a man's knowledge from him in order to enjoy it as one would have to
do in order to make use of his money. Socrates' view is that of philoso-
phy, in which knowledge is the highest good; Polemarchus' view is that
of the city, in which property is the highest, at least the most needful,
good. ^
I 324 ]
I
I Interpretive Essay
In the concluding portion of their discussion, Socrates and
Polemarchus actually have entirely diiferent understandings of what it
means to harm someone. Socrates says that to harm is to make a person
or thing worse, with respect to his or its specific virtue. Justice, he
asserts without proof, is human virtue, so to harm someone would be to
make him more unjust. Correcting his earlier statement that the arts are
simply neutral, Socrates further asserts that the practitioners of arts are
dedicated to goals which they cannot, to the extent they are true to
their arts, ignore. Therefore the just man cannot by justice make
another man more unjust, and thus cannot harm him. Now Polemar-
chus had no such notion in mind when he spoke of harming enemies.
What he meant was taking the enemy's property or life, for those are
the good things. Socrates' view is perfectly consistent with stealing
from or killing an enemy just so long as he is not made more unjust. Soc-
rates and Polemarchus differ about what is truly good. With all of
Polemarchus' admiration for justice, it is not the highest thing, not
sought for as such. Justice is more of a means to the end of preserving
life and property than itself the end of a good life.
Polemarchus' definition of justice might be regarded as the rule req-
uisite to the satisfaction of collective selfishness: be loyal to the mem-
bers of your own group so that you can best take advantage of the out-
siders. And, in principle, there is no reason why this selfishness should
not be extended to the individual if justice is not good in itself. This is why
Socrates is able to claim that this definition, which seems so gentle-
manly, is the product of a rich tyrant: if wealth is the goal, then the best
way to attain it is by breaking all faith and seizing power in one's city
and conquering as many nations as one can. Only if justiceJs_arL_end,
not^xaeans, is it reasonable to be unremittingly just.
There is a tension in Polemarchus — of which he is unaware— be-
tween his love of property and his love of justice. This is what Socrates
exposes and what Thrasymachus is about to exploit. Justice, Thrasyma-
chus says, is the morality of a band of robbers who are face to face with
their victims, and only a simpleton would be duped into making some-
thing more of it. Polemarchus is in an untenable position somewhere
between utter selfishness and total dedication to the common good.
Gentlemanly morality is self-contradictory, and the goods desired by
the gentlemen would, if he were clear-sighted, lead in the direction of
tyranny. Thrasymachus continues on the road to it, a road to which Soc-
rates' questions have directed him.
(336b-354b) Thrasymachus bursts violently into the discussion.
He is angry because Socrates and Polemarchus had been engaged in a
[ 325 ]
T HE REPUBLIC
dialogue. He sees this as a form of weakness. The participants in a
dialogue obey certain rules which, like laws, govern their association-
they seek a common agreement instead of trying to win a victory.
The very art of dialectic seems to impose a kind of justice on those
who practice it, whereas rhetoric, the art of making long speeches
without being questioned— Thrasymachus' art— is adapted to self-
aggrandizement. Thrasymachus sees dialectic as an opponent of
rhetoric and wishes to show his audience the superiority of rhetoric.
Moreover, Thrasymachus objects to the substance as well as the form
of what he has just heard. Justice as doing good to others fits in well
with the self-abnegation of dialectic and is just as unsound. It is
foolishness, the direct opposite of prudence, which causes a man to
hold the position that justice is doing good to others while also sup-
posing that it is good for the doer. Thrasymachus adopts the accents of
moral indignation in the cause of immorality. He charges Socrates with
wrongdoing, with deceiving other men; since Socrates' method is irony,
he is a dissembler or a hypocrite. He imposes a higher good, in which
he himself does not believe, and would cause men and cities to neglect
their needs and interests. i
Thrasymachus wishes to punish Socrates, and, in a book teeming
with allusions to Socrates' accusation and trial, Thrasymachus makes
the most explicit condemnation of Socrates; his insistence that Soc-
rates, if bested by Thrasymachus, propose an appropriate punishment
for himself prefigures that fateful day when the condemned Socrates is
forced by the Athenian law to propose his own penalty. To Thrasyma-
chus, as he will to the Athenian jurors, Socrates claims that he has no
money; and now, as they will then, his friends offer to provide him with
the necessary funds. Thrasymachus and the city are both angry at Soc-
rates for not accepting their point of view, which appears to be as
clear as day. The terms of the two accusations seem to be different, but
it soon becomes evident that Thrasymachus' definition of justice is
really the same as the city's and that he acts as its representative. For, as
soon as he asserts that the just is the advantage of the stronger, he ex-
plains that by the "stronger" he means those who hold power in a city
and constitute its sovereign, whether that sovereign consists of the peo-
ple, the rich, the well-born, or a single man. The just is whatever the
sovereign in its laws says is just. This is precisely what the city says,
and Socrates is disloyal to both city and Thrasymachus in suggesting
that justice goes beyond the law— that law may not even be necessary if
wise men rule. This is a notion that is not only antilegal, but is, in par-
ticular, antidemocratic, because it looks to the few wise rather than the
many free. Thrasymachus insists that the decree of the sovereign is ul-
[ 326 ]
Interpretive Essay
timate, and that there is no recourse beyond it, while Socrates insists
that laws are just only to the extent they conform to a standard of
justice superior to the laws and independent of the wishes of the
sovereign.
Thrasymachus' identification with the city's view of justice helps
to explain his previously mentioned moral indignation in the cause of
immorality, which also has its counterpart in the actions of the city.
The city insists that its laws are just and punishes those who break
them. Anger seems a proper reaction to lawbreaker^ who are thought to
harm other s for their selfish end s. But Thrasymachus has stripped away
die^ veils that covered the selfishness of the rulers and their laws. Those
laws themselves serve the private interest of a part of the city and do
harm to the rest of it. Laws are not directed to the common good. And
yet the city will continue to put lawbreakers to death as unjust men and
enemies of the common good. The anger awakened in men by the sight
of indifference or hostility to law is a powerful force in protecting the
law and hence the city, but it can also be the enemy of justice and is
certainly the greatest enemy of philosophy. Thrasymachus, whose art
gives speech to the passions of the city, is its agent in condemning Soc-
rates, and his action in the service of this passion imitates the city's ac-
tion.
The immediate cause of Thrasymachus' ire is the end of Socrates'
argument with Polemarchus. Based on the tacit premise that justice is
good, the argument led to the conclusion that justice is an ai:t that does
good to those to whom it ministers. The just man profits both others
and himself. This means that there is a common good; the community
is bound together by justice, and no one sacrifices his own personal ad-
vantage to it. On the contrary,, if— to use Socrates' hyperbolic ex-
pression—justice is human virtue, each gains his fulfillment in the
prosperity of the whole. A just man never harms anyone. Thrasyma-
chus, referring to his knowledge of the world and the actual practice of
the cities, treats this view as the result of a culpable innocence, an in-
nocence destructive to the happiness of those who are taken in by it.
Practically speaking, as Cephalus' example shows, justice is law-abid-
ingness. That is certainly what the city says it is; and, even if there
is a natural justice, it must be embodied in a code of political law in or-
der to have a real effect. The city always presents its laws as a con-
stitutive part of itself, like the territory and the populace. But, in fact,
those laws can vary as the territory and the populace cannot; they are a
function of the regime, of the kind of men who govern the city. When
the poor, or the rich, or the old families, or a tyrant take over the rule
in a city, its laws change correspondingly. The sovereign makes the
[ 327 ]
THE republic!
laws, and those laws always happen to reflect its interests. Oligarchies
make laws which favor and protect oligarchy; democracy makes laws
which favor and protect democracy, etc. The regime is the absolute
beginning point; there is nothing beyond it. To understand the kind of
justice practiced in any city one must look to the regime. The laws have
their source in the human, all too human. He who obeys them in
reverence or in fear, is simply serving the advantage of the stronger
whether the stronger is a single man, or the great majority of the peo-
ple, or any other politically relevant group within the city. If this be the
case, however, prudence and self-interest would seem to dictate to the
individual that either he should try to evade the law or else become the
lawmaker himself Thrasymachus' thesis is simply that the regime
makes the laws and that the members of the regime look to their own
good and not the common good. The city is not a unity but a composite
of opposed parties, and the party which wins out over the others is the
source of the law. There is no fundamental difference between tyranny
and other regimes because they all have the same selfish end. Justice,
therefore, is not a fundamental phenomenon; the lawgiver cannot base
himself upon it, for justice is a result of law.
Socrates does not deny that it is the stronger who rule and
establish the law. He silently accepts the view that all existing regimes
are as Thrasymachus says they are. The two men thus agree that the
character of the ruling group is the core of politics, that the rulers are
the stronger, and that justice is a political phenomenon and must be
embodied in the laws of a city. The issue between them is whether all
rulers, all lawgivers, must be selfish in the way Thrasymachus insists
they are. From this point on the question is the regime — who rules; and
Socrates tries to find a kind of man, a political class, which is both
strong and public-spirited.
Socrates turns, then, to the criticism of Thrasymachus' view of the
rulers. He quickly succeeds in embarrassing him by the reflection that
sometimes rulers make mistakes; hence obedience to the law may be as
much to their disadvantage as their advantage. Justice is not the ad-
vantage of the stronger unless the stronger (the rulers) know what their
own advantage is. The emphasis now shifts from jtrene; th__to
knowledge. Socrates' question appears to refer to rulers' mistakes about
the means to their ends, but could apply to mistakes about the proper
ends of action. Socrates, then, is also asking whether the rulers really
know what is advantageous and leads Thrasymachus into a region of
profound problems on which he has hardly reflected. Like Polemar-
chus, he takes it for granted that the most common objects of
desire— particularly whatever has to do wealth — are advantageous and
that knowledge of them is a given. Thraj :g]aa chus is the more _thou£bt-
[ 328 ]
Interpretive Essay
ful voi ce of the most thoughtless opinions and desires. He teaches an
art by means of which men can get those good things, and a mistaken
niler for him would be one who did not know the appropriate means to
the given ends. He wishes to educate a clever, selfish man who knows
how to get what he wants. But, as Socrates will show, this artisan of
selfish satisfaction is really not in harmony with the vulgar tastes Thra-
symachus is also committed to supporting. It is by developing this con-
tradiction that Socrates will be able to tame the wild beast.
Thrasymachus could easily have circumvented the difficulty
which Socrates presents. The crude Clitophon, who enters to defend
Thrasymachus, shows Polemarchus ( who is n q y^ Socrates' ally and de -
feijder) how obvious this route is. Thrasymachus had only to say, as
Clitophon insists he meant, that justice is what appears to be the ad-
vantage of the stronger. This position is cldse to that of legal
positivism: the just is what the city says is just and nothing more. Clito-
phon asserts the laws established by the rulers are based on their ap-
parent advantage. This position may not be true but it does not defy
common sense, and it seems based on the actual practice of cities. The
thesis merely asserts that the only source and sanction of law is the
sovereign and that it is hence benighted to look for higher justification.
There is no need to define rulers by any criterion other than their hav-
ing the power to make laws in the city, and the question of what is truly
advantageous is set aside. Clitophon's solution to Socrates' difficulty
does not contain those internal contradictions which bring about Thra-
symachus' downfall.
Thrasymachus, however, chooses to respond to Socrates' objection
by arguing that the ruler is always right and knows his own advantage.
The ruler who makes mistakes is not a ruler; that is, almost all rulers
are not really rulers. It is not that rulers do behave with scientific
selfishness but that they should. Thrasymachus, as it were, anticipates
Socrates' best regime by developing an alternative opposed to it. As in
Socrates' good city, where rulers will be trained who are perfectly
public-spirited, so in Thrasymachus' there will be rulers who are per-
fectly selfish; the rulers in both regimes do have in common, however,
the fact that they are knowers. Thrasymachus' regime is as improbable
and opposed to experience as is Socrates'. Rather than defend the
plausible observation that rulers of selfish intention are the source of
law, Thrasymachus encumbers himself with the responsibility for what
amounts to a moral imperative, requiring rulers to be selfish with per-
fect knowledge.
Why does Thrasymachus do so? In the first place, he has simply
thought through the consequences of his position, unlike the advocates
of a crude positivism. If law has no deeper authority than human con-
[ 329 1
THE REPUBLIC
vention, any man who reflects at all on what kind of life he should
live realizes he cannot rely on the law for guidance. Every man rea-
sonably pursues his own good, and, if there is no common good, he will
properly use the law for his own private satisfaction. This is the lesson
which the individual can well draw from the teaching that law is noth-
ing more than the sovereign's will; and the intelligent tyrant seems to
be the one who has best learned the lesson. The ruler is hence a man
who seeks his own advantage; to do so is almost the only alternative,
since other goals are illusory. If he fails to attain it, he is a failure as a
ruler and a man. Thrasymachus looks at politics from the point of view
of the man who wants to live well and has understood the nature of
justice; it is this perspective which causes him to go beyond Clitophon's
formulation.
Further, to the extent that in this drama Thrasymachus plays the
role of the city, he echoes the city's insistence that it knows the truth.
For the city could hardly admit that its laws are essentially fallible. Its
pronouncements must be authoritative, and all knowledge, divine or
human, must be ratified and codified by the sovereign. It has a
monopoly of wisdom. Otherwise every individual would have an ap-
peal from it.
And, finally, Thrasymachus as the practitioner and teacher of an
art, one which he believes to be the most important art for men who
want to live a good life, must make a claim himself to possess
knowledge and to be able to convey that knowledge to others. As Soc-
rates suggests, he is in Athens looking for students, whose money he
needs in order to live. He directs his appeal to noble, political youths of
high ambition. They wish to be rulers. But if there is no art the posses-
sion of which makes a man a ruler and enables him to attain the good
sought for in the activity of ruling, what would Thrasymachus have to
teach them? Clitophon's argument implies that the ruler is defined only
by holding office, not by any particular skill which gives him the
capacity to attain his end. This would be disastrous for Thrasymachus'
profession. He therefore claims he teaches a skill which can make men
rulers, in the sense that they will be able to fulfill their wishes. The or-
dinary ruler is potentially the completely successful selfish ruler. He
cannot be understood without reference to this end any more than the
doctor can be understood without reference to the end of curing sick
men. A ruler who errs about his advantage is not as such a ruler any
more than a mathematician who errs in calculation is as such a math-
ematician. Thrasymachus promises political success to his students.
His definition of the rulers "in the precise sense" is part of his profes-
sional propaganda.
[ 330 ]
Interpretive Essay
In the discussion of this definition of the ruler who is a perfect
knower of an art, we see that Thrasymachus is not merely a lover of
gain. He is also, in his way, a lover of knowledge. He is a model of that
not uncommon phenomenon, "the intellectual." His passions are in the
service of things other than knowledge although he devotes himself to a
life of knowledge. Knowledge is not pursued for the sake of knowledge,
but he recognizes a certain superiority in the life devoted to knowing
for its own sake. It is this contradiction that defeats him, for taking
knowledge seriously leads beyond preoccupation with one's private ad-
vantage toward a disinterested life devoted to universal concern. Thra-
symachus' respect for art and reason enables Socrates to tame him, both
because Thrasymachus is compelled by the argument as a less rational
man would not be when an argument goes counter to his passions, and
because he is intrigued by Socrates' art and skill. Even though his argu-
ments are not always simply good, Socrates manages to get the advan-
tage over the great rhetorician. This is an impressive feat. The city,
when confronted with Socrates, itself destroys him; Thrasymachus,
charmed by his arguments, finally becomes his friend. The intellec tual
voice of th e city can become tractable as the city never wi ll. The
Republic, aXook about a perfect city, is characterized by having per-
fect interlocutors, that is, men without whom a city could not be
founded and who are, at the same time, persuadable, whom argument
can convince to adapt to a new kind of world which is contrary to their
apparent advantage. Just as one must have almost unbelievable condi-
tions to found the best city in deed, so one must have exceptional in-
terlocutors to found it in speech.
After Thrasymachus posits the precise definition of the ruler, a
definition which assumes that ruling is an art and that art is a great
good, it is a simple matter for Socrates to refute — or rather to silence
—him. This argument is of particular interest because it poses the
problem of justice in a most radical form. Socrates proceeds to show
that all arts are directed to subject matters and that they are concerned
with those subject matters and not M'ith themselves; all arts rule some-
thing, and they are interested in the good of the thing ruled. The practi-
tioner of an art, at least in the precise sense, does not serve himself; on
the contrary, he forgets himself completely. Thrasymachus' definition
leads to the furthest extreme from his intention. If one wanted to have
a city of men who cared only for the public rather than the private, one
would only have to find a way of constituting one peopled by artisans in
the precise sense — which is just the solution of the Republic. To the ex-
tent to which a man is devoted to his calling, he forgets his own ad-
vantage.
[331 ]
THE REPUBLIC
Thrasymachus rebels at the conclusion to which the argioment
compels him; in attempting to refute it, he cites the way of the world.
Shepherds care for their sheep in order that they may be eaten, not in
order to have happy sheep. Rulers look on the people as shepherds do
sheep: as objects of exploitation. A shepherd who looked to the good of
the sheep would not help them but would only serve the appetites of his
master. Similarly, the man who cares for the people and devotes him-
self to the common good only makes the people fatter for the exploita-
tion of the city's masters. It is much more reasonable for the shepherd
to deceive his masters and eat the sheep himself or to make himself the
master. Now Thrasymachus makes it explicit that justice is bad for a
man and that the best way of life is the most unjust one— the tyrant's
life. His indignation at Socrates' argument is understandable, since one
must wonder who or what takes care of the artisan-ruler who is also a
human being and has needs and wishes of his own. Why would he be
willing to be a ruler? Thrasymachus is unable to find an answer to this
question because his own assertions have bound him.
It is Socrates himself who provides an answer, although it is
an enigmatic and ironic one. Reiterating this principle that a shep-
herd—or a ruler- by definition cares for nothing but his flock, Socrates
adds that, since the artisan gets nothing for himself from his art,
he must be paid a wage. A man who earns a wage is, according to Soc-
rates, a practitioner of the wage-earner's art; in point of fact, every ar-
tisan practices two arts — the one from which he gets his title and the
wage-earner's art. With the latter art he cares for himself; with the for-
mer, for others. Wage earning, then, is the rubric that covers the side of
a man's life concerned with his personal advantage; he must provide
himself with the necessities, and he pursues his own good as well as
that of others; he is not a selfless servant.
Thus a new art, and a new kind of art, comes to light. This art,
however, contradicts the definition of the arts which has been the basis
of the discussion. The wage-earner's art is not concerned with the
good of the art's object, but rather with the good of the practitioner.
After all, the wage earner does not care for the well-being of money, he
cares for his own well-being. Moreover, there being no pre-established
harmony between the two arts practiced by a man, there is every prob-
ability of there being conflicts between their demands. For example,
what is the doctor to do who is offered a bribe for harming his patient?
His two arts each make rigorous and contradictory claims upon him,
and there is no evident principle for choosing which should be pre-
ferred. Socrates makes this explicit when he tells Glaucon that wagesmust
always be paid to political men, and that there is a perpetual conflict
[ 332 ]
Interpretive Essay
between their interests as wage earners and their interests as good
rulers. The tension between the pubhc good and private good of the in-
dividual which Socrates had explicitly denied is admitted with this in-
troduction of the wage-earner's art. Thrasymachus, however, is not
quick enough to notice this and take advantage of it.
This wage-earner's art is ubiquitous. It accompanies all of the arts
and directs their action. It is thus an architectonic art. Contrary to Soc-
rates' argument that each art is complete and perfect in itself, needing
nothing beyond itself, a super art is necessaiy to supplement all the
arts. For they must be related to each other and to the whole of which
their subject matters are a part. The cai-penter's, bricklayer's, and
plasterer's arts are not sufficient unto themselves; they must be guided
by the architect's art. Money, or what we would call the economic
system, is a sort of architectonic principle; for in ordinary cities the
amount of money paid for the products of the arts determines what arts
are practiced, how they are practiced, and what kind of men practice
them. Money is the common denominator running through all the arts;
it seems to establish their value and provides the motivation for prac-
ticing them. Thrasymachus, who is seeking students in Athens, is surely
a part of this system. His rhetoric is of use to him only if people desire
it and are willing to pay for learning it.
Socrates, by means of this fabrication of an art of wage earning,
points, as he did in the discussion with Polemarchus, to the need for a
master art to supplement the other arts. Money is manifestly an inade-
quate architectonic or regal principle, and its inadequacies serve to in-
dicate what a true architectonic art would have to be and accomplish.
