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OF THE many excellences which I perceive in the order of our
State, there is none which upon reflection pleases me better than
the rule about poetry.
To what do you refer?
To the rejection of imitative poetry, which certainly ought not to
be received; as I see far more clearly now that the parts of the
soul have been distinguished.
What do you mean?
Speaking in confidence, for I should not like to have my words
repeated to the tragedians and the rest of the imitative tribe --but I
do not mind saying to you, that all poetical imitations are ruinous to
the understanding of the hearers, and that the knowledge of their true
nature is the only antidote to them.
Explain the purport of your remark.
Well, I will tell you, although I have always from my earliest youth
had an awe and love of Homer, which even now makes the words falter on
my lips, for he is the great captain and teacher of the whole of
that charming tragic company; but a man is not to be reverenced more
than the truth, and therefore I will speak out.
Very good, he said.
Listen to me then, or rather, answer me.
Put your question.
Can you tell me what imitation is? for I really do not know.
A likely thing, then, that I should know.
Why not? for the duller eye may often see a thing sooner than the
keener.
Very true, he said; but in your presence, even if I had any faint
notion, I could not muster courage to utter it. Will you enquire
yourself?
Well then, shall we begin the enquiry in our usual manner:
Whenever a number of individuals have a common name, we assume them to
have also a corresponding idea or form. Do you understand me?
I do.
Let us take any common instance; there are beds and tables in the
world --plenty of them, are there not?
Yes.
But there are only two ideas or forms of them --one the idea of a
bed, the other of a table.
True.
And the maker of either of them makes a bed or he makes a table
for our use, in accordance with the idea --that is our way of speaking
in this and similar instances --but no artificer makes the ideas
themselves: how could he?
Impossible.
And there is another artist, --I should like to know what you
would say of him.
Who is he?
One who is the maker of all the works of all other workmen.
What an extraordinary man!
Wait a little, and there will be more reason for your saying so. For
this is he who is able to make not only vessels of every kind, but
plants and animals, himself and all other things --the earth and
heaven, and the things which are in heaven or under the earth; he
makes the gods also.
He must be a wizard and no mistake.
Oh! you are incredulous, are you? Do you mean that there is no
such maker or creator, or that in one sense there might be a maker
of all these things but in another not? Do you see that there is a way
in which you could make them all yourself?
What way?
An easy way enough; or rather, there are many ways in which the feat
might be quickly and easily accomplished, none quicker than that of
turning a mirror round and round --you would soon enough make the
sun and the heavens, and the earth and yourself, and other animals and
plants, and all the, other things of which we were just now
speaking, in the mirror.
Yes, he said; but they would be appearances only.
Very good, I said, you are coming to the point now. And the
painter too is, as I conceive, just such another --a creator of
appearances, is he not?
Of course.
But then I suppose you will say that what he creates is untrue.
And yet there is a sense in which the painter also creates a bed?
Yes, he said, but not a real bed.
And what of the maker of the bed? Were you not saying that he too
makes, not the idea which, according to our view, is the essence of
the bed, but only a particular bed?
Yes, I did.
Then if he does not make that which exists he cannot make true
existence, but only some semblance of existence; and if any one were
to say that the work of the maker of the bed, or of any other workman,
has real existence, he could hardly be supposed to be speaking the
truth.
At any rate, he replied, philosophers would say that he was not
speaking the truth.
No wonder, then, that his work too is an indistinct expression of
truth.
No wonder.
Suppose now that by the light of the examples just offered we
enquire who this imitator is?
If you please.
Well then, here are three beds: one existing in nature, which is
made by God, as I think that we may say --for no one else can be the
maker?
No.
There is another which is the work of the carpenter?
Yes.
And the work of the painter is a third?
Yes.
Beds, then, are of three kinds, and there are three artists who
superintend them: God, the maker of the bed, and the painter?
Yes, there are three of them.
God, whether from choice or from necessity, made one bed in nature
and one only; two or more such ideal beds neither ever have been nor
ever will be made by God.
Why is that?
Because even if He had made but two, a third would still appear
behind them which both of them would have for their idea, and that
would be the ideal bed and the two others.
Very true, he said.
God knew this, and He desired to be the real maker of a real bed,
not a particular maker of a particular bed, and therefore He created a
bed which is essentially and by nature one only.
So we believe.
Shall we, then, speak of Him as the natural author or maker of the
bed?
Yes, he replied; inasmuch as by the natural process of creation He
is the author of this and of all other things.
And what shall we say of the carpenter --is not he also the maker of
the bed?
Yes.
But would you call the painter a creator and maker?
Certainly not.
Yet if he is not the maker, what is he in relation to the bed?
I think, he said, that we may fairly designate him as the imitator
of that which the others make.
Good, I said; then you call him who is third in the descent from
nature an imitator?
Certainly, he said.
And the tragic poet is an imitator, and therefore, like all other
imitators, he is thrice removed from the king and from the truth?
That appears to be so.
Then about the imitator we are agreed. And what about the painter?
--I would like to know whether he may be thought to imitate that which
originally exists in nature, or only the creations of artists?
The latter.
As they are or as they appear? You have still to determine this.
What do you mean?
I mean, that you may look at a bed from different points of view,
obliquely or directly or from any other point of view, and the bed
will appear different, but there is no difference in reality. And
the same of all things.
Yes, he said, the difference is only apparent.
Now let me ask you another question: Which is the art of painting
designed to be --an imitation of things as they are, or as they appear
--of appearance or of reality?
Of appearance.
Then the imitator, I said, is a long way off the truth, and can do
all things because he lightly touches on a small part of them, and
that part an image. For example: A painter will paint a cobbler,
carpenter, or any other artist, though he knows nothing of their arts;
and, if he is a good artist, he may deceive children or simple
persons, when he shows them his picture of a carpenter from a
distance, and they will fancy that they are looking at a real
carpenter.
Certainly.
And whenever any one informs us that he has found a man knows all
the arts, and all things else that anybody knows, and every single
thing with a higher degree of accuracy than any other man --whoever
tells