Money cannot discern the nature of each of the arts nor evaluate the
contribution their products make to happiness; the price paid for the
sei^vices of the arts is merely the reflection of the vm tutored tastes of the
many or the rich. Money constitutes an artificial system which subor-
dinates the higher to the lower. And the man who serves for money be-
comes the slave of the most authoritative voices of his own time and
place, while renouncing the attempt to know, and live according to, the
natural hierarchy of value. He is always torn between the demands of
his art and the needs of the marketplace.
The wage-earner's art is a kind of political substitute for philoso-
phy. The intention of philosophy is to understand the nature of the arts
and order them toward the production of hiunan happiness, and to
educate men to desire those things which most conduce to happiness. It
can claim to rule all the arts for it alone tries to know the whole, the
true whole, as opposed to *^he view of the whole of this time or place,
and it restores the unity to a mainVlife. It demands total dedication to
[ 333 ]
THE REPUBLIC
its objects, as was required of the arts, while giving ample reward to its
practitioner in that it is the perfection of his nature and his greatest
satisfaction. Only in philosophy is there an identity of the concern for
the proper practice of the art and that for one's own advantage. Soc-
rates embodies a solution to the conflicting demands which render
Thrasymachus' life meaningless: Socrates combines in a single way of
life the satisfactions of the lover of knowledge and the lover of gain. All
other lives are essentially self-contradictory. In the philosopher we can
find both the public-spirited ruler and the satisfied man.
Thus Socrates, whose explicit intention was to show that the prac-
titioners of arts— and hence Thrasymachus' rulers— cannot be con-
cerned with their own advantage, has, by the introduction of the wage-
earner's art, tacitly admitted the necessity and legitimacy of that con-
cern. He has only shown that men cannot consistently at the same time
be both rulers in the precise sense defined by Thrasymachus and
seekers of their own advantage, while hinting that philosophy is the
only resolution of the conflict between art or science and self-interest.
As it appears to Thrasymachus, Socrates is madly insisting that a man
spend his life in total dedication to others without any reason for so
doing and in blind indifference to the facts of life. Thrasymachus cannot
defend his position because of his earlier assertions, and he is prevented
by them from making his powerful appeal to men's lust and their re-
spect for knowledge. His definition of justice as the advantage of the
stronger fails, but only because his definition of the ruler is indefensible.
He sees this as a result of having become entangled in Socrates' dishon-
est arguments. And no reader can be satisfied that Thrasymachus' defini-
tion has been refuted or that this discussion has proved that there is
sufficient reason to devote oneself to the common good. The discussion
has only served to heighten the sense of the disproportion between the
private and the public good, to make justice more problematic than
ever.
Instead of abandoning or attempting to improve Thrasymachus'
definition of justice, the conversation curiQiisljL.£hanges i ts theme.
Without having established what justice is, Socrates turns to the ques-
tion of whether it is good or not. It_isinost_ unusual to attempt to deter -
mine the desirability of a thing whose character one does not kn ga^. Soc-
rates' reason for this procedure is that this is what interests the other
men present whose attention he is tiying to attract and who believe
they have a fair sense of what justice is. They are not particularly in-
terested in a philosophic investigation of the nature of justice, but in
how they will live profitably or well. Thrasymachus has told them that
they wi]] do so by becoming tyrants, by disregarding the laws. Socrates
appears to disagree. They want to know whether Thrasymachus' ruler
I .3.34 ]
interpretive Essay
lives a good life. Thrasymachus has stated that it is bad to be just, in
the sense of caring for others, or obeying the law, or being dedicated to
the common good. Socrates until now, along with Cephalus and
Polemarchus, has seemed to believe that one must be just, that the only
problem is to define more precisely what justice is. Now, following
Thrasymachus, he makes the whole discussion much more radical in
permitting the goodness of justice and the just life to become doubtful.
Although justice has not been defined, an example of it has been pres-
ent in the discussion and the members of the group look to that. That
example is the deposit. Cephalus says that, though it may be a desirable
object, one must return it for fear of divine punishment for not doing
so. Polemarchus says that one must not, in deciding whether to return
it, consider whether it is desirable for oneself or not, in the case of a
friend, but only whether it will do the friend good. Thrasymachus says,
that since the gods do not punish and there is no common good, one
should keep deposits and try to get as much more as possible, the only
consideration being one's own advantage. Glaucon and Adeimantus
who are about to enter the discussion understand quite well what Thra-
symachus is telling them; and Socrates seems to be saying that it is bad
to keep deposits and break faith. This is what draws their attention,
and Socrates makes them anxious to know why he thinks it is bad to be-
come a tyrant. The question of the goodness of justice, the nature of
which they think they know, will be the spur to their quest for the
discovery of its true nature.
To refute Thrasymachus' contention that it is disadvantageous to
be just, Socrates makes three arguments.
First, he establishes that Thrasymachus holds the unconventional
position that injustice is a virtue, meaning by injustice getting the bet-
ter of, or more than, others. Life, in his view, is a competition, and he
who is most talented at the struggle possesses the greatest virtue. At the
end of a complicated, specious, and amusing chain of reasoning, Soc-
rates makes injustice appear to be a vice because it is contrary to
wisdom, which is a virtue. The wise man, understood again by Socrates
as the possessor of an art, does not seek to win out over other
possessors of the same art. As a matter of fact they are, as such, in fun-
damental haimony, accepting the same general rules, at one, the same
as each other. Mathematicians are all seeking the same result to the
same problem, and, as mathematicians, there is no competition among
them. The just man is more like the wise man in this than is the unjust
man. Hence justice is virtue and injustice vice.
Now this would only be convincing if justice were wisdom and if,
therefore, the objects of human action could be gained without taking
them away from others. This is by no means evident. The result of the
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argument serves to point toward a realm of noble human activity which
is not essentially competitive, and to show that the desire to have more
for oneself is a goal which contradicts the character of art or science
which, like law, deals not with the individual, but rather with the
universal. But this argument does not suffice to convince anyone that it
is possible to live well without being a sturdy competitor and re-
enforces the doubt about the desirability of being devoted to art or
wisdom.
Socrates only succeeded in this discussion because of Thrasyma-
chus' incapacity to make the proper distinctions and to see the problem
in the analogy to the arts. Surely, it is impossible to hold that life is
simply getting more; but in the character of civil society and the pre-
cariousness of human life and property there is a substantial basis for
Thrasymachus' observations which he has been unable to defend. Soc-
rates, rather than refuting him, humiliates and punishes him. At the
end of this argument he is sho^vn to be unjust but unwise, discredited
before an audience in his claim to wsdom, and, worst of all, shown to
be an inferior rhetorician. The apparently shameless Thrasymachus,
willing to say anything, is revealed in all his vanity, for he blushes. He
has no true freedom of mind, because he is attached to prestige, to the
applause of the multitude and hence their thought. He gives voice
merely to common opinions which are usually kept quiet and therefore
appears wiser than most men. But he is really conventional and petty, a
lover of applause more than of truth.
The next argument advanced by Socrates in favor of justice is that
it is necessary. It begins from a more conventional understanding of
justice: obedience to common rules which enable a group to act in com-
mon. Socrates proves that the acquisition of any of the goals previously
praised by Thrasymachus requires at least some justice. This is un-
deniably true, but it does not prove that those goals are unattractive; it
only shows that justice may be an unpleasant necessity in gaining
them — a repulsive means to a desirable end. In this sense, the justice of
a city would be no different from that of a band of robbers. Each is
forced to make some sacrifices of immediate individual advantage for
the sake of long-range self-interest. There is nothing intrinsically more
noble about the city. At this point it would almost seem as though Soc-
rates were accusing Thrasymachus of being too "idealistic." The latter
thinks the strong man can simply ignore justice, while Socrates teaches
that justice must be a matter of concern to him who wants to get more
than others; it is an unfortunate fact of life.
The third argument is to the effect that justice is to be desired be-
cause it is the health and perfection of the soul. In the course of the first
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Interpretive Essay
argument, Thrasymachus had somehow agreed with Socrates that
justice is virtue. But what is virtue, if not that which allows a thing to
perform its work well? Nobody would want to have a sick body or a
horse that could not pull its load. It therefore follows that justice, as the
virtue of the soul, is desirable in itself. In addition to its other
weaknesses, this argument is purely formal and empty. Everyone wish-
es to have a healthy soul. But what it consists in is the question.
Above all, it is not clear that the justice spoken of in this third argu-
ment is identical with that spoken of in the second one. Is the man who
obeys the laws of the community for the sake of ultimate gain precisely
the same man as the one who is perfecting his soul? Are there not two
definitions of justice implied here that have no necessary connection, so
that the man who fulfills the commands, of the one is not necessarily
fulfilling the commands of the other and may even be contradicting
them?
Thus ends the inconclusive argument with Thrasymachus, and he
is shunted aside. But two important objects have been accomplished by
the confrontation. The traditional definitions of justice have been
reduced to a shambles, revealing the need for a fiesh start. Fur-
theiinore, although, as Socrates disamningly admits, they have not
defined justice but have wandered, their wandering has not been pur-
poseless—they have not defined justice, but they have succeeded in
defining the problem of justice. Justice is either what makes a city
prosper or it is a virtue of the soul and hence necessaiy to the happiness
of the individual. The question is whether the two possibilities are
identical, whether devotion to the common good leads to the health of
the soul~~oj- whether the man with a healthy soul is devoted to the com-
mon good. It is left to Glaucon and Adeimantus to pose this question
which is the distillation of the arguments of Book I.
{357a-367e) With Glaucon and Adeimantus, Socrates becomes a
teacher. We watch him educating those Athenian youths he was ac-
cused of corrapting. The action of the Republic now becomes a formal
response to the charge made in Aristophanes' Clouds which showed Soc-
rates leaving the scene and permitting the unjust speech to overcome
the just one. Here he becomes the defender of justice; indeed the whole
Republic represents the triumph of the just speech. The two youths,
brothers of Plato, introduce a new element into the dialogue. (For
another account of Socrates' relationship to Glaucon, cf. Xenophon,
Memorabilia, III, vi.) They are pot-^ntial Athenian statesmen, men
whose goals transcend the horizon of sensuality and money which
limited the interlocutors of the first book. They are lovers of honor.
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which lends nobihty to their souls, frees them from the goals which ren-
dered Thrasymachus' notion of advantage so ciude and narrow, and
gives them the spiritual substance required for the sublimating ex-
perience of Socratic education.
They have often heard the arguments of rhetoricians and sophists,
all of which, according to Glaucon, propound the thesis of Thrasyma-
chus. This teaching is the application to politics of what has come to be
known as pre-Socratic philosophy. The results of the study of nature
led the earlier philosophers to believe that there is no cosmic support
for justice, that the gods, if they exist at all, have no care for men.
Justice is, then, merely human convention and hence a matter of indif-
ference to those who wish to live according to nature. This does not
necessarily lead to the consequence that one must desire to become a
tyrant, for it is possible to care for things which cannot be procured by
political life, for example, philosophy. But, in general, most men do
care for the political life or things which can best be procured by it. Soph-
ists and rhetoricians extract the political significance from the
philosophers' knowledge of nature. They teach that the proper study of
politics is not the laws or justice, for they are phantasms, but rhetoric,
the means of getting one's way. At best, then, the study of nature ap-
parently leads to indifference to the city and its laws; at worst it leads
to tyranny. This was the suspicion of the Athenian deiiu>s, and it may
very well be the case. Devotion to justice or the opposite is not simply a
question of decency or corruption but one of the truth of things. And if
what Thrasymachus teaches is the truth, the city in self-defense must
suppress that truth.
It may be recalled that Socrates was accused of being a proponent
of this pre-Socratic philosophy so inimical to the city's interest and a
teacher of rhetoric. The Repiihlic defends Socrates against this accusa-
tion: here he is shown to be the protector of justice against a rhetori-
cian. Of course, he does not simply defend the justice of the ancestral
laws of the city; his is a philosophic response to a philosophic
challenge, and therefore it, too, is subversive of the ancestral. This
response cannot merely be an exhortation to the practice of justice; it
must also attempt to find a natural support for justice. The study of
justice therefore leads to the study of nature; the character of justice
depends on the character of nature as a whole. Hence the Republic,
beginning with justice, must be a comprehensive book. In being forced
to defend justice, Socrates is forced to enter forbidden realms and to
expound novel conceits. Innocence once lost cannot be regained; the
substitute is philosophizing in the fullest sense.
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I I
Interpretive Essay
Although Socrates is not depicted as a practitioner of rhetoric, his
appeal to Glaucon and Adeimantus stems from a kind of rhetoric
which succeeded in silencing the master rhetorician Thrasymachus
without truly refuting him. Socrates controlled the discussion from the
outset in such a way as to involve them while, and in, posing the prob-
lem of justice in its most radical form. The confrontation with Thra-
symachus was in a sense carried on for Glaucon's benefit. Socrates' suc-
cess at perplexing and attracting Glaucon was seen when Glaucon
could not restrain himself from intenupting to express his wonder at
Socrates' assertion that punishment is a fonm of wage for njlers. Both
Socrates and Thrasymachus, for their various reasons, are interested in
these two men— young, teachable, and ambitious. Among the best of
the youth, Glaucon and Adeimantus are powerfully drawn to excel in
the most honored pursuits, those in which they can most benefit both
others and themselves. That is to say they are drawn to politics. And
Thrasymachus offers them the means of success, both by the tools of
persuasion he can provide and by the liberating insight into the nature
of political life on which his teaching is based. In effect, Thrasymachus
tells them that in their pursuit of glory they need not be hampered by
considerations of justice. This is an attractive teaching, for it simplifies
things and gives them a reasoned ground for giving way to those
temptations which political life always presents, temptations which are
usually resisted at the command of law and shame. They are ready to
become Thrasymachus' students since reason and passion combine to
support him. But Socrates proves to be the superior speaker. Somehow
what he represents is stronger; he arouses their curiosity by showing
that his rhetoric is more powerful and by appealing to their nobility
and love of justice. Socrates' paradoxical argument touches something
in them. This is the beginning of an education that will lead them very
far from anything they have ever known, but the end of which follows
inevitably from the concerns with which they began. Before they can
turn to Thrasymachus, they will have to overcome Socrates.
The daring and manly Glaucon has seen that Socrates has at best
shown only the necessity of justice and not its desirability. More urbane
than Thrasymachus, he recognizes the power of the reputation of
justice. Therefore he does not himself praise injustice but puts the argu-
ment on its behalf in the mouth of others. He presents his motivation as
a desire to see justice vindicated. Of course, he does not have to sell a
teaching about justice as did Thrasymachus. The contradiction between
the public teaching of injustice and the public necessity for the profes-
sion of justice was inherent in Thrasymachus' situation, and Glaucon's
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situation does not involve him in it. He profits from the lesson of Thra-
symachus' discomfiture; hiding his personal doubts, he is able never-
theless to satisfy his curiosity about the goodness of justice. His very
mode of presenting his discourse is a model of the hypocritical use of
public professions of justice.
Glaucon asks whether justice is good by nature or only by law or
convention, and is thus the first participant in the dialogue who turns to
nature as his standard. He is a daring man whose desire not to be hood-
winked by common opinions about the good gives him a certain in-
tellectual force lacked by Thrasymachus. The latter is perhaps too con-
cerned with, and dependent on, what men usually hold to be good to
look for a standard independent of civil society which might divorce
him from it. And he also is so convinced of the power of art, and of his
art in particular, to accomplish whatever one wants that he does not
feel compelled to look for the permanent limits and ends which cannot
be altered by art. At all events, it is Glaucon who goes to the roots by
elaborating— though in the name of others— a teaching about nature
which denies that man's nature is essentially political. Bound by its
ancestral laws and myths, the city, like Thrasymachus, does not raise
the question of nature; in fact it hinders the question from arising. It
wishes to give the accidents of this time and place the same status as
the unchanging principles of all things. It presents a certain combina-
tion of nature and convention as the horizon within w^hich its citizens
must live and act. The cosmic phenomena are interpreted by the city as
expressions of the same divine will which supports its laws; the ways of
the heavens and those of city are in its view the same. The first effort of
philosophy or science was to sort out the various elements in our ex-
perience, to discover the true cause of lightning, eclipses, etc., by
means of investigation unhampered by authority. It had to liberate it-
self from the weight of respectable opinion and to become aware of the
existence of rationally comprehensible principles of the phenomena
seen in the heavens; in other words, nature had to be discovered against
the will of the city. The consequence of this investigation was to deny
the naturalness of the city, to deny that the lightning which strikes the
man has any relation to justice, to deny that eclipses are signs from the
gods. In this perspective, justice is merely human and is only punished
if seen by human beings. Glaucon, who assumes this philosophic
background in -his speech, draws the conclusion that if a man could be
invisible to human beings, there would be no reason for him to be just
in his pursuit of the good. Recalling to our minds Thrasymachus'
shepherd, he tells the story of Gyges, the shepherd, who, with his ring
that made him invisible, deposed his master and exploited his master's
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Interpretive Essay
flocks, animal and human. And, by means of Thrasymachus' rhetoric,
men can make their acts change appearance, which is tantamount to
making them invisible. One should be indifferent to the city or use it
for one's own purposes, but one need never take it seriously for itself.
Glaucon challenges Socrates with the problem at its most extreme. He
honestly wishes to be convinced that justice is best, but he does not
ji want to be duped. He must know; for above all he seeks what is good
^ for himself and does not care to be taken in by edifying preaching
which will cause him to miss the enjoyment of the objects of his desires.
Glaucon presents the political supplement to pre-Socratic natural
philosophy: the city limits men in the pursuit of the good things, but
its only justification for doing so is the need to preserve itself.
According to Glaucon, the character of justice can be discovered in
its origin; the nature of a thing, in his view, is to be understood by that
from which it comes, by its beginning and not its end. Nature dictates
the pursuit of one's own good, but because of the scarcity of good
things, this pursuit must be carried on at the expense of others. It is
good to take from others what belongs to them, and it is bad to have
things taken which belong to oneself; but the badness of the latter ex-
ceeds the goodness of the former. For those who cannot succeed at tak-
ing without also being taken from, it is better to compromise, giving up
the one and gaining immunity from the other. Such a compromise,
however, constitutes no more than a human construction, a contract. It
does not overcome nature, which still impels a man to get what he
wants without considering the contract; it is simply a recognition of the
imprudence of doing so. Since the city's justice does not make men
good or happy, able men who have the arts offeree and deception can,
and in all reason should, continue to follow the dictates of nature. In
other words, superior men are not bound by the contract for they do
not receive any advantage from it. In this perspective, justice is the
simple, unadorned will, following the contract, to avoid injuring other
men, whether this means obeying the laws set down to this end or
equitably correcting the law so as to fulfill its intention. There is, then,
no particular knowledge or ability implied in being just; it is merely the
performance of a difficult task that goes against the grain of one's
desires. Thrasymachus had said that the laws were made for the ad-
vantage of the stronger, meaning by "the stronger" whatever party hap-
pens to hold power. Glaucon implicitly accuses him of holding a con-
ventional view of the stronger. There is a naturally strong man, and for
him to obey the laws would serve the advantage of the conventionally,
or politically, stronger but of the naturally weaker. But, from either
standpoint, the law-abiding man is an innocent, and Glaucon adopts
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Thrasymachus' notion of the just man as the simple, honest server of
other men's interest. And it is this understanding of justice that Glau-
con asks Socrates to defend. Socrates must show that the man who is
whipped, racked, chained, and has his eyes burned out because men
believe him to be unjust will be blessedly happy if only he possesses
justice; while the prudent, courageous, skilled server of his own interest
is miserable because he lacks justice. Socrates is commanded to prove
that selfless dedication is rewarded by nature, that justice is the one
thing most needful.
After Glaucon completes his exposition of the nature of justice
and makes his demands for its defense, his brother enters the scene to
state his problem. Although the two speeches seem supplementary,
they are really quite different and set conflicting tasks for Socrates. As
Glaucon was daring, Adeimantus is moderate; as Glaucon turned to
nature, Adeimantus turns to opinion; as Glaucon paid attention to
what he saw, Adeimantus pays attention to what he hears. He is par-
ticularly addicted to poetry. He does not make an argument for the
superiority of injustice, but is perplexed by what he hears about justice.
Although justice is praised, it is not praised for itself but for its
rewards, and those rewards consist in certain pleasures which can be
enjoyed by men who are unjust. It is not justice but the reputation for
justice which gets these rewards. The accounts of gods and men con-
tained in the classic poems support this conclusion. According to these
poems, some just men are unhappy, and unjust men can win the favor
of the gods. Everything that is known about men's duties comes from
the poetic tradition, the laws, and parental training; and all in effect
agree that justice itself does not produce happiness, that there are
substitutes for justice, that just acts are not pleasant or good. It may be
improper to question the tradition; but, once questioned, its internal
contradictions lead to the same conclusion as that of both Thrasyma-
chus and Glaucon. Either the tales are true, and one should seem rather
than he just; or they are not true, jn which case nature, the only
substitute for them, teaches the same thing. We live within a horizon
constructed by the poets, a horizon bounded by the presence of the
gods. Cephalus, who spends his old age using his money to placate the
gods' possible wrath at his earlier unjust deeds, is most representative
of this human condition. There is no other available account of the
sanctions of justice, and this one is not adequate to make it choicewor-
thy.
Thus Adeimantus, too, wishes to hear a new and adequate praise
of justice, but what he asks for is different from what his brother asked
for. Just as the latter desired an argument for pure and earnest dedica-
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Interpretive Essay
Hon, so Adeimantus now reveals his deepest wishes by insisting that
justice be easy and pleasant. It should in itself incorporate the ad-
vantages conventionally said to result from its practice. The poets prom-
ise just men great honors and sensual pleasures in this life and the
next. Without making it quite -explicit, Adeimantus longs for justice it-
self to be like or to be an adequate substitute for these honors and
pleasures. Justice is always said to be hard, and there are ways to get
around its necessity. If it is so unpleasant, why be just? As he says, in
these conditions only a man whose divine nature renders injustice
distasteful to him, or one who has knowledge, would resist the oppor-
tunity to do injustice. In order to be convincing to both Glaucon and
Adeimantus, Socrates must show^ that justice satisfies even the man who
loses everything for it, and that his happiness is akin to the sensations
of the man immersed in the pleasures of the senses.
At the conclusion of the unjust arguments of Glaucon and Adei-
mantus, Socrates professes his incapacity to succeed at a task of the
magnitude of the one imposed on him. But he recognizes that piety for-
bids him to abandon justice under attack. Under pressure from the en-
tire group he agrees to defend justice. However, he does not respond
directly to the questions of his young companions. Rather than criticize
their arguments or present a counter argument of his own, he invites
them to share an adventure with him. They are to join together in the
greatest and most revealing of political acts, the founding of a city. Soc-
rates thus engages their desire for glory; although they are not indif-
ferent to the desires which moved the other speakers, they, and par-
ticularly Glaucon, are animated by a diflferent passion: it is not money
that they love so much, but honor. Thrasymachus had oflfered them
tyranny, the highest position in the city. Socrates inflames their
imagination with even grander dreams. The founders of a city are more
powerful and more revered than are its tyrants. All succeeding genera-
tions honor them; they have none of the obloquy attached to the tyrant.
Socrates outdoes Thrasymachus and offers more attractive food for
reflection. Thrasymachus, with his training in rhetoric, also offers the
means of attaining the object he proposes, and Socrates has no
substitute for that. But the very attractiveness of 'the goal proposed
causes them to neglect its impracticality. Socrates succeeds with them
because he begins by giving them at least part of what they want. Soc-
rates takes Glaucon and Adeimantus to the limits of politics, and it is
at the limits that one can see both the nature and the problems of
politics. We have learned that justice is a political question: can there
be a regime whose laws are such as to serve the common good while
allowing each of its members to reach his natural perfection? If not, life
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will be eternally torn between duty to the city and duty to oneself. In
pretending that they are founders, Glaucon and Adeimantus at once
discover that they must care for justice. In this case at least, the
satisfaction of their desires is identical with the concern for justice.
Socrates, momentarily at least, accepts Glaucon's view that things
can be understood by their origins. They are about to watch justice
coming into being in order to see if Glaucon's account was correct. The
decision to look for justice in a city first, and the consequent distinction
between justice in a city and justice in an individual man, keep con-
stantly before us the question whether the justice which makes a city
healthy is the same as that which makes a man healthy. On the answer
to this question depends the answer to the question whether it is ad-
vantageous for a man to devote himself to the city. We must first
discover what a healthy city is and what a healthy soul is. The very
coming to awareness of such a city and soul transforms and educates
these young men. ,
(369]?-372e) The first city is constructed by Socrates and Adei-
mantus, without the help of Glaucon. Thus it reflects the tastes of
Adeimantus. It is an easy place: there is no scarcity, and justice takes
care of itself. Men join together because they are incomplete, because
they cannot provide for their needs themselves. Their intention is not
to have more than others but to have enough for themselves. As long as
there is no scarcity they will be peacefol, and the arts, with the
cooperation of nature, produce enough to content them. Each man
chooses an art according to his natural capacities so that nothing in life
goes against the grain of the inhabitants' desires or talents. Each con-
tributes according to his ability and receives according to his needs. In
such a city, there is an immediate identity between selfish interest and
the common good. Hence there is no need for men to be governed. The
city is really the perfect community of artisans envisaged in the discus-
sion with Thrasymachus, for each man devotes himself exclusively to
his own art, his own good resulting from that dedication. The invention
of money makes this possible. In this city it is not of value in itself and
is not pursued as an end in itself. That development would be the result
of inflamed desires. Here money simply facilitates exchange so that
every artisan, as a result of practicing his own art, will have access to
the products of the other arts. There is no separate wage-earner's art,
for each art by itself produces the equivalent of money; and there is no
need of an organizing principle other than that provided by money,
which represents the needs of the body. It sets the various arts and ar-
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Interpretive Essay
tisans in motion in the service of satisfying those needs. This is a city
which takes the bodily needs as the only real ones; and whatever efforts
of the soul and intelligence it calls into play are entirely directed to the
preservation and comfort of the body.
By means of the example of this city, Socrates, in opposition to
Glaucon, suggests that the bodily desires are very simple and easy to
satisfy. In this he is not unlike Rousseau in his opposition to Hobbes.
The more complicated desires, the ones that cause the injustice of
which Glaucon has spoken, are the result of a mixture of the desires of
the body with the desires of the soul. Although the entrance of these de-
sires connected with the soul serves to corrupt this first city, Socrates looks
on them with more favor than does Rousseau, for they are the first mani-
festations of a longing for a natural perfection higher than that of the
body; he admits Glaucon's dissatisfaction as a legitimate objection to
this city. Glaucon is a man of intense desires, and his daring is in the
service of those desires. He is, to use Socratic language, an erotic man,
one who lusts to have as his own all things which appear beautiful and
good. His desires are inchoate expressions of his inclination to a fulfill-
ment of which he is as yet unaware. His view of nature is actually a
conventional one, ignorant of the distinction between the body and the
soul and of the distinct and divergent demands of the two. A natural
man, for him, pursues the same goals as do men in conventional so-
cieties but without the restraints those societies always impose on their
members. He takes ruling to be merely a means to the acquisition of
certain things which most men believe to be good and which all serve
the body's desires. Actually his desire to rule is the expression of an in-
dependently noble impulse which, if fully developed, would find its
satisfaction only in contemplation and would wish to overcome the
body's desires in order to enjoy its own peculiar pleasure undisturbed.
His passionate nature has been tutored by the common opinions about
what is good and by the materialist philosophy of which he has
heard. Glaucon is thus a dangerous man but also an eminently interest-
ing and educable one. His desires lead him to despise law and conven-
tion; as long as his limitless desires have as their objects the things he
lists as desirable in his speech, he will long for tyranny. But it is pre-
cisely this freedom from law and convention combined with his passion
that may enable him to climb to the human peaks. As is the case with
all the young men most attractive to Socrates, Glaucon has a potential
for good or evil. The conduct of his companions Critias and Alcibiades,
both subverters of the Athenian democratic regime, caused Socrates to
be suspected as a corrupter of the youth. Critias and Alcibiades were
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liberated but not educated. With Glaucon, we have the opportunity of
seeing how Socrates educates and his effect on the young. He un-
dertakes a perilous activity but one full of promise.
Adeimantus is much more moderate than Glaucon, and he is
made a paii of his brother's education. What he represents is also
necessary to the founding of the just city as well as to the philosophic
life, both of which are judicious blendings of moderation and courage
or manliness. A city, if it is to be well governed, requires citizens whose
desires are not too great and are well controlled; and it must possess
some men who are willing to risk their lives in its defense. A
philosopher's bodily needs must be minimal and his soul must be dar-
ing. These are the simplest senses of moderation and courage and the
role they play in a city and a philosopher. Glaucon, with his manly in-
transigence, makes the most important contribution of the two in-
terlocutors; he gives the conversation its power and its height. Glaucon
cannot endure his brother's satisfaction with what he calls a city of sows
and causes a new and luxurious city to be founded. But Adeimantus
purges that luxurious city and makes it possible for its better potential
to be realized.
This first city is obviously impossible. It depends on an unfounded
belief in nature's providential generosity, in a "hidden hand" which
haiTnonizes private and public interest, a belief to which Adeimantus
would like to subscribe. This city is also undesirable, as will soon be-
come clear. The fact that Socrates says that it is the true city does not
mean that he thinks it could come into being or that he would wish it to
do so. Rather, by this assertion, he implies that the city really exists to
serve the body and that this city, devoted to the satisfaction of the
simplest desires, sei^ves the body best. The emergence of other forms of
desire complicates the city and brings misery to it. But that corruption
is the condition of the growth of more perfect human beings. Perhaps
Socrates' assertion that it is the true city is not in contradiction, but in
agreement, with Glaucon's characterization of it as a city of sows.
Glaucon rejects the first city because it does not appeal to his
taste: he does not like the food. His manliness always leads him to
make a direct assault on the good as he sees it. He has been promised a
dinner which seems to have been postponed indefinitely. At the first
mention of eating, he looks on the bill of fare with the eye of a hungry
man who has a delicate palate and imagines how he would like to
satisfy his hunger. He finds the simple city does not meet his gastro-
nomic standards; in it food is only nourishment, only for keeping men
alive and healthy. Merely to live and be healthy is the way of sows. Hu-
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man beings require more than life; they demand unnecessary refine-
ments and pleasures. Desire causes him to sharpen his demands on the
city. He may think his is only bodily hunger, but it is a spiritual hunger
which will cause him to transcend this city and lead him toward
another kind of fulfillment. He is getting an unwilling lesson in
austerity, which will aid him in sublimating his hunger. His wishes are
always contradictory, for he always mistakes all of his great longings
for bodily desires but cannot find satisfaction for them thus understood.
His first long speech is another example of this tendency: while assert-
ing the naturalness of perfect self-indulgence, he was at the same time
insisting on a notion of justice which is the direct opposite of self-
indulgence. He is an "idealist," in whatever direction he turns. He ad-
mires both the man who is perfectly self-indulgent and the one who is
perfectly abstinent; in order to satisfy himself he would have to
discover a way of life which combined both great eroticism and great
moderation. This is an apparent impossibility, but he has before his
eyes a man who has actually succeeded in making such a combination
of opposites, and Glaucon need only recognize him for what he is to
solve his dilemma concerning the best way of life. Socrates, according
to his own account, is an erotic man, but his eros does not lead him, as
it did Cephalus, to injure others or take what belongs to them. In order
to satisfy his eras, he need not compete with other men to their detri-
ment. He has no wealth and no honor; in fact he is despised and
believed to be unjust. Yet he is happy. Finally he is executed for his
very justice, but this will not cause him to regret his choice of way of
life. He fulfills the harsh conditions Glaucon set for the just man, but
also lives in great pleasure. He does not live without the ordinary
pleasures because he is an ascetic, but because the intensity of his joy in
philosophy makes him indifferent to them. Once Glaucon can see the
possibility of such a way of life he will be ctued of his desire for tyran-
ny; already he has somehow divined the presence of such a way of life
in Socrates. To be sure, he is not yet conscious of the nature of his own
desires, or of desire in general, but in the revolt against the simple city
he and Socrates are really allies. Glaucon finds no satisfaction in it; and
there could be no Socrates living there, both because it is not advanced
enough to give him the basis for a philosophic understanding and be-
cause such an idle, unproductive man would starve to death. Perhaps
the objections of the two men are ultimately the same: the solution to
the political problem embodied in this city is not a human one. A hu-
man solution requires the emancipation of desire, for only then can vir-
tue arise. Humanity requires a self-overcoming; not because life is
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essentially struggle, but because man's dual nature is such that the
goods of the soul cannot be brought to light without the body's being
tempted and, therefore, without a tyranny of soul over body.
(372e-376c) Socrates agrees to join Glaucon in observing a
feverish city, as opposed to the healthy one they had just been observ-
ing. One would think that they would do this only as a study in pa-
thology, keeping the healthy model constantly before their eyes. Ac-
tually, the healthy city is forgotten and the good city is constituted by a
reform of the feverish city rather than by a return to the healthy one.
No serious attempt is even made to look for justice in the healthy city.
The new city founded by Glaucon's desire begins with an act of in-
justice. Since luxury creates scarcity, land must be taken from others.
Not everyone can have a city which is sufficient to support a life of
satisfaction. Hence, the city proper is formed, that is, the band of
brothers who have enemies, who must make war and be warriors. It
would appear from this presentation that war is requisite to the
emergence of humanity; as the city of sows was gentle and reflected a
fundamental harmony among men, so the city of warriors is harsh and
reflects a fundamental conflict among men. Paradoxically this is the
first human city. It cannot claim that it does not harm other men; its
justification can only be in the quality of life it provides for its citizens.
Here there emerges a new class of men devoted to the art of war,
and in their souls emerges a new principle, spiritedness. The wamors
must be men who like to fight, who are capable of anger, who rush to
the defense of their city and of justice. Spiritedness is a difficult motive
to understand, and its character can only be seen by contrasting it with
desire. Desires are directed to the satisfaction of a need: they express
an incompleteness and yearn for completeness. Hunger, thirst, sexual
desire, etc., are all immediately related to a goal and their meaning is
simple. The goal of spiritedness is much harder to discern. Its simplest
manifestation is anger, and it is not immediately manifest what needs
are fulfilled by anger. Spiritedness seems characterized more by the fact
that it overcomes desire than by any positive goal of its own. Moreover,
the desires related to the body— which are the only ones that have ap-
peared thus far— all have a self-preservative function, whereas spir-
itedness, on the contrary, is characterized by an indifference to life.
It may indeed aid in the preservation of life, but it can just as well place
honor above life. The city may exist for the sake of life, but it needs
men who are willing to die for it.
At first sight, the warriors look like the practitioners of just
another art, to be set alongside the arts of shoemaking and farming, but
they are really the first ruling class and introduce the first principle of
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hierarchy into the city. Similarly, spiritedness at first sight seems to be
just another quality of soul, like the qualities which made a man a farm-
er or a blacksmith, but it really represents a new part of the soul, one
which will rule the desires and establish a principle of hierarchy in the
soul. The various arts present in the first city, however diverse in skill
or product, all serve bodily satisfaction and are practiced for money.
Ultimately they are the same; their practitioners are all included
together in what will be called the wage-earning class; although there
are many differences among its members in activity and intelligence,
from the decisive point of view they are the same— mere life is their
goal. They do not represent any fundamental diversity of principle.
The warriors' art, however, is really different, and its services cannot
be measured by money, for money is a standard for evaluating the con-
tributions made toward the satisfaction of desire or the preservation of
life. Spiritedness is beyond the economic system. The founders of
modern economic science, who wanted it to be a universal political
science, could do so only by denying the existence of spiritedness or un-
derstanding it as merely a means to self-presei-vation. Only men who
pursue seF-preservation and the gratification of bodily desire can be
counted on to act according to the principles of economic "rationality."
Now there are two classes in the city, and the distinction between
them is a purely natural one: one class is motivated by bodily desire,
the other by spiritedness. The former can be counted on to pursue what
we would call the economic goals. The latter has liberated itself from
the single-minded concern for mere life. But the purposes of this class
are not as yet clear. It seems that it is in the nature of spiritedness to be
in the service of something, just as it is in the nature of soldiers to be in
the service of something. Neither spiritedness nor the class which em-
bodies it can be ends in themselves; their purposes come from outside
of themselves. This class could be understood as a servant of the wage-
earning class, but this would mean that the superior exists for the sake
of the inferior. To understand the dignity of this element in the soul
and in the city requires the discovery of a third and highest class which
spiritedness serves and the end of which is as clear as that of the wage-
earning class. This necessity for a third class is implied in the descrip-
tion of the warriors as noble dogs who guard a flock. Sheep dogs require
shepherds. The warrior class would then be the link between the highest
and lowest class, gaining its meaning from its service to the higher. The
parallel of city and soul would apply in this case too. However that
may be, the city needs defenders, and it also now needs rulers, for its
feverish desires make living together impossible without control.
It is inevitable that the spirited warriors will rule in this city, for
they are strong. In every civil society, there is one group that has the
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greatest strength, and it can and always does set down the laws in the
tenms suitable to it. Whatever the character of this class, the city's way
of life will be detennined by it. This is what Thrasymachus meant
when he said that justice is the advantage of the stronger. The members
of this class do not necessarily possess wisdom or any other element of
virtue. If Socrates and his companions wish to establish a good regime
without having to compromise with mere power, it is this crucial class
they must control and train. They need not preoccupy themselves with
the wage-earning class, for it will be unable to resist the commands of
the warriors. The instrument for controlling the warriors is education
and, therefore, from this point forward education is the central theme
of the Republic. The city's way of life depends on the character and
hence the education of the rulers.
Socrates and Glaucon have established this class of spirited war-
riors to protect the city from its enemies, but they quickly become
aware of its problematic character. What is to prevent these men who
are so savage to foreigners from being savage with their fellow citizens?
Although they are supposed to guard the flock, they are likely to ex-
ploit it. What in their nature will permit them to be gentle to their
charges? Gentleness and harshness seem very like contrary charac-
teristics, and good guardians thus appear to be impossible. But Soc-
rates, on second thought, recognizes that the animals to whom they
compared the guardians do combine gentleness and harshness: dogs are
gentle to those they know and harsh to those they do not know. Soc-
rates most surprisingly draws the conclusion that the good guardian is
possible if, in addition to being spirited, his nature is philosophic.
Judging friends and enemies by the criterion of knowledge and
ignorance is, he says, the way of philosophy, and thus philosophy is the
principle of gentleness. In a book famous for the proposal that
philosophers be kings, this is the first mention of philosophy or
philosophers. Philosophy is invoked in the city only for the purpose of
solving a political problem.
This identification of dog-like affection for acquaintances with
philosophy is, of course, not serious. It only serves to prepare the way
for the true emergence of philosophy in Book V and to heighten the
difference between philosopher and warrior. The philosophers are
gentle men because they pursue knowledge and not gain; their object
does not entail exploitation of others. The love of knowledge is a
motive necessary to the rulers of this city in order to temper their love
of victory and wealth. But the philosophers are the opposites of the
dogs inasmuch as they are always questing to know that of which they
are ignorant, whereas the dogs must cut themselves off from the un-
known and are hostile to foreign charms. They love their own and not
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the good. And this must be so, for otherwise they would not make the
necessary distinction between their flock and those who are likely to at-
tack it. The warrior principle is doing good to friends and harm to ene-
mies. It is true that their love of the known extends their affections
beyond themselves to the city; it partakes of the universalizing or cos-
mopolitan effect of philosophy. But that love ends at the frontier of the
city. They remain the irrational beasts who love those who mistreat
them as well as those who are kind to them. No mention is made of the
fact that dogs do not characteristically love the flocks but the masters to
whom the flock belongs and who teach them and command them to
care for the flock. These dogs as yet have no masters and are therefore
incomplete. The masters whom they will know and hence love are
philosophers and knowers. The dogs' nature opens them to the com-
mand of philosophy but does not make them philosophers.
(376c-383c) After Socrates and Glaucon have established the
necessity of a nature combining spiritedness and gentleness for the war-
riors, Adeimantus takes his brother's place in the discussion, and he
and Socrates begin the education of that nature. On the basis of the
description of the warriors' function, one would have expected that
their education would be in the art of bearing arms— but this is not
even mentioned. The entire discussion concerns the character of their
souls and largely deals with the effects of music— the lovely domain of
the Muses in which men charm their passions when at peace. Socrates
focuses on the contents of poems, thereby implying that the other ele-
ments of poetry are only accessories used for the puipose of better con-
veying a theme or a teaching. The poets are taken most seriously as the
makers of the horizon which constitutes the limit of men's desire and
aspiration; they fonn the various kinds of men, who make nations
various. Men's views about the highest beings and their choice of
heroes are decisive for the tone of their lives. He who believes in the
Olympian gods is a very different man from the one who believes in the
Biblical God, just as the man who admires Achilles is different from
the one who admires Moses or Jesus. The different men see very dif-
ferent things in the world and, although they may partake of a common
human nature, they develop very different aspects of that nature; they
hardly seem to be of the same species, so little do they agree about what
is important in life. Everything in the city stems from the beliefs of
those who hold power and are respected in it. If poetry is so powerful,
its character must be a primary concern of the legislator.
The reform of poetry is most immediately directed to Adeimantus
and the teaching he drew from poetry in his speech in favor of in-
justice. On the basis of the "reformed " poetry, Adeimantus could not
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have come to his conclusions. The gods do not give evil lots to good
men, or good ones to bad men, nor can they be moved by prayer. Just
men and just deeds are the only ones celebrated. There is nothing in the
poetic universe which would make men think that injustice profits meri
or gods.
The critique of poetry is divided according to the most important
effects its representations have on men's beliefs, in particular, their
beliefs about the gods, courage, and moderation. Justice cannot be
treated here, Socrates says, because they have not yet decided whethei;
justice is good or not, and that would be essential to such a discussion!
The beliefs about the gods and the poetic depiction of them are the first
topic Socrates and Adeimantus undertake. Courage, moderation, and
justice— three of the four cardinal virtues defined in the Republic—are
each mentioned in the context of the critique of poetry, but the fourth,
wisdom, is not. It would seem necessary to infer that the warriors are
not to be wise and that the beliefs about the gods are their substitute for
wisdom. Those beliefs about the gods are a nonphilosophic equivalent
of knowledge of the whole. The first segment of the study of poetry
constitutes, therefore, a theology, a theology not true but salutary. Its
doctrines are simple: the gods are good; they are the cause of the good;
and they do not deceive. Nothing is said about the nature of the gods' re-
lations with men or whether they care for men at all. Similarly, there is
no assurance that these are the Olympian gods or that they have any-
thing in common with what Adeimantus understands a god to be. Cer-
tainly Cephalus' piety, based on appeals to the gods for leniency, be-
comes, in this light, highly questionable. It is not even clear that it is
sensible to pray to such gods.
A closer look at Socrates' prescriptions for the representations of
the gods shows that they are not, in his view, all powerful and that they
are subordinated to rational principle. They must be good and can only
cause good; the deeper teaching implied here is that the good is the
highest and most powerful principle of the cosmos. As opposed to the
earlier views of the first things which the poets express, chaos is not the
origin of all things; and the universe is fundamentally a cosmos, not a
battlefield of contrary and discordant elements, as the poets represent it
to be in their terrible tales of the family lives and wars of the gods.
Those earlier views are not proved false here, but it is manifest that in
such a world nobility and justice have no cosmic support; low can win
over high, and the noble things can be in conflict with the necessary
ones and with each other. In the new theology the higher is not derived
from the lower, and the good is first. Similarly, the gods themselves are
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Interpretive Essay
not representatives of becoming as opposed to being; of all things, they
are the most unchanging; they are not moved by the desires of the body
which are the sign of weakness and change and dependence. Primacy is
given to rest and eternity over motion and time. The gods are a
prefiguration of the ideas which are known to the philosophers. The
man who believes in these gods, while loving the city and justice, will
not hate and consider impious the philosopher who teaches the ideas.
A further important consequence of the discussion about the gods
follows from the fact that the gods do not lie. In the discussion with Ceph-
alus it was indicated that just as human justice sometimes requires
not repaying debts, so it sometimes requires not telling the truth. That
gods never lie would seem to imply that they have nothing to do with
men and are not their friends. The world in which men live contains
evil as well as good, and, although the dominance of the good in the
cosmos at large is reassuring for the human estate, it does not perfect it.
Men cannot live like the gods. Later we are told that rulers must lie;
hence the gods are not rulers, and rulers cannot imitate the virtues of
gods. Statesmen require a human prudence in which the gods can give
them no guidance. This reform of the poetic account of the gods leads
to the consequence that in the future the poetic depictions of the gods
cannot serve as models for human conduct.
{386a-392c) These beliefs about the gods, Socrates says, will
make the warriors men who honor the gods and ancestors and who are
serious about their friendship with one another. This means that the
proper opinions about the gods will cause the warriors to be both pious
and just in the common meanings of these terms. Next comes courage,
the virtue governing and perfecting spiritedness. It does not depend so
much on beliefs about the gods, whose place is usually held to be in the
heavens, but on beliefs about Hades, the home of the dead, which is
generally thought to be beneath the earth. Homer's description of
Hades is repulsive and frightening, and Socrates asserts that men who
believe it cannot be courageous. Here Socrates' critique is completely
negative; he simply says such things must not be said. He does not, as
he did with the gods, tell what must be said. He does not even say that
Hades exists or that there is any life after death. The existence of some
kind of gods seems less questionable than the existence of an afterlife.
Strangely, Socrates insists only that death should not be frightening,
without paying any attention to the salutary effect such fear might
have. Apparently, it is not only the warriors who are liberated from
their terrors about a life to come, but also men like Cephalus. This ter-
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ror caused Cephalus to try to live justly in his old age. But it also made
him unable to participate in this discussion. Socrates is looking for
another way to make men love justice, onp which does not force them
to turn away from this life and to be hostile to reason.
Socrates wishes to expunge all of these disagreeable stories about
Hades from the literature. But in so doing he seems to destroy the vir-
tue of courage. If there is nothing terrible in death, then the sacrifice of
life is not particularly praiseworthy. It would not require the overcom-
ing of fear. Socrates' intention is not, however, to turn the warriors into
dependable automatons. His true intention comes to light in the seven
quotations from Homer, concerning Hades, he cites at the beginning of
this part of the discussion. All but the central one have to do more or
less directly with Achilles; so indeed do most of the Homeric passages
cited in what remains of the discussion of poetry. Socrates brings
Achilles to the foreground in order to analyze his character and ul-
timately to do away with him as the model for the young. The figure of
Achilles, more than any teaching or law, compels the souls of Greeks
and all men who pursue glory. He is the hero of heroes, admired and imi-
tated by all. And this is what Socrates wishes to combat; he teaches that
if Achilles is the model, men will not pursue philosophy, that what he
stands for is inimical to the founding of the best city and the practice of
the best way of life. Socrates is engaging in a contest with Homer for the
title of teacher of the Greeks— or of mankind. One of his principal goals
is to put himself in the place of Achilles as the authentic representation
of the best human type. One need only look at their physical descriptions
to recognize that they are polar opposites. Socrates is attempting to work
a fantastic transformation of men's tastes in making the ugly old man
more attractive than the fair youth.
Now, it is perfectly obvious that Achilles, although he believed
that Hades was a dreadful place, was still able to be courageous. Soc-
rates cannot seriously mean that the view of Hades presented by
Homer necessarily makes a man a coward. In the Apology, where he
most forcefully states his superiority to the fear of death, Socrates iden-
tifies himself with Achilles. It is not for a failure of courage that Soc-
rates is reproaching the heroes. What he objects to is the price such
men, given their understanding of death, must pay in order to face it.
With his analysis of Achilles, Socrates is actually beginning a critique
of the courage based on spiritedness which is thus also a critique of the
warrior class of his city. The surface presentation of spiritedness and
spirited men in the Republic is that they are easily educable and can
become the foundation of the good city. This is a necessary presupposi-
tion of the good city. But berieath that surface runs a current which
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Interpretive Essay
shows that spiritedness is a most problematic element of the soul and
the city, and that the good city is hence most improbable.
Spiritedness first appeared in the city as the means to protect its
stolen acquisitions. And this is a key to the nature of spiritedness: it is
very much connected with the defense of one's own. This is particularly
true in the case of Achilles whose anger is aroused by Agamemnon's
taking away his prize of war, the maid Briseis, and whose rage is the
result of the loss of his friend, Patroclus. If we take Achilles as the
model of the spirited man, we see that anger is particularly directed
toward punishment of those who take away one's own. Although anger
causes men to be willing to sacrifice life, it is somehow connected with
preserving those things which make life possible. Now, it is in the
nature of human anger to seek for justification. It is difficult for a man
to be angry when he is convinced that what is taken from him does not
belong to him or that his losses or sufferings are his own fault. Anger
requires something or someone to blame; it attributes responsibility to
what injures, and it is closely allied with the sense of justice and in-
justice. Unfortunately, it is unreasoning and can easily mistake its sense
of injustice for the fact of injustice. It can support reason in legitimate
defense and punishment, but it may also oppose reason, for it is un-
willing to admit anything that calls into question the rightness of its
cause. Anger may be educated to become a very generous passion,
arousing itself at the sight of whatever appears to be injustice; but no
matter what the substance of the charges of injustice it makes, no mat-
ter how selfish the interest it is really protecting, it is always accompa-
nied by the conviction that it is just. Anger is always self-righteous; it is
at the root of moral indignation, but moral indignation is a dangerous
and, although necessary, often unreasonable and even immoral passion.
The tendency of anger is to give the color of reason and morality to
selfishness. This has been revealed by the only character in the dialogue
who has expressed anger; Thrasymachus' anger defends the city's own
against philosophy when philosophy threatens the city's injustice.
Spiritedness is the only element in the city or man which by its very
nature is hostile to philosophy.
In order to overcome fear of death, spiritedness requires an almost
fanatic fury; for, although the hero loves honor, he admits that it is bet-
ter to be a slave on earth than a king in Hades. For him to be heroic is
literally unreasonable; he must overcome his reason in order to be a
hero. He is an enemy of reason. The alternatives as he sees them are
either a reasonable but ignoble attachment to life or a noble but unrea-
sonable willingness to die. Anger permits him to conquer the fear of
terrible things; but in so doing it exacts a high price, for it forces the
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man, whose existence is threatened and whose prospects are so bleak
to attach too high a value and cosmic significance to the sacrifice of that
existence. It cannot face the senselessness or accidental quality of a
particular death and violently resists anything which would rob it of its
meaning. In other words, anger provides unreasonable reasons for
heroic action. It sees acts of injustice and duties of punishment
everywhere. That is why Achilles treats lifeless bodies as though they
were men and scourges them; that is why rivers that resist him become
gods who defy him. This does have the effect of elevating his heroism
to fantastic heights and of making him capable of the most extraor-
dinary deeds, but only at the cost of investing the world with absurd
meaning, only by believing in, and perhaps fabricating, demonic beings
who minister to and justify his anger. By changing this view of death,
Socrates hopes to curb the extremes of the warriors' spiritedness
without giving up the advantages it brings.
The discussion of courage, which can be viewed as an analysis of
the character of Achilles, is followed by a discussion of moderation;
and once again Achilles assimies a central role. In the curious account
given by Socrates, moderation is not, as would be expected, primarily
control of the bodily desires but obedience to rulers. Though Socrates
does not say so explicitly, it is clear that anger is the main cause of
disobedience to rulers, and that Achilles is the very model of the
disobedient subject. His anger, closely allied with his self-respect,
makes him an unreliable subject of rulers. Socrates charges Achilles
with love of money, of being mercenary. Superficially this is unfair. He
is not avaricious; it is Phoenix who suggests that he accept gifts, and
not because of their value but because they would be evidence of Aga-
memnon's humiliation. Achilles does not follow the advice. But in a
deeper sense, it is just to accuse Achilles of attaching undue sig-
nificance to property, for he does destroy his friends and countrymen
because his possessions have been taken from him by the ruler. Such a
man would make a poor citizen of the good regime which is being
founded. In it there is no private property and the rulers decide what
belongs to a man. Achilles would resist them, as he did Agamemnon,
claiming that it is just that he keep what belongs to him. His resistance
to Agamemnon appears to stem from noble pride, but that pride has its
roots in excessive love of one's own. Spiritedness is the cause of phe-
nomena as diverse as kicking the chair over which one has stumbled,
disobedience to rulers, punishment of philosophers, and insolence to
gods; and the true character of these phenomena can only be seen in
their common source. The real problem treated in these passages is.
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therefore, not that of making the guardians courageous but of converting
that primitive courage they possess by nature into civil courage. And
that is the work of a poetry which leads to moderation.
The pure form of spiritedness— that exhibited by Achilles
—implies a certain "tragic view of life and the world," accord-
ing to which justice receives no reward in eternity, and noble things
are no more supported by nature than base ones. The only cure
for this illness is that philosophy which consists of "learning how to
die," the philosophy of which Socrates was the master. Philosophy
leads to lack of concern with one's own; it is concerned with things that
are not threatened, that exist always. The activity of philosophy— the
soul's contemplation of the principles of all things— brings with it a
pleasure of a purity and intensity that causes all other pleasures to pale.
For the philosopher, living as most men do is equivalent to living in
Hades as conceived by most men. He need not live according to myths
which assure the permanence and significance of things which are not
permanent or significant. Death is overcome by a lack of concern with
one's individual fate, by forgetting it, in the contemplation of eternity.
This is a life both noble and reasonable. The central quote among the
seven at the beginning of Book III refers to Teiresias, a man who was
wise on earth and who alone among the shades in Hades still possesses
prudence or wisdom. Perhaps even Homer suggests that wisdom can
exempt a man from the miseries of Hades. But the warriors are not
wise and cannot enjoy the consolation of philosophy; therefore they
need consoling myths which make death less frightening, which lessen
the need for that furious spiritedness that consumes the element of
gentleness in its flames.
Socrates' intention in these passages of the Republic is made
clearer by his behavior in the Apology. When he identifies himself with
Achilles there, he is trying to impress his audience with his dedication
to philosophy; and nothing impresses the vulgar so much as a man who
is willing to die for a cause. Therefore Socrates assimilates himself to
the most popular example of such a man. He indicates that the mem-
bers of the jury are men who fear death and that he himself does not.
The jurors are like Achilles inasmuch as they hold that property,
family, friends, and city are the good things. The only way they could
overcome their fear of death, their fear of the loss of these perishable
things, is as Achilles did — in defense of those things, in defense of their
own. But this spirited defense of one's own is precisely what Socrates is
suffering from; he is being condemned because he threatens Athens. Soc-
rates' own fearlessness stems from other sources. After his condemnation
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he divides his jurors into two groups, those who had voted for condemna-
tion and those who had voted for acquittal. To the former he speaks di-
rectly and in their oviTi terms. They assume that death is the worst thine
and so he threatens them; they will suffer for what they have done, and
suffer what they most fear. Their anger will not protect them; Socrates*
death will precipitate the worst rather than fend it off. To those who
voted for acquittal he tells consoling myths to the effect that death is
not to be feared. They are gentle men. Although they did not under-
stand him, they were favorably disposed to him. He strengtheiis that
gentleness within them by weakening the fears which would cause them
to hate the cosmopolitanism of the accused man. Thus, imitating the
function of tragedy, Socrates attempts to purge them of the pity and
fear which can lead to fanaticism and enables them to share something
of his oviTi calm without knowing its source. The myths he tells the
jurors who believed him to be innocent are akin to those he wants the
poets to tell the warriors, who are potential jurors. Achilles and Soc-
rates are both superior to the many, in particular in their mastery over
death. But the difference between the mad Achilles and the Socrates
whose death is depicted in the Phaedo is the measure of the difference
between the two sources of that mastery. Socrates' death and the
mysterious power it reveals are the new model of the heroic and must
replace the Achillean one.
To understand the meaning and uses of music, as Socrates taught
them, it is most helpful to turn to Shakespeare who reflected that teach-
ing in Lorenzo's great speech to Jessica in The Merchant of Venice,
Act V. This scene takes place at the end of a dark, unhappy play the
theme of which was the struggle between Shylock and Antonio, each
defending his own to the detriment of the other. Only here, in Belmont,
is there harmony and beauty. Id this Utopia, love reigns. The discussion
of music explains the possibility of that love and beauty. There is a cos-
mic harmony, music and love in the universe. Earthly music is the
audible imitation of the inaudible music of the spheres. These heard
harmonies have a mathematical structure which is akin to the math-
ematical principles at the base of the whole. Of all the arts, music is
the one which most directly represents to the senses the intelligible or-
der of things. We forget that cosmic music because we are "grossly
closed in by a muddy vesture of decay." Our mortality leads us to be
full of rage; earthly music ministers to that rage, calms us and makes us
gentle. It reminds us, in all our separateness and opposition, of the dom-
inance of harmony in our universe. Socrates' musical education of the
warriors gives their passions that music without which a man, ac-
cording to Lorenzo, cannot be trusted.
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(392c^03c) If poetry is to be salutary for the warriors, it is not,
according to Socrates, sufficient to change its content, but its form must
also be changed. He forces the poetically inclined Adeimantus to give
up the greatest charm of poetry— imitation. These are his reasons: the
poet can make men believe that they see and hear his characters. This
constitutes his real power— he enchants men so that they live the ex-
periences he wishes to present. The poet hides himself behind his work,
and the audience forgets, for the moment, that the world into which
they enter is not the real one. The spectators have the sense of the reality
of men and events which are more interesting and more beautiful than
any they know in their own lives; This is what makes poetry so
peculiarly attractive. The poet's hold on men is such that he can con-
ceive a very high opinion of himself and a great sense of superiority
over those whom he moves. But he is much less powerful than he
thinks he is. Precisely because he must make his audience join in the
world he wishes to present to them, he must appeal to its dominant pas-
sions. He cannot force the spectators to listen to him or like and enter
into the lives of men who are repulsive to them. He must appeal to and
flatter the dominant passions of the spectators. Those passions are fear,
pity, and contempt. The spectators want to cry or to laugh. If the poet
is to please, he must satisfy that demand. He is capable of making men
cry or laugh; he can refine the expressions of the passions connected
with tears and laughter; he can even, within limits, change the objects
which move those passions; but he cannot alter the fact that he thrives
on the existence and intensification of those passions. But it is precisely
those passions which Socrates says the warriors must try to overcome.
In the beautiful and exalted figure of Achilles who revolts against Aga-
memnon and grieves over the loss of his friends, they could find
justification for their own temptations and fears. Men believe that in
Achilles they see the reality of human perfection whereas he is only a
distillation of themselves.
Moreover, poetry seems to require diversity of character and ac-
tion and the intensity of passion; unhappy, suffering men or ludicrous
ones are its favorite subjects. Virtuous men tend to be alike and are less
likely to give way to the actions which poetry best imitates; and cer-
tainly moderation is not a virtue favored by poets. There is a certain
tendency in poetry to make vice and even crime interesting because of
the attractiveness of the men "drawn to them. In other words, virtue is
not necessarily the best choice of subject for a man who wants to write
a beautiful epic or drama; the poet must subordinate his love of virtue
to the requirements of his art.
Finally, and most important, the poet is unable to imitate the best
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kind of man, the philosopher. The philosopher would ruin a tragedy-
and, although he might appear in a comedy, only certain effects of his
activity, and not that activity itself, could be shovra. A ruler can be
shown ruling on the stage; and most other human types can also be
shown as they are. But it is impossible to show a philosopher phi-
losophizing. The Socratic critique of poetry is not only that the epic
tragic, and comic poets have not chosen as heroes the most admirable
human types, but that their forms make it impossible for them to do so.
What is needed is a form of poetry which is not compelled to make
what is not truly highest appear to be highest. Ultimately the Platonic
dialogue with its hero, Socrates, is that form. At this level of the discus-
sion, however, Socrates leaves it at banishing most poets and insisting
on a simple poetry which uses little imitation and, when it does use
imitation, imitates only gbod men in their good moments. He does so
because he wishes to protect the warriors' hard-won moderation. He al-
so does so because he does not want them to believe that the heroes of
poetry are the best men, for they are to be ruled by men very different
from those heroes and must respect them.
Just as Socrates deprived Adeimantus of the greater part of the
charm derived from imitation, so he deprives Glaucon of much of the
charm of the powerful accompaniments of poetry, harmony and
rhythm, to which he is particularly inclined and at the mention of
which he rejoins the dialogue. Harmony and rhythm move the passions
in the most primitive way, speechlessly appealing to irrational fears
and pleasures— which are themselves speechless. They possess a man
and give him a deep sense of the significance of his sentiments. Socrates
ruthlessly subjects harmony and rhythm to the tales he wants told. Only
those rhythms and harmonies which evoke the feelings appropriate to
the new heroes are acceptable. Instead of letting words follow music, a
temptation apparently involved in the nature of music's appeal, speech,
logos, guides the music completely. Thus Socrates has made himself the
master of poetry; he controls what it represents, how it represents, and
the accompaniments which intensify its appeal. This mastery has been
gained, though, only at the cost of what lovers of poetry find attractive
in it.
However, with Glaucon, as opposed to his brother, it is not only
sacrifice that is demanded. Adeimantus' disposition is such as to accept
severe austerity when he sees its necessity for the preservation of the
city he is in the process of founding or the furtherance of that com-
fortable justice he asked for in his speech and was contented with in the
city of sows. But Glaucon, on the other hand, insists on what is good for
himself, and the community is only of secondary interest insofar as it
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serves that goal. He, therefore, must have sufficient reasons for his
sacrifices; and to him Socrates reveals the positive purpose of the war-
riors' education. The warriors are to be lovers of the beautiful, par-
ticularly of beautiful souls. The products of the fine arts are to be used
to surround them with imitations of the beautiful things; those imita-
tions will give the warriors the habit of seeing beauty in the deeds,
characters, and speeches of virtuous men and hence teach them to love
the virtue whose various aspects they see represented. Imitation must
not flatter the passions, but transform and sublimate them. The severe
moderation of the bodily desires which Socrates has imposed is the
condition of the liberation of the love of the fair and the virtuous. The
needs of the body, if dominant, lead to ugliness, no matter how it is
adorned; for their satisfaction requires discord and vice. The warriors,
prepared by restraint of their desires and habituated to the vision of no-
ble men, will shun Thrasymachus' thieves and tyrants, not as a result of
moral principle but as a matter of taste. The warriors will be more
politically reliable because the eros of the beautiful, a grace and
delicacy of sentiment and action, will temper their pursuit of their self-
interest. Glaucon now sees that eros, properly educated, has a place in
the new order and thus accepts the efforts requisite to that new order.
In attempting to grasp what Socrates is trying to achieve here, it is
again most helpful to turn to Shakespeare's poetry. The wise Prospero,
who must rule unwise men in his little island city of the Tempest, uses
three kinds of motivations to insure their political good conduct. The
slavish Caliban can be motivated only by pinches and blows. The cov-
etous Alfonso and his cohorts are, like Cephalus, restrained by the
equivalents of conscience and the fear of divine punishment. But
Prospero's favorites, to whom he intends to hand over his rule, are
lovers of the beautiful who need no harsher constraints. Ferdinand and
Miranda are each struck with wonder at the aspect of the other's
beauty. Each longs to be worthy of the other and is eager to perform
the deeds which will win approval. This is a gentler, surer, and more
human path to virtue.
(403c-A12h) After music, which would seem to be the training of
the warriors' souls, Socrates turns to gymnastic which would seem to be
the training of the warriors' bodies. One might have expected that this
would be the most important part of the education since these men are
being trained for combat; they are artisans of victory in battle and they
must learn their art at least as well as any of the other artisans.
However, Socrates treats the subject as though the men did not have
bodies and as though the use of arms was not the cause of victory. He
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asserts that the possession of virtue assures victory; technical skill and
chance play no role. This is an unwarranted assertion, as any experience
of life will show. But it is not entirely implausible within the context of
this city. It will soon become evident that these warriors will do little if
any fighting outside the city, that the city will have little foreign policy,
and that their function is much more to control the vices of the desiring
or wage-earning class. Therefore the control of the warriors' predatary
inclinations and the encouragement of their dedication to the common
good is more important than their fighting skill. But, still, Socrates'
whole treatment of the good city seems to neglect the problems in-
volved in getting and keeping the things which make the good city
possible. This neglect, however, is deliberate, and recognizing it makes
one aware of the problem of the good city and the good life— that is,
that there is a tension between the activities necessary to preserve life
and those necessary to live it well. The satisfaction of the body's de-
mands, which is the pre-condition of living any kind of good life at all,
can easily become an end in itself. Socrates directs his attention ex-
clusively to the perfection of the soul, as though its demands were in
perfect harmony with those of the body, for the difficulty posed by the
body is made clear and precise only by acting as though it did not exist,
or at least as though its demands never contradict those of a good city
or philosophy.
The discussion of gymnastic is in keeping with the neglect of the
body which characterizes the entire Republic. But in this case the body
is peculiarly difficult to neglect, and it would seem that here Socrates
would have to admit that man is a dual being and discuss the relation of
body and soul. However he continues to insist that his warriors are
simple, as opposed to complex, beings. The cause of a healthy body is a
healthy soul; and if a body does become diseased, nature must be
allowed to take its course. In other words, we are asked to believe that
the soul controls the body perfectly, that good souls cannot be joined to
bad bodies and, at the same time, are told to forget the evidence to the
contrary provided by sick men and the existence of an art of medicine
which ministers to men's bodies and not their souls.
Inevitably, then, since gymnastic has little to do in keeping men's
bodies healthy, the discussion turns from a description of gymnastic in-
to an attack on medicine which looks to the care of diseased bodies
without regard to the health of the soul. Doctors, according to Socrates,
are required in cities for the same reason as judges — because there is a
failure of moderation. When men desire too much, they take from
others and must appear before a judge; the same inflamed desire also
disrupts the body's harmony, and the men thus diseased must submit
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themselves to a doctor. Immoderation is the cause of all ills of body
and city. Both judges and doctors should be kept out of the city as
much as possible. The particular object of Socrates' apparent scorn is
Herodicus, the founder of advanced and complex medicine, who was a
sickly man and invented an art which kept his ruined body alive. The
valetudinarian is ridiculous and dangerous because he subordinates
everything to keeping himself alive and has nothing to live for but that
life; if his kind of caring for life were to become general in a city, the
city's virtue would be undermined, everything in it would be harnessed
to that purpose— the soul would exist for the body rather than the body
for the soul.
Socrates opposes complex medicine with a simple, good medicine
which was founded by the divine Asclepius and is described by Homer.
Asclepius used ready methods which did not require the quest for rare
medicines or any change in the patient's way of life. If these methods
did not suffice, the patient was allowed to die. This may seem like a
crude art of medicine, but Asclepius did not adopt it out of ignorance
but because he was political or statesmanlike, meaning he adapted the
art of medicine to the common good. This kind of medicine does not
threaten the practice of the virtues and the simple devotion to them; it
does not emancipate the body and permit it to have a life of its own.
Thus Socrates finds in Homer a twin to the simple poetry he has just
elaborated in opposition to Homer. Complex poetry causes men to at-
tach too much significance to what is perishable, to what is their own;
complex medicine causes men to attach too much significance to their
bodies. Perhaps the two errors are really the same. As the new poetry is
intended to make men strong in the loss of their lives, their properties,
and their loved ones, the old medicine was intended to make them
strong in the disease of their bodies.
Although Socrates' concern with the citizens' performing their du-
ties makes his banishment of Herodicus' medicine comprehensible and
even justifiable, it does not do away with the fact that Herodicus knew
much more about the body than did Asclepius; nor does it do away
with the fact that his art reveals the untruth of the myth concerning the
simplicity or unity of man. To understand man one must understand
his complexity, and to do that one must study his illness as well as his
health, his vices as well as his virtues. Such a study is impossible in this
city because it is too simple. Glaucon recognizes this when he warns
Socrates that it will be difficult to have good judges in their city because
the men in it will not have sufficient experience with the diversity of
souls to be able to diagnose and treat them properly. Socrates chooses
to ignore the question, but it is clear that he has more to learn from the
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experience of Herodicus and Homer — from complex medicine and
complex poetry which know not only the good but also the bad— than
he is here willing to admit. It seems that the arts— and hence intellec-
tual perfection— flourish in an atmosphere which is inimical to the
citizen virtue of the warriors. A soldier or an artisan who forgets his
body and concentrates on his work is surely better at his trade, but the
body cannot be forgotten by the man who wishes to have knowledge of
the body and its relation to the soul. The demands of citizen virtue and
intellectual virtue are different. What appears to be a concentration on
the warriors' souls is actually a concern for the power of their bodies. If
the warriors were to see the truth about bodies, they could not be
trusted to control them. Their education is incomplete and so are they.
Socrates' denigration of the body goes so far that he ends by deny-
ing that gymnastic has anything to do with the body at all. Its real pur-
pose is to traift the soul. Just as the spirited part of the soul needed soft-
ening, so the gentle or philosophic part needs hardening. Reason tends
to be weak in that it puts itself into the service of the passions or gives
way to the rage of spiritedness. It must be strengthened so that it can
resist particular desires and angers in its quest for the universal truth.
Gymnastic serves that function. In the preparation of the warriors'
souls for good citizenship, Socrates also looks to their openness to
philosophy and the salvation of any potential philosophers arnong
them. Spiritedness and gentleness are the warp and woof of the soul,
each necessary to its healthy functioning but in a delicate balance with
one another.. To alter the metaphor, the soul must be tuned like an in-
strument, by relaxing and tightening the strings; this is what education
in music and gymnastic does. The proper tuning of the instrument is
the precondition of citizenship and of philosophy.
At the end of the warriors' education— an education intended to
make them good guardians of a peaceful people — it becomes evident
that the virtue which has been encouraged is moderation. This educa-
tion is now complete and the warriors are about to assume their func-
tions, but there has been no training in justice. It seems possible to
have good guardians who are not just. This can be explained only if
moderation is an equivalent of justice. And moderation is, at least from
the city's standpoint, such an equivalent. The main source of civic
strife is competition for scarce good things, and those who can control
their desires for these things are least likely to find it to their advantage
to be seditious and break the laws. In the city of sows, the harmony of
public and private interest was insured by the simplicity of desire,
natural plenty, and the skill of the arts. Once desire has been eman-
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cipated, the virtue of moderation— understood as the control of
spiritedness as well as desire— is used to re-establish that harmony.
{412h-il6d) The next step in the establishment of the regime is
the selection of rulers. These must be the older warriors who also
possess prudence and military capacity and who care for the city. Al-
though the other qualifications seem equally important, the only one
discussed is that of caring for the city. The severe education of the war-
riors has not rendered them free of the temptations which might ul-
timately make them wolves instead of watchdogs. They still think of
the good things as those which are scarce and which men wish to keep
privately for themselves. Nothing in their education has as yet attached
them to this city and its well-being. If they are to care for the city they
must love it, and if they are to love it they must connect it with their
own self-love: they will love the city most if they are of the opinion
that the city's advantage is their own advantage. Apparently, this
opinion is constantly threatened, either because it is not simply
evident to natural reason or because reason can so easily be mastered
by sophistic arguments or by passions. Thus the most important
criterion in the selection of the rulers is that they hold this opinion
most solidly. The most elaborate techniques are used to test them.
And even this does not suffice to guarantee that they will love the city.
They must be showered with honors and rewards which will give them
even more palpable proof of how advantageous the city is for them.
But all the education, testing, and honors are not enough to re-
establish the harmony between private and public interest which
disappeared with the city of sows. The only remedy that Socrates can
find is a great lie— the noble lie.
This famous lie consists of two very diverse parts. According to
the first part, all the members of the city, and particularly the warriors,
were bom from the earth and educated and equipped prior to emerging
from it. If the citizens believe the tale, they will have a blood tie to the
country; their relationship to it will have the same immediacy as does
their relationship to the family. Loyalty to a particular city always
seems somehow questionable: why affection for these men rather than
any or all others? The tale makes them brothers and relates them to this
particular patch of land. It identifies city and regime with country,
which is the object of the most primitive political loyalty; it gives the
motherland life and the principles of^he city body. Short of a universal
state, nothing but such a tale can make a natural connection of the in-
dividual to one of the many existing cities. Moreover, in this way, the
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regime itself is lent the color of naturalness. The fact that regimes re-
quire human institution, as other natural things do not, calls their
naturalness into question. But here the very functions which the regime
has educated the citizens to fulfill are attributed to nature; the citizens
grow into their political roles as acorns grow into oaks. Each might
have wondered why he should be devoted to his particular specialty to
the exclusion of all others; but now they see that the equipment of their
arts belongs to them in the same way their bodies do. This regime is al-
so vulnerable because it conquered or stole the land in which it is
established; this imperfect beginning gives ground for later men to
argue the right of the stronger in their own interest. This tale provides
for that eventuality by concealing the unjust origin of this regime
(which we have seen) by a just account of its origin. On the basis of the
lie, the citizens can in all good faith and conscience take pride in the
justice of their regime, and malcontents have no Justification for
rebellion. Such are the advantages of autochthony.
The second part of the lie gives divine sanction to the natural
hierarchy of human talents and virtues while enabling the regime to
combine the political advantages of this hierarchy with those of
mobility. In the Socratic view, political justice requires that unequal
men receive unequal honors and unequal shares in ruling. This is both
advantageous and fitting. In order to be effective and be preserved, the
inequality of right and duty must receive institutional expression. But,
in practice, if inequality is an accepted principle it finds its expression
in a fixed class to which one belongs as a result of birth and/or wealth,
rather than virtue. Where there is no such class, equality is the princi-
ple that dominates; and, if in an egalitarian society there are hierar-
chies, they are based on standards like wealth or technical skill. The
problem is to establish a regime in which the hierarchy established by
law reflects the natural one, or in. which virtue is the only title to mem-
bership in the ruling class. All unjust conventional inequalities must be
overcome without abandoning the respect for the inequality constituted
by differences in virtue. The difficulty, of course, stems from private
interest and property. The more powerful always want to have more,
and the weaker are willing to settle for equality. In order to demote the
ruler, his special privileges and property must be taken from him; such
changes meet the strongest resistance. Fathers are not inclined to see
their sons deprived of their birthright. And it is not easy to make men
without virtues see and accept their inferiority and give up hopes of ris-
ing. Reason and sentiment demand a solution by means of which men
get what they deserve. But in all actual regimes there are one of two
practical solutions: there is a hierarchy, but one that mixes nature with
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convention by making ruling depend on some more easily recognized
and accepted title than virtue; or there is no standard or hierarchy at
all. Each solution reflects a part of the truth, but each is incomplete.
The lie provides a basis for a satisfactory solution, giving the hierarchy
solidity while at the same time presenting men with a rationale
designed to overcome their primitive inclination to value themselves at
least as highly as their neighbors. The lie accomplishes this by in-
troducing a god who fashions the citizens, and who at their birth mixes
various metals into them to indicate their various values— gold for
rulers, silver for warriors, and bronze and iron for artisans. If the
citizens believe this, and if the citizens also accept the notion that there
are means of seeing the various metals, they will have at least some
counterpoise to their self-love. The lie implies that the city must have
some wise ruler who can distinguish the qualities of souls, but here that
is not underlined, and the emphasis is on preparing the citizens to ac-
cept both a stability and a movement which go against their grain. The
first part of the lie differs from the second in that the former attempts
to make the conventional attachment to the city and its regime seem
natural, while the latter must provide a conventional support for
natural differences which men have reason to want to forget. This is
why, in the second part of the lie, a god must be invoked.
The lie, because it is a lie, points up the problems it is designed to
solve. Perhaps no rational investigation of them could yield a basis for
political legitimacy. In any event, the character of men's desires would
make it impossible for a rational teaching to be the public teaching.
Today it is generally admitted that every society is based on myths,
myths which render acceptable the particular form of justice in-
corporated in the system. Socrates speaks more directly: the myths are
lies. As such, they are unacceptable to a rational man. But he does not
hold that because all civil societies need myths about justice, there is no
rational basis to be found for justice. His teaching cannot serve as an
excuse for accepting whatever a society asserts is justice. The noble lie
is precisely an attempt to rationalize the justice of civil society; it is an
essential part of an attempt to elaborate a regime which most embodies
the principles of natural justice and hence transcends the false justice of
other regimes. The thoughtful observer will find that the noble lie is a
political expression of truths which it itself leads him to consider. In
other words, there are good reasons for every part of this lie, and that is
why a rational man would be willing to tell it.
The Socratic teaching that a good society requires a fundamental
falsehood is the direct opposite of that of the Enlightenment which
argued that civil society could dispense with lies and count on selfish
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calculation to make men loyal to it. The difference between the two
views can be reduced to a difference concerning the importance of
moderation, both for the preservation of civil society and for the full
development of individual men's natures. The noble lie is designed to
give men grounds for resisting, in the name of the common good, their
powerful desires. The great thinkers of the Enlightenment did not deny
that such lies are necessary to induce men to sacrifice their desires and
to care for the common good. They were no more hopeful than Soc-
rates concerning most men's natural capacity to overcome their
inclinations and devote themselves to the public welfare. What they in-
sisted was that it was possible to build a civil society in which men did
not have to care for the common good, in which desire would be chan-
neled rather than controlled. A civil society which provided security
and some prospect of each man's acquiring those possessions he most
wishes would be both a more simple and more .sure solution than any
Utopian attempt to make men abandon their selfish wishes. Such a civil
society could count on men's rational adhesion, for it would be an in-
strument in procuring their own good as they see it. Therefore modera-
tion of the appetites would be not only unnecessary but undesirable, for
it would render a man more independent of the regime whose purpose
it is to satisfy the appetites.
The Socratic response to this argument would be twofold. First,
he would simply deny the possibility of a regime which would never be
compelled to call for real sacrifices from its citizens. This is particularly
true in time of war. A man cannot reasonably calculate that dying in
battle will serve the long-range satisfaction of his desires. Therefore
every civil society will require myths which can make citizens of
private men. But in the case of such a selfish society it will be both very
difficult to provide such myths, and they will be a distasteful parody of
the reason on which the society prides itself; what pretends to be
philosophy will have to be propaganda.
Second, such a civil society can be founded only by changing the
meaning of rationality. For this society, rationality consists in the
discovery of the best means of satisfying desires. The irrationality of
those desires must be neglected; in particular, men must neglect the ir-
rationality of their unwillingness to face the fact that they must
die, of their constant search for the means of self-preservation as if they
could live forever. Socrates teaches that only a man who masters the
desires of the body can see the true human situation and come to terms
with it. Such mastery is the precondition of living a rational and satisfy-
ing life, but it is very difficult to attain, and men need all the help they
can get if they are to succeed in attaining it. The civil society proposed
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Interpretive Essay
by the men of the Enlightenment, far from encouraging such modera-
tion, positively discourages it. It also ridicules those sometimes simple
beliefs which would help to support a man's self-restraint and remind
him of his mortality. Such a society would produce a race of self-
forgetting, philistine men who would demand as their rulers men like
themselves. According to Socrates, a noble lie is the only way to insure
that men who love the truth will exist and rule in a society. The noble lie
was intended to make both warriors and artisans love the city, to assure
that the ruled would be obedient to the rulers, and, particularly, to pre-
vent the rulers from abusing their charge. Apparently, though, it is not
completely successful in overcoming the warriors' temptations. Socrates
goes yet further: they are deprived of all private property, of everything
which they might call their own to which they might become privately at-
tached, particularly money, which admits of infinite increase and extends
the possibility of private desire. And they are also deprived of privacy;
they have no place where they might store illegally acquired things or
enjoy forbidden pleasures. They are always seen by men, if not by gods,
so that the secrecy needed for successful lawbreaking and the gaining of
an unfounded good reputation are lacking. Injustice cannot be profit-
able for them. They are now completely political, the realization of Soc-
rates' perfect artisan who cares only for what he rules and not at all for
himself. They can have no concern other than the common good.
(419c-^27c) It is not surprising that Adeimantus rebels at this
point. He has accepted much that is distasteful to him and given up
many of the charms of life for the sake of the founding on which he has
embarked. He wants good guardians for his city. But the comparison of
the life of the guardians with what he himself would desire is too much
for Adeimantus. His original demands showed him to be a friend of
justice and the political community, but he wanted an easy-going sort
of life which the city would defend. He was content with the city of
sows; nothing that has come afterward in the construction of the good
city has given him back the personal satisfaction he experienced there.
He has the capacity for self-restraint, a certain austerity not shared by
Glaucon. But this is in the name of that comfortable existence which
too much desire would destroy. Now, in making the life of the guar-
dians so hard, Socrates has taken away Adeimantus' motive for having
allowed them to be trained so severely. Adeimantus, following the pro-
cedure he and Glaucon adopted in their attacks on justice, puts his ob-
jection in the mouth of another. The anonymous accuser asserts that
Socrates is not making the guardians happy, and Adeimantus asks Soc-
rates to make an apology to the charge. He joins Thrasymachus in bring-
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ing Socrates to trial. Thrasymachus charged Socrates with under-
mining the city, with teaching a doctrine which would lead to dis-
respect for the law. Adeimantus' charge is not entirely dissimilar. As a
founder, Socrates is taking away from the citizens that for which they
founded the civil order, their property, their privacy— their own. Soc-
rates subordinates happiness to something else, or he robs men of their
happiness. His teaching is a threat to that end for which everything is
done. Here, as in the earlier accusation, the accuser's selfishness
motivates his charge that Socrates is unjust. But there is also no doubt
that Socrates is guilty as charged.
Socrates' defense is not, as might be expected, that these guard-
ians are happy. One could have responded that they get a specific
pleasure from doing their duty, that devotion to the city is naturally
good for them. Evidently Socrates does not believe that thi^ is the case.
Men who engage in politics for the sake of private gain have a suffi-
cient motivation for their conduct; but total devotion to the common
good does not yet have a sufficient justification in the Republic, and the
guardians are asked to serve without adequate compensation. Socrates'
response is that he is talking about a happy city and not a happy group
within it. Looking at it from the city's point of view, one can see the
advantage of its possessing such a group of totally dedicated public serv-
ants. But this only postpones discussing the problem of the individ-
ual's relation to the city, which has already been postponed by the
decision to see justice in a city first, and renders it more acute. Socrates
treats the city as though it were an organism, as though there could be a
happy city without happy men.
With this response, Socrates has not met Adeimantus' objection.
It is a powerful objection, one that can be made by wiser men than the
youthful, unphilosophic Adeimantus. Aristotle himself agrees that the
guardians are not happy and that this speaks against the desirability of
the regime. Even Aristotle, whom no one could accuse of encouraging a
lax morality, compromises with men's wish to have something of their
own, and the rulers in his best regime are property owners. Why then
does Socrates insist on making- such high demands on his rulers?
Perhaps it is because he is more interested in revealing a problem than
in making a practical suggestion. By pushing the demand for dedica-
tion to the extreme, he brings to light precisely what it is in man that
makes such dedication impossible and thereby indicates to practical
men what compromises have to be made. Any deviation from this stan-
dard of dedication is indeed a compromise; for example, the devotion
of Aristotle's rulers to the city is not quite pure, and the regime has to
accept the injustice of making wealth one of the titles to rule. Virtue
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Interpretive Essay
without wealth has no place in Aristotle's best regime; convention must
be mixed with nature. Socrates is attempting to satisfy Glaucon's re-
quest; he is trying to show that political justice is good in itself, not be-
cause it can be a source of other advantages. Perhaps that request can-
not be satisfied, at least on the level of Glaucon's original intention.
However, strictly political considerations are not sufficient to ac-
count for Socrates' procedure; it can be explained ultimately only in
the light of the trans-political considerations which emerge later. On
political grounds it would be wise to make the compromises necessary
to make the guardians happy. But the concentration on the public and
the common, the forgetfulness of the demands of the body, prepares the
way for the introduction of philosophy which is the most universal con-
cern. It is the concern with the private or particular as such that must
be overcome if individuals are to philosophize and cities are to be ruled
by philosophy. The guardian who is totally devoted to the common
good is the prototype of the philosopher who is devoted to knowing the
good.
Adeimantus is a secret lover of wealth, as is revealed by his
rebellion at the abolition of private property. Therefore Socrates imme-
diately turns to an attack on the effects of wealth on the city. This pro-
vokes Adeimantus into making a last stand in its favor. He objects that
the city will not be rich enough to defend itself. Wars require money,
and so some amount of acquisitiveness must be permitted. Perhaps
sound domestic policy would discourage the acquisition of wealth,
but priority must be given to foreign policy since the city's very ex-
istence depends on it. Adeimantus' objection, then, is the same as
Machiavelli's: the best regime is a mere dream, for a good city cannot
avoid ruin if it does not do the things which will enable it to survive
among vicious cities. It is foreign policy which makes the devotion to
the good life within a city impossible. One must be at least as powerful
as one's neighbors and must adopt a way of life such as to make this
possible. Poverty, smallness, and unchangingness cannot compete with
wealth, greatness, and innovation. The true policy is outward-looking,
and cities and men are radically dependent on others for what they
must be. Without a response to this objection— which Machiavelli
thought to be decisive for the rejection of classical political thought —
the very attempt to elaborate a utopia is folly.
In his attempt to meet the objection, Socrates formulates a
Machiavellian foreign policy in order to preserve the anti-Machi-
avellian domestic policy of his city. The city will be too poor to
be very attractive as an object of conquest; its tough fighters will make
it a dangerous enemy and it will join its potential attacker in attacking
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soft, rich cities. Furthermore, in order to prevent the alHed city from
becoming all-powerful, it will foment civil discord within it, siding
with the poor, although the guardians' city does not believe the poor
have justice on their side. In this way the city can live as though it had
no neighbors and devote itself to whatever way of life it deems best. In
relation to its neighbors, the city is not motivated by considerations of
justice but by those of preservation. Justice has to do with the domestic
life of the city and cannot be extended beyond its borders. This is a
point to be considered when examining the analogy between city and
man: justice is supposed to be the same in both, so one would expect
that a man should behave toward other men as does a city toward other
cities.
Socrates' argument persuades at least Adeimantus, and therewith
his last reserves about theregime have been overcome. He becomes Soc-
rates' whole-hearted ally. He now uses his moralizing severity against
all enemies of the regime, particularly against poets and ordinary
statesmen. Anything that might weaken his newly founded city is his
enemy, and he is angry with those whom he regards as vicious. His con-
duct can be explained by reference to an observation he himself made
in his long speech on justice. There he asserted that a man who truly
knows that justice is better than injustice is not angry with those who
do injustice; rather, he sympathizes with their ignorance, knowing that
they are not responsible. The implication is that those who are angry at
injustice do not know its inferiority, that their anger is a way of sup-
pressing their own temptations, that they blame others for giving way
to temptations that beset themselves. After the curious fashion of moral
indignation, they attribute responsibility where there is none. For those
who want to be just but hold the objects of injustice to be good, self-
restraint is necessary; anger and blame are the means of that restraint.
In these passages the contrast between Socrates' gentleness and Adei-
mantus' indignation is striking, suggesting that they represent the al-
ternatives of knowledge and ignorance of the superiority of justice. It
almost seems as though Socrates is incapable of the anger so necessary
to political justice, and, therefore, can use Adeimantus to advantage
here and elsewhere. Adeimantus' particular form of spiritedness, when
tamed, is a scourge of injustice, a source of primitive justice.
(427c-445e) With the establishment of rules concerning the wor-
ship of the gods, the city is asserted to be complete and perfect. Its per-
fection must consist in its being the only city in which the rulers rule
for the advantage of the ruled and hence of the weaker— the exact op-
posite of Thrasymachus' description of rulers, but in accord with Soc-
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Interpretive Essay
rates' and Thrasymachus' joint understanding of the artisan in the pre-
cise sense.
At last Socrates and his companions are ready to begin the
investigation for which all their previous efforts were only the prepara-
tion. They must now look for justice and injustice in the city founded
in their discourse. Socrates, at the urging of Glaucon, who here takes
over from Adeimantus, suggests the following procedure for locating it:
since the city is perfectly good, it must be wise, moderate, courageous,
and just; therefore, they need only recognize in it the virtues they do
know in order to identify what remains as justice. This procedure,
however, is open to several obvious objections. Nothing has been done
to establish that these four^and only these four— virtues are what
makes a city good. Nor is there any indication that the interlocutors
know what wisdom, moderation, and courage are, any more than they
know what justice is. These virtues have not been thematically
discussed here, but we know from other Socratic dialogues that they are
as problematic as justice. But, most important of all, Socrates, without
stating any grounds for so doing, assumes what he and his companions
had set out to prove— that justice is good. Originally the question was:
What is justice, and is it good? Now it has become: What good thing is
justice? One is compelled to wonder why Glaucon accepts so great a
change without comment. It may be because Glaucon is so eager to
hear what justice is, because he is of the opinion that he and the others
are finally at the borders of the promised land, that he does not, as it
were, read the fine print. Moreover, this is his city, and for that reason
alone it is good. Common sense dictates the notion that justice is some-
thing that has to do with a city and that a good city must possess
justice. Glaucon has accepted this city and justice along with it. He
could hardly announce that a city he has founded is not just.
However, Glaucon's original question has not been answered. In
opposition to Thrasymachus, he had suggested that justice means that
the strong man serves the weak to the neglect of his own advantage.
The life of the rulers in this regime seems to support that suggestion.
For the ruled to obey the rulers is strictly to their own advantage since
the rulers are dedicated to them. But the doubt remains as to whether it
is to the rulers' advantage to care for the ruled. A founder, for his own
selfish reasons, may want the rulers to be just, but he does not thereby
prove that it is good for them to be just. The assumption that justice is
good and must be in the city is perfectly legitimate from the point of
view of founders or men who are discussing a city. But the real ques-
tion is postponed until the discussion of the individual: Is justice in the
individual man the same as that in the city and does justice in the in-
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dividual lead to good citizenship? First we look at the perfected city
and then at the perfected man. The issue is in their relation: Can a per-
fect man become and remain perfect in a perfect city? Is justice good
for him? This is identical with the question: Is the city natural? For
man, and hence the good man, is surely natural.
Socrates and his companions experience greater difficulty in
discerning justice than in discerning the other virtues. Justice, rather
than far away in the heavens, is in a dark place at their feet. Even a
cursory examination of what they find there reveals that justice is not
necessary in this city. This is not too surprising, for the city came into
being without justice being included in the specific way that courage,
moderation, and wisdom were included. Indeed, when defined as each
man doing his job or minding his own business, justice adds nothing to
the city that is not accomplished by the other three virtues. The city
needs wise men to command; it needs courageous men to overcome
resistance to the wise commands; and it needs moderation to bind the
city together into a whole and maintain the proper hierarchy of its
parts. But where does that leave justice? Justice disappears here, even
as it did when Polemarchus asserted that justice consists of doing good
to friends, only to discover that it is the various arts that do good to
men. This seemed unsatisfactory because of the fact that the arts can do
harm as well as good— a doctor can kill as well as cure— so that some-
thing more than the arts is required. But now it appears that it is not
justice which is necessary to supplement the arts; they need only belong
to the proper order or whole. If the rulers are interested in the good of
the whole city and its individuals, and if they command the artisans as
to how they are to use their arts, nothing further is needed. Modera-
tion, not justice, causes the artisans to obey the rulers. There is no tem-
per or disposition of justice demanded of the citizens. Justice, in the
city at least, means only the presence of the three other virtues.
Nevertheless, minding one's own business is not an unilluminating
formula for expressing what is ordinarily meant by justice. Justice
seems to involve doing good to others, but the busybody or meddler is
somehow an imperfect type. In this city, if each does what properly is
his to do, he also does good to others. Each keeps and does his own
while benefiting others. Moreover, the simplest sense of justice, that ex-
pressed by Cephalus, is also satisfied here: obedience to the law is vin-
dicated for the laws are good. Hence this city, in which justice is not a
concern, meets the demands of justice defined by Cephalus and
Polemarchus who are its advocates. And in this city Thrasymachus will
no longer be able to allege the same reasons for despising justice. He
will soon join Socrates' group of friends.
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Interpretive Essay
Socrates now turns to the investigation of the justice of the individ-
ual man, which is so crucial for Glaucon. This investigation quickly
moves to a discussion of the soul; by treating the soul as the whole man,
Socrates tacitly assumes the irrelevance of the body to the question of
what justice in a man is. He and Glaucon attempt to determine whether
the soul has three parts, as does the city; if it does, the analogy would
incline them to believe that they are of the same character and order as
are the parts of a city and that a soul's virtues are the same as those of a
city. They easily distinguish desire and reason as separate parts of the
soul. Then, as might be expected, the crucial part and the one most
difficult to determine is spiritedness. Is it separate or does it belong to
one of the two other classes? Glaucon gives an obvious answer and one
that accords with his own experience; it belongs to the desiring part.
He is probably most angry when he does not get what he wants; surely
his specific form of spiritedness leads him off to war in pursuit of
satisfaction of desire for pleasure and victory. Socrates responds with an
example in which spiritedness purportedly overcomes desire. Spirited-
ness is ambiguous: it may support or oppose bodily desire, or it may even
itself be a kind of desire. But Socrates goes much further. He tries to make
spiritedness look like a loyal ally of reason, as it were, reason's army,
which forces the desires along the path of reason's commands. Socrates
acts as though it were only in the cases of the most perverse kind of man
that spiritedness opposes reason. Hence the soul is a unity in diversity
and is strictly parallel to the city. The analogy to the auxiliary class in the
city makes it plausible to assert that spiritedness is reason's companion
and of a distinctly higher order than the desires.
But this is a most "optimistic" account of spiritedness, one that
accords with that hopefulness about its control which is the condition
of the founding of the city and that depreciation of the desires that is
necessary to the city. Socrates, in order to prove the point that
spiritedness is different from desire and serves to control it, tells the
story of a certain Leontius who, on his way up to Athens from the
Piraeus, observed that there were corpses on the public executioner's
ground and desired to look at them. Something within him resisted the
desire, but after a struggle, he gave way and looked. He then cursed his
eyes and bid them take their fill of "the fair [or noble] spectacle."
Careful reflection on this example reveals that it does not so simply
support Socrates' thesis that spiritedness is essentially an ally of reason.
One must ask why spiritedness opposes the desire to look at corpses
and becomes angry with the eyes? Either it must be because the sight of
death is repulsive to it and thus it cooperates with the desire for life, or
because the contemplation of the corpses of criminals is ignoble and
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goes counter to the sense of shame induced by spiritedness. Whatever
the explanation, its resistance to Leontius does not seem rational. As a
matter of fact, spiritedness is fighting curiosity, a close kin of the desire
to know, either because that desire is opposed by other powerful
desires, or because it seeks to know the forbidden. Spiritedness appears
to be capable both of allying itself with desire and of opposing the
quest for knowledge. In the city the spirited class, although its education
presented some difficulties, was largely salutary; but in the soul it is
more problematic. Socrates, because he is trying to persuade Glaucon
to be a good citizen of the good city, gives him an inadequate account
of spiritedness in the soul — one which gives spiritedness the same role
in the soul as it performed in the city, while forgetting the differences
between a soul and a city.
Primarily, what Socrates chooses to forget in his incomplete pic-
ture of spiritedness as merely reason's trusty tool is the fact that in some
sense reason in the soul is a desire, and that spiritedness, to the extent
that it opposes desire, opposes reason also. He was enabled to do this by
asserting that reason in the soul is merely calculation, as it is in the city.
A dry, calculating reason, concerned with directing the desires to a fulfill-
ment consonant with the common good, is distinct from desire and need
not conflict with spiritedness; but a reason erotically striving to know
the first causes of all things, with a life of its own, indifferent to the
needs of the here and now, is one of the most powerful desires and far
removed from the city's primary concerns. Spiritedness will oppose it
as surely as it does any of the other forms of eros. Reason exists in cities
but only in the form of political prudence. Timocracy, the regime found-
ed on spiritedness, is the regime most openly hostile to philosophy {547 e).
A city, like a man, desires wealth, needs food, and deliberates. But a city
cannot reproduce or philosophize; all forms of eros are cut off" from it.
In this sense a city cannot be properly compared to a man. It can use the
offspring of eros, whether children or thoughts, but it must merely make
use of, or conventionalize, the activities which produce them. In order to
make a man thoroughly political, one must suppress or distort all ex-
pressions of his eroticism.
In order to see what Socrates leaves out here, it is helpful to look
again at the warrior class which is supposed to perform the same func-
tion in the city as does spiritedness in the soul. The warriors can, in the
service of desires, take from foreigners as conquerors, or they can, in
the service of the city as a whole and the rulers, defend against in-
vaders. Within the city, they can side with the people, and hence the
desires, against the rulers and reason, or they can side with the rulers,
not against the people, but for the purpose of controlling and guiding
376 ]
Interpretive Essay
them. The warriors are guided by general opinions, or rules, whose
grounds they do not know and exceptions to which they cannot
recognize. For example, they must detest men who do not appear to
care for the city, who love foreign things, who call the law into ques-
tion. Most such men would indeed be vicious, but Socrates would also
be among them. They would instinctively hate him and want to punish
him as an enemy, for, in their lack of reason and identification of all
good with the city's good, they would be unable to distinguish him from
the others. The rulers might be able to make the necessary distinctions,
and the warriors would most likely obey them; but one could foresee a
situation in which the warriors rebelled against the rulers because the
rulers broke the rules of morality they had inculcated in the warriors.
But, at all events, from the point of view of the healthy city, perhaps
men like Socrates should be repressed. In practice, spiritedness fre-
quently rules over wisdom in cities, leading to crimes committed in the
name of justice. Moral indignation led to the execution of the generals
who were in command at the great Athenian victory of Arginusae, but
who, because of a storm, were unable to satisfy the pious duty of
recovering the corpses of their dead from the sea; this execution was
carried out over the strenuous objections of the wise Socrates. Moreover,
Socrates' own execution was a result of the same moral indignation. In
both cases the general principle of the people was a valid one; but in
both they failed to see the mitigating circumstances, not to say the
moral superiority of the lawbreakers.
Within the individual soul, spiritedness expresses itself in similar
ways. It can lead to the voracious conqueror or the proud protector of
his own. It can also produce the angry, petulant man who flies into a
fury at what opposes his desires. And, most interesting of all, it can
result in the morally indignant man who punishes his own desires as
well as those of others. But in the case of the soul this punishment of
offending desires is more harmful than in the city. The soul in which
reason is most developed will— like Leontius' eyes— desire to see all
kinds of things which the citizen is forbidden to see; it will abound with
thoughts usually connected with selfishness, lust, and vice. Such a soul
will be like that banished poetry which contained images of vice as well
as of virtue. Spiritedness, in the form of anger and shame, will oppose
reason's desiring. This is why the austere, moral Adeimantus is much
more opposed to philosophy than is the victory-loving, erotic Glaucon.
Thus, spiritedness, which protected the city's health, stands in the way
of the development of the soul's theoretical capacities and hence its
health. Socrates in this passage abstracts from all other aspects of spirited-
ness and focuses solely on one of its functions— the control of desire. In
so doing he makes explicit its political advantages and hints at the threat
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it poses to philosophy. The harmony of the parts of the soul is most ques-
tionable.
Socrates concludes that the soul has the same parts as the city and
will be perfected by the same virtues. Thus the discussion of justice
should be at an end; and Socrates does indeed try to turn to the discus-
sion of injustice, which must be discerned if it is to be compared to
justice. But, he will not be permitted to continue in that direction, for
his interlocutors are not yet persuaded that it is desirable to be a mem-
ber of this city, and want to know more about it. The identification of
the good of the soul with that of the city has not been convincing to
them. This is understandable, since it is purely formal to assert that a
just soul is one in which each of its parts does its own work when one
does not know the nature of those parts or precisely what their work is.
It cannot be assumed merely that they exactly parallel the parts of the
city and their work.
Nothing as yet has indicated that the man who has a healthy soul
will be identical with the citizen of the regime which has been establish-
ed. Is the wise man, who makes full use of the powers of his reason,
the same as the prudent statesman, who issues commands to the war-
riors and the artisans? Is his courage that of the warrior who holds the
belief that what is good for the city is good for him, and is thus willing
to die on the battlefield? Is his moderation that of an obedient subject,
or that of a ruler who cares for the citizens and wishes to rule them for
their good? And does his justice consist in doing some work which the
city prescribes to him and is useful to it? Affirmative answers to all or
any of these questions seem highly improbable. Glaucon's real ques-
tion, however, was whether his happiness depended on being a good
citizen, a law-abiding man. Socrates tries to give the impression that
there is a harmony between the justice of the city and that of man by
never suggesting that there might not be.
But it is a glaring problem, and Socrates' mode of presentation has
rendered it even more obtrusive. As we have already observed, if the
parallel of city and man is to hold true, then a man, like the city, should
be interested only in himself and merely use others for his own ad-
vantage, as the city does. And in the present discussion Socrates has
made it appear that the soul's health can be attained in isolation; as the
good city's neighbors were only a hindrance in its quest for the good
life, a man's neighbors might also be understood to be hindrances. In
that case, he would want to strive for the greatest self-sufBciency. This
impression is intensified by the fact that the body, whose needs tie a
man to his fellows, has been treated here as though it did not exist. The
parallel of city and man presented would tend to support the view that
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Interpretive Essay
the just man— in the sense of the man with a healthy soul— would liot
want to be a good citizen in the good city. It would also seem that he
would not want to be a tyrant, for his perfection seems to be inde-
pendent of the city. When Socrates points out that a man with a healthy
soul would not be likely to steal deposits, break oaths, commit adultery,
etc., he does not prove that the just individual abstains from such deeds
because he respects the laws or even cares for other men. The fact that
the just man does not try to take advantage of other men could be as
easily explained by a lack of desire for the objects involved as by at-
tachment to the common good. In describing the conduct of such a man
in relation to others, Socrates only tells of things he does not do, but
never mentions any positive deeds of citizen virtue which he does do. It
would seem possible to be a just man without being a just citizen,
which goes further than anything Glaucon had suggested.
The apparent answer to the question of justice has only
heightened the difficulty of that question, for we now have the just city
and the just soul, and their relations are as mysterious as are the rela-
tions of body and soul. As a result of the spurious identification of city
and soul, the nature of the soul has emerged as the decisive considera-
tion in the understanding of justice. Given the magnitude of this con-
sideration, it is no wonder that Socrates is eager, as he was in the
beginning of the dialogue, to hurry away. It is also no wonder that his
companions once again join together to stop him, for he owes them
much more.
(449a-473c) In a scene that recapitulates the beginning of the
dialogue, Polemarchus again joins with Adeimantus to "arrest" Soc-
rates. They are more formidable this time, for they have now added
Glaucon and Thrasymachus to their ranks. The dialogue begins anew.
Socrates' companions have recognized, if only in a peripheral way, the
incompleteness of the discussion of the soul, which they take to be an
incompleteness of the discussion of the city. They want to know more
about his statement that friends in the city have all things in com-
mon—including women and children— for this total lack of privacy
means that a man cannot have a life of his o\vn. Therefore a man's soul
must be satisfied by the community or not be satisfied at all. They ac-
cuse Socrates of a crime, of doing injustice by robbing them of a part of
the discussion. And they are right. Socrates wanted to do his duty to
men and the city without devoting himself to them completely; he was
keeping his way of life private. All the others could find their satisfac-
tion and dignity in the city that has been established. But can Socrates?
He is compelled to appear before the bar of that city; here he cannot
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give a mythical account of his life (as he did in the Apology) but must
explain himself as he really is. This city claims to be the greatest good
for men, to call for the highest loyalty, to satisfy the human potential.
Now it must be expanded to see if it can include Socrates. This is the
crucial test, for, if the highest activity of the city is identical to the
highest activity of man, there is no justification for going beyond the
city, for rebellion in heart or deed. The status of the city depends on
this attempt.
Now Socrates proceeds to try to make public or common every-
thing that remains private. Full communism, from Socrates' point of
view the only form of just regime, requires not only the abolition of
private property but also the sharing of women and children and the
rule of philosophers. Women, family, and philosophy are all of the do-
main of the erotic, which seems to be what is most intransigently
private. Up to now what Socrates has suggested has been severe, but
not outlandish. The city is merely an improved Sparta, correcting its
worst vices, while preserving its virtues. He has adopted the opinions
of his well-born Laconophile interlocutors; Adeimantus is attached to
Sparta because it is austere, secure, and aristocratic; Glaucon because
it is warlike. Socrates has improved on the Spartan regime by stopping
the ruling class from persecuting the poor, by suppressing the secret
lust for wealth, and by moderating the exclusive orientation to war. At
the same time, he has softened the warlike temper of the men and given
them the possibility of a certain openness. Now he must take advantage
of that possibility and attempt to infuse the Athenian element into the
Spartan regime. In order to complete his work, he will have to face
three fantastic waves which threaten to engulf him. The first two
waves— the same way of life for women as men and the community of
wives and children— have never existed in reality or in the thoughts of
serious men; they are the absurd conceits of a comic poet who only sug-
gested them in order to ridicule them. And the last wave, the rule of
philosophers, is a total innovation, beyond the wildest thoughts of that
same comic poet who had also ridiculed philosophy.
Book V is preposterous, and Socrates expects it to be ridiculed. It
provokes both laughter and rage in its contempt for convention and
nature, in its wounding of all the dearest sensibilities of masculine
pride and shame, the family, and statesmanship and the city. As such it
can only be understood as Socrates' response to his most dangerous ac-
cuser, Aristophanes, and his contest with him. In the Ecclesiazusae
Aristophanes had attacked the public in the name of the private, and in
the Clouds he had attacked philosophy in the name of poetry. Here Soc-
rates suggests that, if philosophy rules, the political can triumph over
380 ]
Interpretive Essay
the private life. If he is right, he can show that Aristophanes did not
understand the city because he did not understand philosophy, and he
did not understand philosophy because he did not understand that
philosophy could grasp the human things and particularly the city. The
Republic is the first book of political philosophy, and attempts to show
that4>hilosophy can shed light on human things as no other discipline
can. Socrates is the founder of the city in speech and, hence, of po-
litical philosophy. In Book V he tries to show the superiority of the
philosopher to the comic poet in deed; he does so by producing a com-
edy which is more fantastic, more innovative, more comic, and more
profound than any work of Aristophanes. Socrates with an air of ut-
most seriousness undertakes absurd considerations; in this he is already
comic. If what he appears to teach seriously is impossible, as Avill prove
to be the case, Socrates' comedy Avill be akin to the Ecclesiazusae. In
that play the women of Athens try to institute what is just but
politically impossible, and thereby they create ridiculous situations; Soc-
rates surpasses them by radicalizing their proposals. If the perfection
of the city cannot comprehend the perfection of the soul, the city will
look ugly in comparison to the soul's beauty and be a proper subject of
comedy; its pretensions will be ludicrous. Such a comedy will be a di-
vine comedy, one calling for a more divine laughter. Only philosophy
could produce it, for, as Socrates will explain, only philosophy has the
true standard of beauty. In appearing to disagree with Aristophanes
about the city, Socrates shows that only he knows the true grounds of
its inadequacy. Plato believes that his Socrates can argue better about
man than Aristophanes, and that his arguments can culminate in better
comedies. If this proves to be true, the total superiority of Socrates and
his way of life Avill be manifest.
Socrates proposes that women should have the same education
and way of life as the men; there should be a full equality of the sexes,
and they must, as it were, share the same locker room. Socrates is
aware that poets Avill laugh at this proposal and that it Avill be a subject
of ridicule for men like Aristophanes. But Socrates asserts that the
comic poets are in this merely serving Greek convention, either be-
cause they cannot themselves transcend convention, or because they are
dependent on an audience of Greek men to whom they must appeal.
Once Greeks, like the barbarians, were ashamed to see each other
naked, but they were able to overcome that shame. A naked man would
look ridiculous in a crowd of clothed men, to be sure, but why should
men be clothed? In the gymnasium, public nakedness is no longer
laughable. The Greeks showed that civilized men can be both moderate
and unclad. Now they must go even further and make greater demands
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on their moderation. But does it make sense to say that it is only con-
vention which prohibits the pubHc association of naked men and wom-
en? Nakedness is forbidden because it encourages Hcentiousness, be-
cause civilized men need some mastery over their sexual appetites.
Public nakedness is permissible where sexual desire is not likely to be
aroused by it. Men can be naked together because it is relatively easy to
desexualize their relations with one another; but the preservation of the
city requires the mutual attraction of men and women. The city can
forbid homosexual relations, and shame and habit can make the very
notion inconceivable to them. But it cannot forbid heterosexual rela-
tions, and men and women could hardly be expected to be above at-
traction to one another at any particular moment. Hence the purpose of
the gymnasia would be subverted. Law would at the same time en-
courage and forbid the mutual attraction of the sexes. The comic poets
are not without justification; the sexual is necessary and must remain
private. This is part of Socrates' attempt to politicize the erotic, to act
as though it made no demands that cannot conform to the ^blic life of
the city. Once more, Socrates "forgets" the body, and this forgetting is
the precondition of the equality of women. As a political proposal, the
public nakedness of men and women is nonsense. Shame is an essential
component of the erotic relations between men and women. The need
for overcoming shame becomes clear in relation to what Socrates con-
siders to be another form of eros— intellectual or philosophic eros.
Souls, in order to know, must strip away the conventions which cover
their nature. Shame prevents them from doing this just as it prevents
them from stripping their bodies. The comic poets, because of this
shame, are able to ridicule what is natural and thus to discourage it.
The comic poet is too much motivated by shame, for he is unaware of
the kind oieros which justifies shamelessness. In other words, the com-
ic poet will ridicule philosophy just as he will ridicule lasciviousness
and do so because both conflict with conventional demands which are
enforced by shame. This point is also made by Homer. When the angry
Haephaestus binds his unfaithful wife Aphrodite together with her
lover Ares and exposes them naked to the other gods, all but one are
convulsed with laughter at the sight But Hermes says that he would be
willing to undergo such humiliation if he could lie with Aphrodite.
Shame cannot induce his eros to forsake the pursuit of the beautiful
and the good, even if all the goddesses were to join the gods in observ-
ing and laughing at him. Ultimately, from the Socratic point of view,
Hermes is right.
According to Socrates, the institution of the same practices for
women as men is possible because it is natural; and it is proved to be
[ 3«2 ]
Interpretive Essay
natural by arguing that the difference between men and women is no
more important than the difference between bald men and men with
hair. However, Socrates also admits that the best women are always in-
ferior in capacity to the best men; it is then highly improbable that any
women would even be considered for membership in the higher classes.
Thus the whole consideration of their education as guardians is un-
necessary. If the fact that women bear children is to be ignored and
does not play a role in their selection as guardians, if ability is the only
criterion, there will not be a sufficient number of women in the guard-
ian class to reproduce it. It is evident that the women are placed
among the guardians not because they possess the same capacities as
the men, but precisely because they are different, because they can bear
children and the men cannot. To treat dissimilar persons similarly is
unjust and unnatural. Maybe the souls are the same, but the influence
of the body is powerful; the necessity of the body makes justice to souls
difficult. In order to legitimate treating the women in the same way as
the men, Socrates must fabricate a convention about the nature of
women.
Why then does Socrates insist on the same training for men and
women? Women had hardly been mentioned in the first four books.
Why not let the men run the city and leave the women at home? Two
reasons may be suggested, one political, the other trans-political. In the
first place, neglect of the virtue of women may be said to be another
Spartan error. Men need women and can easily be controlled by them.
The character of the women in a society has a great deal to do with the
character of the men; for when the men are young, the women have a
great deal to do with their rearing, and when they are older, they must
please the women. In particular, women have a more powerful attach-
ment to the home and the children than do men. They are involved
with the private things which are likely to oppose the city. They
characteristically do not like to send their sons off to war. Further, wom-
en have much to do with men's desire to possess money. Women's
favor can be won by gifts, and they have a taste for adornment and
public display. Women play a great role in the corruption of regimes,
as will be shown in Books VIII and IX. If half the city is not educated
to the city's virtues, the city will not subsist. This is a city without
homes, and the women have more to overcome if they are to accept it,
for their natures lead them to love the private things most and draw the
men to a similar love. They must share the men's tastes, or they will
resist the changes in the family Socrates is about to propose.
In the second place, the exclusive maleness, so much connected
with battle, is not the whole of human nature, although it may appear
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so to the men. The female represents gentleness, and the complete soul
must embrace both principles. Pheidippides, in the Clouds, and Calli-
cles, in the Gorgias, think of Socrates as unmanly, a pale-faced individ-
ual who sits around and gossips rather than engaging in the activities
of real men. In the Theaetetus Socrates compares himself to a kind of
woman, a midwife; and in the Symposium he recounts that he learned
the secrets of his erotic science from a woman. Just as a city needs the
female, so does the soul, but perhaps in a more fundamental way. Full
humanity is a discrete mixture of masculinity and femininity. When
talking about warrior-guardians the feminine could be forgotten; but
this latest discussion is a harbinger of the philosopher-guardians.
Having successfully met the first wave — the same education and
way of life for women as for men, Socrates and Glaucon prepare to face
the second— the community of women and children. In the discussion
of this proposal there is less emphasis on the comic element; the prob-
lems touched on here have been themes of tragedy — Antigone and
Oedipus come most immediately to mind— as well as comedy. Socrates
and Glaucon agree to postpone the question of the possibility of this
institution— that is, according to the procedure they have adopted, the
question of whether it is natural— in favor of first describing it and its
advantages.
The sexual relations of the guardian and auxiliary classes are
treated as though they exist only for the production of children for the
city. An attempt is made to rationalize sexual desire in making it
responsive to the command of the law. Attraction and love in them-
selves know no limits of propriety, exigency, law or country. They are
most dangerous to a city because their power is such as to drown all
other sentiments in their intensity, and they indicate an element of man
which is by nature unpolifical. The sexual passion can be trained and
repressed, but it is not usually thought possible to make it respond only
to those objects chosen by the city, in a way and at a time deemed
fitting by the city. But here Socrates acts as though it were feasible, if
not easy, to channel eros for the benefit of the city; otherwise it would
have to be left private, repressed and exhorted, but always a somewhat
hostile beast, even when asleep. Now the rulers must tell many lies.
And these lies must be bigger ones than the noble lie. The noble lie is
more easily believable than these lies will be, inasmuch as the former
concerns the origins and, after a period of time, there will be no
witnesses of those origins left to gainsay it; inclination will be a con-
stant witness against the lies of the rulers in sexual matters. So Socrates
invokes the gods. Marriages, he says, are sacred. But in this arrange-
ment of things, marriage means nothing more than a temporary sexual
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Interpretive Essay
relationship, for there are no private homes, no private children, and
the citizens may be expected to have many such marriages. Socrates ex-
plains that the sacred is what is beneficial to the city. Appetizing and
frequent sexual relations are to be the reward for excellence in public
service; this will motivate the citizens to perform their responsibilities
well and will insure that those who are of the greatest virtue will pro-
duce the most children. In order to make this system work, the rulers
will have many concerns not shared by rulers in less perfect cities; these
concerns could well be the subject of comedy in these other cities.
Just as erotic activity becomes a part of a man's public duty, so
the offspring of the unions must become part of public property. The
family is abolished, unless one considers the city as one family. The
problem of Antigone cannot arise, for there can be no conflict between
the family and the city. The intention of the noble lie is furthered: men
are finally deprived of everything which they might love more than the
city; all men are brothers. But the effect of this is to remove whatever is
natural in the family and replace it with an entirely conventional base.
A father, if he is anything, is the one who engenders the child. A father
who did not do so would be a completely artificial entity, at best a
substitute for the natural father. Law or convention must take the place
of nature in order to insure the possibility of this city. Children are to
transfer to the city what they would give to their parents. This, too, is
completely unnatural. It is, however, not entirely without foundation in
our understanding of human nature. If the family, which is surely
somehow natural, remains the only object of loyalty, the clan or tribe
can never be surpassed. To become either a member of a city — or a
philosopher— one must break with one's primary loyalty. The bodily or
blood ties are not the only thing that is natural to man; nor are they the
most important thing. Men do not only love members of their family,
but also those whom they believe to be good. Nevertheless, a man who
loved the better children of others more than his own inferior children
would be considered monstrous. The blood ties bind and have a
morality of their own which keeps the mind from wandering freely over
the world; they stand in the way of natural fulfillment. Men are usually
torn between duty to their own and duty to the good. The communism
of women and children, by suppressing family ties, serves to eman-
cipate men's love of the good.
If the family is to become the city, and the city is to be self-
sufficient, the most sacred and awesome of prohibitions must be defied.
There must be incest in this city. By law all members of the city are the
closest of relatives, and they will not know their natural relatives. To
most men nothing could seem more terrible than incest; so powerful is
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the prohibition against incest that it even removes desire where objects
of satisfaction are closest at hand; it is accepted without question and
hardly needs to be taught. The crime of Oedipus and his tragedy, the
archetype of tragedy, concerns this prohibition. When asked about the
problem, Socrates treats it as though he were speaking of regulations no
more controversial than those concerning rivers and harbors. He thus
justifies the accusation of Aristophanes: he is the enemy of the family
and its fundamental principle. The particular crime of Oedipus is in-
deed prohibited here, but only because he and Jocasta would not be of
the proper age for breeding. When Socrates says that in special
instances, and if the Delphic oracle permits, brothers and sisters can
wed, he understates the case. As Glaucon sees (463c), Socrates'
prescriptions about the family actually mean that everybody in the city
is closely related; there are no cousins; everyone is at least the brother
or sister of everyone else. Examination of the marriage regulations
would suggest that it is unlikely that even more serious breaches of the
incest prohibition can be avoided in this city. The relationships in the
entire city will be as tangled as those in the family of Oedipus. And Soc-
rates asks for divine sanction for such incestuous loves. Given that
there will be many erotic improprieties in this city— as Aristotle makes
clear {Politics 11, iv)— it seems that Socrates' approach to the matter is
quite light-hearted.
What, then, is this radical policy meant to achieve? Socrates
argues that the city will be one, and the demon of private, selfish in-
terest will be exorcised. He compares the city to a body all parts of
which share the same pleasures and pains. This city does not attain to
that degree of unity, however, for one thing cannot be made public: the
body. Everyone's body is his own. The minds could conceivably be
made to think similar thoughts (a possibility not so obnoxious as it
sounds; for minds contemplating the same truths are, for that moment
and in that way, the same). But if a man stubs his toe, no other man can
share his pain. Thus the unity of the city depends on that same forget-
ting of the body which has been a golden thread running through the
whole discourse. The body is what stands in the way of devotion to the
common good; it is the source of the desire and the need for privacy.
The problem is that the body's demands lead to the establishment of an
entire way of life and a set of beliefs contrary to those which would be
most conducive to the perfection of a man's soul or the pursuit of truth.
The way of life based on the body is directed to acquisition of the
means of preserving and gratifying the body. The set of beliefs which
protects that way of life concerns private property, the family, the civil
order, and even the gods. Although these beliefs only serve the selfish
[ 386 ]
Interpretive Essay
interests related to the body and do not express the truth about nature,
they are enormously respectable. Men hold strongly to them, and it
seems very important that they be maintained. These beliefs fetter
men's minds; they are the conventions which veil nature.
Socrates is here trying to construct a political regime which is not
dominated by such conventions, one in which philosophy does not have
to be a private, hidden activity because it contradicts the authoritative
prejudices. Aristophanes can help us to understand the character of
these prejudices. In the Clouds, Strepsiades bums Socrates' dwelling
when he discovers that Socrates had taught his son things which threat-
en the sanctity of the family. Only a man who did not care too much
about the family would be prepared to tolerate Socrates' teaching. Soc-
rates has elaborated a regime in which no citizen has a family and
thus no one can be unreasonable in the name of the family. Socrates'
demand that the city be unified is identical to the demand that the body
and its extensions— property and the family— be perfectly mastered.
If that mastery is impossible, so is the city. We would learn from this
fact that philosophy is essentially a private activity and that the city
must always be ruled by prejudices. Moreover, from the example of the
city in speech, a man would learn what he must overcome in himself
in order to become a philosopher. Socrates forgets the body in order to
make clear its importance.
To put the matter more simply: only in a city such as Socrates and
his companions have constructed will no obloquy be attached to Soc-
rates' deplorable neglect of his family and his indifference to the labor
necessary to making a comfortable living. This city, which is constructed
in response to Aristophanes' charge that Socrates had to break the law
in order to feed and clothe himself and in order to replenish his society
of male companions, will take care of him, and his children will be tal-
ented youths of the kind he sought out in Athens. In all other cities Soc-
rates must be morally suspect as a poor husband and father. Socrates has
the strength to endure this opprobrium; if he were seriously concerned
about it, he would fetter his mind in trying to avoid it. In the passage
under consideration, then, we see the conditions of philosophy and what
must be sacrificed to it. As yet the citizens of this city have no sufficient rea-
son to make these sacrifices. But if philosophy is desirable, so are these ef-
forts to conquer everything that attaches one to particularity. Socrates can
contemplate going naked where others go clothed; he is not afraid of ridi-
cule. He can also contemplate sexual intercourse where others are stricken
with terror; he is not afraid of moral indignation. In other words, he treats
the comic seriously and the tragic lightly. He can smile where others
cry and remain earnest where others laugh. In the Symposium he says
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that the true poet must be both tragedian and comedian, implying that
the true poet is the philosopher. Here he shows that the man who has
both gifts must use them to oppose the ways the vulgar tragic and com-
ic poets use them; he must treat the tragic lightly and the comic
seriously, hence reversing their usual roles. The man who is able to do
this is already a philosopher. In both cases, it is shame which must be
opposed; for shame is the wall built by convention which stands be-
tween the mind and the light. The ordinary poetry appeals to that
shame, accepting its edicts as law, while philosophic poetry overcomes
it. Shame, in both the case of nakedness and that of incest, is
spiritedness' means of controlling eros for the sake of preservation and
the city. The effect of that shame is pervasive and subtle, making the
thinkable appear unthinkable. The mind requires heroic efforts in
order to become aware of the distortions of its vision caused by shame and
to overcome them.
Having discussed the community of women and children and its
advantages, Socrates and Glaucon turn to the question of the possibility
of this regime. But Socrates, who seems anxious to avoid this question,
turns the discussion to the foreign relations of their completed city,
particularly to the way in which it will fight wars. The changes within
the city bring about changes in the character of inter-city relations. In
this discussion, although Socrates provides some satisfactions to be
derived from war for Glaucon's erotic and warlike temper, the general
intention is to temper and humanize war. To this end, Socrates pro-
poses a pan-Hellenic policy of hostility toward the barbarians. As the
relations among the members of the city are to be like the relations
among the members of a family, so the relations among the Greek cities
are to become like the relations which prevail among the parties in a
city and the relations between Greeks and non-Greeks are to become
like the relations of Greek cities. Thus there is a general reduction of
hostility along the line (without expectation that it can be done away
with altogether), and even the barbarians profit from the change. In this
way, all men are brought closer to one another by extending the senti-
ments connected with love of one's own to all of humanity: fellow
citizens are to be brothers, Greeks are to be fellow citizens, and bar-
barians are to be Greeks. At this point Socrates accepts the Greek, or
conventional, distinction between Greek and barbarian. One should
not, however, assume that he is limited by this horizon; he is speaking
to Glaucon who is subject to such limitations. Later, when Glaucon has
learned more, Socrates asserts that this good city can be either Greek or
barbarian. This discussion of the relation among cities mixes conven-
tion with nature in the intention of bringing men closer together and
removing the obstacles which prevent the recognition of a common hu-
[ 388 ]
Interpretive Essay
manity, without at the same time undermining the principles which
make political life possible.
The eager Glaucon finally insists that Socrates must stop trying to
avoid the question. Socrates must tell whether the regime is possible.
Glaucon, however, no longer means by possible what had earlier been
meant. He wants to know how the regime will come into being; he is
interested only in its actualization. He thus abandons the standard
which he set in his first speech about justice, that is, nature. What he
wanted then was a proof that justice is good according to nature and
not merely according to convention or human agreement; justice was to
be shown to conduce to human happiness in the same way health does.
This standard was maintained in the discussion of the desirability of
assigning the same way of life to women as to men. By showing that
women's natures are the same as men's and supporting this proof with
examples of natural animal behavior, Glaucon and Socrates were
satisfied that the proposal was possible and good. Now Glaucon only
wants to know whether the city can exist without determining whether
it is natural and hence good. At the end, he seems willing to accept the
city and its justice without having found out that thing which he him-
self had insisted was decisive for accepting or rejecting the city. And it
is clear that the community of women and children, if it were to exist,
would not be a product of nature but of art; it would be a triumph of
art over nature. Glaucon's desire to see his city come into being has
caused him to forget to ask whether it is good for man or not. The
lesson of this change in the meaning of possibility would seem to be
that, though man exists by nature, the city does not and is hence of a
lower status than man.
Socrates, in a preamble to his discussion of the possibility of the
regime, contributes to the depreciation of the city which was just begun
by abandoning the question of its naturalness. He makes it clear that
this regime which is to be brought into being will not be simply just.
Justice itself exists more in speech than deed. After all of this effort,
the product is admitted to be imperfect and not lovable for itself but
because it is an imitation of justice. At the peak of the insistence that
everything be given to the city, it becomes manifest that no city
deserves such attention and that one must look beyond the city for the
reality. This is a great disappointment and prepares the way for a
transcendence of the city.
(473c~487a) At last, however, Socrates allows the final wave —
the philosopher-kings— to roll in on them, and he introduces his own
way of life into the city. It is no wonder that he hesitated to speak, for
he asserts:
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Unless the philosophers rule as Icings or those now called longs and
chiefs genuinely and adequately philosophize, and political power
and philosophy coincide in the same place, while the many natures
now making their way to either apart from the other are by neces-
sity excluded, there is no rest from ills for the cities, my dear
Glaucon, nor I think for human kind, nor will the regime we have
now described in speech ever come forth from nature, insofar as
possible, and see the light of the sun.
Socrates expects to ^e drowned in tides of ridicule for this paradoxical
assertion. Glaucon wholeheartedly agrees that this will be the case, and
anticipates that the scorn will be mixed with anger. The laughter and
indignation, which played so important a role in the discussion of the
first two waves, reappear together here in a more intense form.
It is, however, hard for modem men to be particularly shocked by
Socrates' pronouncement; it seems much less comic or reprehensible to
us than the other waves. It is not that we would take the notion very
seriously, but we are in some sense the heirs and beneficiaries of Soc-
rates' work, even as we are the children of the Enlightenment which
radicalized that work. Partly because Socrates and Plato were so ef-
fective in arguing the usefulness of philosophy to civil society, and
partly because the meaning of philosophy has changed, we no longer
believe that there is a tension between philosophy and civil society. Al-
though we might doubt whether philosophers have the gift of ruling, we
do not consider the activity of philosophy to be pernicious to political
concerns. Hence the notion of philosopher-kings is not in itself
paradoxical for us. But, precisely because we take it for granted that
the hatred of philosophy was merely prejudice, and that history has
helped us to overcome that prejudice, we are in danger of missing the
point which Socrates makes here. In order to understand this passage,
we must see philosophy against the nonphilosophic and hostile
background from which it emerged. It is not merely historical curiosity
which should lead us to make this effort. We must rediscover the
forgotten reasons for Socrates' difficulties in order to evaluate the role
of philosophy and science within our world, for their role may be more
problematic than we are wont to believe. Philosophy is a rare plant,
one which has flourished only in the West; it is perhaps the essence of
that West. Its place is not simply assured everywhere and always as is
the city's. The writings of Plato and a few others made it respectable.
The Republic thus represents one of the most decisive moments of our
history. In this work Socrates presents the grounds of his being brought
to trial and shows why philosophy is always in danger and always in
need of a defense.
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Interpretive Essay
The best way to see the fantastic character of Socrates' proposal
for the rule of philosopher-kings is to look at Aristophanes' Clouds,
which shows how the philosopher appears to the city. Socrates stays in
his think-tank discussing the nature of the heavens with unhealthy men.
He is graceless and unprepossessing, a ridiculous personage in the
eyes of any man of the world. His experiments in natural philosophy
allow him to be besmirched by lizards, and he spends his time looking
at gnats, a thing no gentleman would do; these insects even infest his
clothes. He does not believe in the gods of Athens and has other ex-
traordinary divinities of his own; he draws promising young men away
from the political life into his unusual researches. He is a marginal
figure who seems both odd and corrupt, utterly without common sense.
With this picture of himself in mind, Socrates seems to say here, "All
right, this is the man who should rule." He is ridiculous in his pretensions
and subversive in his intentions, thus provoking reactions of laughter and
anger.
At this point in the discussion, Socrates argues that philosophy is
needed in this city; he does not argue that philosophy is the best human
activity. Philosophy is not the theme of the discussion, but justice, and
particularly a just city. Nevertheless, the most comprehensive discus-
sion of the city leads— against the will of Socrates, as it were— to a
discussion of philosophy. Beginning from the common sense of
political men and maintaining their perspective throughout, Socrates
demonstrates that they must tolerate and encourage philosophy. This
constitutes a defense of philosophy from the political point of view.
Philosophy is necessary to this regime, to the best regime, because
without philosophy the regime cannot find impartial rulers who have
considered the proper distribution of the good things. In other words,
the philosopher is the only kind of knower whose attention is devoted
to the whole. Statesmen are always preoccupied with the here-and-now,
but the interpretation of the here-and-now depends on some knowledge
of the whole. If justice means giving each man what is fitting for him, a
statesman must know what man is and his relation to the other beings.
In asserting that philosophers should rule, Socrates formulates a
view of the relation between wisdom and power opposed to that of the
Enlightenment. Beginning from the common assumption that
knowledge of the ends of man and civil society is necessary to civil so-
ciety, or that wisdom should rule, the two teachings differ as to whether
the rule of wisdom requires that the wise rule. The thinkers of the
Enlightenment teach that wisdom can rule without philosophers having
to take political power; that is, they teach that the dissemination of
knowledge will inevitably lead to the establishment of good regimes.
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Socrates teaches that wisdom and political power are distinct. Their
coming together can only be due to the coincidence that a man who is
wise happens also to be a ruler, thus uniting the two things; nothing in
their two natures leads the one to the other. Political power serves the
passions or desires of the members of a city, and a multitude cannot
philosophize. It may use the results of science or philosophy, but it will
use them to its own ends and will thereby distort them. Moreover, the
wise man by himself is more of a threat to a regime than a helper. In-
tellectual progress is not the same as political progress, and, because
there is not a simple harmony between the works of the mind and the
works of the city, the philosopher without power must remain in an
uneasy relationship with the city and its beliefs. Enlightenment en-
dangers philosophy because it tempts philosophers to sacrifice their
quest for the truth in favor of attempting to edify the public; in an
"enlightened" world, philosophy risks being made a tool of unwise and
even tyrannical regimes, thus giving those regimes the color of reason
and losing its function as the standard for criticism of them. Enlighten-
ment also endangers the city by publicly calling into question its untrue
but essential beliefs. If philosophers cannot rule, philosophy must be
disproportionate to the city. This means that its truths must remain
fundamentally private, and that the philosopher, for his own good and
that of the city, must hide himself. He must adapt his public teachings
to his particular situation while keeping his thought free of its
influence. The philosopher's public speech must be guided by prudence
rather than love of the truth; his philosophic activity seems essentially
private. Philosopher-kings are, therefore, truly a paradox. The formula-
tion points up the salutary effect of philosophy in a city and the
necessity of the city for philosophy, hence justifying each to the other;
but the high degree of improbability of actualization of the coincidence
of philosophers and kings also points up the enduring tension between
philosophy and the city. The city cannot do without philosophy, but it
also cannot quite tolerate philosophy.
Socrates expects a spirited attack on his position by his oppo-
nents, so he must prepare his defenses. He begins by distinguishing the
philosophers from the nonphilosophers. This distinction is made by
referring to two salient aspects of the philosopher. In the first place, he
has a voracious appetite for all learning. His curiosity is not like that of
a craftsman who learns only what is useful in the narrow sense and
whose interest is limited by his craft. The philosopher learns as other
men love— simply because it seems good and an end in itself; as a mat-
ter of fact, learning is an erotic activity for him. Love of learning is
another expression of man's eros, of his longing for completeness. Such
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a man wants to know everything, aware that no part can be understood
without being considered in relation to the whole. Socrates simply
describes that rare but revealing phenomenon, the theoretical man, he
who proves the possibility of disinterested knowledge. He is the man
who can preserve his disinterestedness even in the difficult human
questions which concern him most immediately, because he is more at-
tracted by clarity than life, satisfaction of desire, or honor. The
philosopher introduces to the city a dimension of reason that had not
been discerned in the earlier discussion of it.
Glaucon objects that on the basis of this description of the
philosopher, all the lovers of sights and hearing— particularly the
lovers of the festivals where the poets display their dramas— would
have to be considered philosophers. In response to this objection, Soc-
rates defines the second salient characteristic of the philosopher: he is
a lover of the one idea of each thing and not the many things which
participate in the ideas, of being and not becoming, of knowledge and
not opinion. Thus Socrates introduces the teaching for which he is most
renowned and which constitutes the most difficult part of his
thought— the ideas. Here this teaching is presented to a young man
who is not a philosopher in a context where it is not the primary con-
cern. Hence the treatment of it is most inadequate, and the existence of
the ideas is assumed rather than proved. Socrates only tries to satisfy
Glaucon that the philosopher has concern for a reality other than that
of most men. In so doing, Socrates appeals particularly to Glaucon's
own experience with the beautiful things he loves so much. That ex-
perience shows Glaucon that all the beautiful things he knows are also
in some ways ugly, and that what was once beautiful becomes ugly.
These beautiful things seem to be understood to be beautiful in relation
to some standard which is entirely beautiful, the approach to which
makes them beautiful. That standard is beautiful, while the things
which imitate it are and are not beautiful at the same time. Things
which come into being and pass away are only to the extent that they
partake of what does not come into being or pass away. The ideas are
the permanent ones behind the changing manys to which we apply the
same name. Thus they are the causes of the things seen and heard—
causes not in the sense that they explain the coming-into-being of a
particular thing but in the sense that they explain its character. The
idea of man is the cause of a particular man's being a man rather than a
collection of the elements to which he can be reduced. The ideas, then,
are the justification of the philosophic life. If there are no permanent
entities, if everything is in flux, there can be no knowledge. Knowledge,
or science, requires universals of which the particulars are imperfect
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examples; as knowing beings we care only for the universals. The ideas
give reality to the universals and hence make it possible to explain the
fact that man possesses knowledge. The ideas are the being of things.
They constitute an account of the first causes of things which also does
justice to the observed heterogeneity of the visible universe, unlike
earlier, pre-Socratic accounts of being which required the reduction of
all things to a single kind of being— like the atoms— thus making the
specific characters of those things unintelligible. This teaching provides
those intelligible, diverse, permanent, universal beings which the mind
seems to seek when it attempts to defiine or to explain. In undertaking
to look for justice, Socrates and his companions were looking for some-
thing real, which has a higher dignity than, and can act as a standard
for, the imperfect justice v^hich they found in men and cities. If there is
not something like an idea of justice, their quest is futile.
And it is in this quest for the universal principles that the
theoretical man first meets the opposition of the unphilosophic men
who make up a city. They are loyal not to cities in general but to their
own city; they love not men in general, but this particular man or wom-
an; they are not interested in the nature of the species, but their own
fates. However, all the things to which citizens are most passionately
attached have a lessened reality in the eyes of the theoretical man; what
is peculiar to these things, what constitutes their charm for the prac-
tical man, must be overcome in order to understand them. For the
practical man the particular things to which he is attached are the real
things, and he will resist any attempt to go beyond them to "the more
general case," which would destroy their character and his capacity to
possess them as his very own. The city in speech of the philosopher
comes into being only by depreciating Athens, and any other city in
which men can live. To the philosopher the city in speech is more
lovable and more real than any of the particular cities which are to him
poor imitations of the city in speech. In order to love what is, he must
be a man who does not have the same needs as other men; he must have
overcome, at least in thought, his omti becoming. For the theoretical
man, particular things are real only insofar as they "participate" in the
ideas. They are not but are like what is. Hence the practical men who
love particular things make the mistake of taking a thing to be that
which it is like. They thus dream their lives away, never laying hold of
a reality. But they cannot be told this. They must be soothed and
deceived, and it is questionable how far they can afford to be tolerant
of the philosopher whose interests are so different and conflicting.
Here, again, poetry seems to be in the service of the characteristic
weakness of the many. Thus, in mentioning the unphilosophic men
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who are like the philosophers, Glaucon chooses the example of those
who love theatrical spectacles. Poetry itself deals in images of par-
ticular things; and it uses its images to give added significance to one's
particular attachments, beautifying one's country, one's loves, one's
aspirations. In the beginning of the discussion Thrasymachus, the
rhetorician, was refuted because he made the error of saying that a
thing is that which it is like. And the discussion of imitation in Book
III addressed this same question. It is a theme which runs throughout
the Republic. Poetry, in its most common usage, adorns the particular
and renders it more attractive, hence making it more difficult to trans-
cend. It does so because it must appeal to audiences of men who cannot
and do not wish to make that transcendence. It is thus an opponent of
philosophy.
Glaucon agrees that philosophers, since they are awake while
others are dreaming and are like painters who can use the truth as their
model, would be the best rulers if they possessed the other virtues. Soc-
rates responds to the doubt implied in Glaucon's condition by attempt-
ing to show that all the virtues are involved in the philosophers' very
vocation and that thus they are good citizens. As a result of their love
of wisdom, all the lovers of wisdom possess all the virtues, and more
reliably than anyone else because they have a sufficient reason for being
virtuous. They do not have to make an effort to become virtuous or
concentrate on the virtues; the virtues follow of themselves from the
greatest love and pleasure of the philosophers. In the case of other men,
as Adeimantus has made clear, everything they love has to be sacrificed
on the altar of virtue. By way of contrast, without sacrifice the
philosopher, in addition to possessing the intellectual virtues, will be
moderate, courageous, and just. At last there appears to be a resolution
of the disharmony between happiness and devotion to the city that
arose after the destruction of the city of sows. For the philosophers con-
stitute a class of men who can safely be made rulers and whose hap-
piness is identical with their virtuous activity.
However, this solution may be more apparent than real, for it is
questionable whether the virtues of the philosopher are quite the same
as those of the citizen. One has only to consider the case of the
philosopher's love of truth, which Socrates assimilates to the warriors'
truthfulness. It is obvious that a man can love the truth without telling
it and can also regularly tell what he understands to be the truth
without any love for or questing after the real truth. Similarly, the
philosopher's courage and moderation are not the same as those of the
simple citizen. The philosopher is courageous because his constant pre-
occupation with the eternal makes him somewhat oblivious to life, and
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not because he is' obedient to the city's rules about what is fearful and
what not. And he is moderate because he has an immoderate love of
the truth, not because he restrains his desires. Most important of all
Socrates indicates that the philosopher is just only by shoMdng that
there are certain kinds of things he is likely to abstain from. This is the
same procedure Socrates adopted in Book IV when he tried to prove
that a man with a healthy soul will be just, and he admitted there that
this is only a crude test. Thus the philosopher is likely to be indifferent
to money because it plays only a small role in helping him acquire what
he cares for, but there is nothing here that indicates he has a disposition
to render unto others what is due to them. Moreover, there is also noth-
ing in his nature which would attach him to the city. Socrates hints at
this by repeating a catalogue of the philosopher's virtues several times;
the virtues listed change slightly in the course of these repetitions. The
most significant change is that justice is finally omitted (cf. 487a and
494b). The silent lesson would seem to be that it is indeed possible to
possess intellectual virtue without what later came to be called moral
virtue.
The problem appears to be something like the following. As pre-
sented in the Republic, the virtues can be derived from two possible
sources: the necessities of the city and the necessities of philosophy.
The virtues stemming from these two sources have much in common,
but they are far from identical. Nonetheless, Socrates' procedure is to
identify the two and thus to assert that the philosopher is identical with
the virtuous man in the civic sense. In the very act of making this ques-
tionable identification, however, he helps us to see the distinction be-
tween the two. It is a new way of stating the already familiar tension
between the needs of the body and those of the soul. The virtues con-
nected with the city help to preserve the city and thereby its inhabi-
tants; preservation, or mere life, is the goal. The virtues connected with
philosophy aid in the quest for the comprehensive truth; the good life is
the goal. Both goals make their demands, and those demands conflict.
There are, then, two kinds of virtue: philosophic virtue and demotic, or
vulgar, virtue.
Moreover, in both instances, virtue is loved not for virtue's sake
but for some other good beyond it; or, to use Kantian language, the
system of the virtues presented by Socrates is heteronomous. What
Glaucon had asked for is a proof that justice is good in itself. The
implicit Socratic teaching is that lio such proof is possible, that nature
does not give a ground for a virtue not connected with some other end.
He differs from the utilitarians only in that the needs of the body do
not constitute the only end. In Socratic thought, the demands of
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Interpretive Essay
philosophy, or of the soul, provide a second polar star for the guidance
of human conduct. This tempers the unmitigated pursuit of the goods
connected with the body and the city which characterizes the tradition
begun by Machiavelli and Hobbes; and it adds a sublimity to the ac-
count of the virtues which is also lacking in the later thought. Still, this
leaves the virtues of the warrior class in a kind of limbo. They are
asked to live and die for the city. They are asked to have more virtues
than their self-preservation would demand, yet they are not
philosophers. What, then, is the status of their virtues? Socrates seems
to deny the existence of the independent moral virtues. These are the
virtues presented by Aristotle as ends in themselves, pursued only be-
cause they are noble. Socrates presents instead two kinds of virtues, one
low and one high, but both mercenary in the sense that they are pur-
sued for the sake of some reward. The warrior's virtue is somewhere
between them. Virtue, if pursued for other reasons, is no longer what
we mean by true virtue; the great tradition stretching from Aristotle to
Kant is evidence for that. But virtue pursued for its own sake is without
ground and has a tincture of folly. This is the Socratic teaching. Moral
virtue is a halfway house, partaking of the grandeur et misere of its
two sources.
(487b-503b) Adeimantus, sensing the inadequacy of this proof of
the philosopher's public virtue and comparing it with the experience of
the cities, for the fourth and last time stops Socrates in the name of the
city. Once more, his interruption takes the form of an accusation, but
an accusation no longer directed against certain political proposals but
rather against the philosophers themselves, against the true source of
the difficulties. According to Adeimantus, philosophers mislead men
by their superior power of speech, making the weaker argument appear
the stronger; at best they are useless to the city, at worst, and most
usually, they are completely vicious. Of all men, their dedication to the
city appears to be most questionable. Philosophy always has a bad
reputation, and it becomes Socrates' duty to show that its ill-repute is
the fault of those who hate it rather than of its practitioners. In the per-
fonnance of that duty, he will also prove to Glaucon that philosophy is
one thing that a man would want to pursue even if it brings him a bad
reputation or the reputation for injustice. If philosophy is the health of
the soul, and hence justice in the highest sense, justice is desirable in it-
self, regardless of reputation. This is the praise of justice Glaucon
asked for in the beginning.
The explanation of philosophy's plight is divided into three parts:
the true philosophers are misunderstood and neglected, the potential
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philosophers are corrupted, and impostors have taken on the guise of
philosophers. Philosophy is exculpated and is useful to the city if prop-
erly used. The appeal is directed to the people as a whole, whom
Adeimantus seems to represent. The people's hostility is explained as a
result of misunderstanding and the deceptions of vicious men. The peo-
ple are represented as persuadable because they are decent, and there
are no real conflicts of interest. This gentleness of the people is a
necessary condition of the actualization of the good city and is
therefore somewhat overstated in an account which tries to show that a
city will accept philosophers as kings.
Socrates begins his apology with an image, the first of several that
are to come. These images constitute a kind of Socratic poetry and
serve to counterbalance the powerful attack Socrates has made on
poetry. Just as we learned that the poets know the human passions,
here we learn that they are in possession of one of the most powerful
tools for leading men to the truth. The intellect does not perceive the
ideas directly; it knows of their existence only through particulars. Man
must reason about the things he perceives in order to know their
causes. Without a full and profound experience of the phenomena, the
intellect is a void. Images are the food of the mind; and poetry can
make the most fruitful images. In poetry one can find representations
of man which are richer and more typical than any experiences of men
that one is likely to have. The poetic images should be used as
geometers use representations of circles — to understand something of
which the particular circle is only an imperfect image. Poetry charac-
teristically causes men 
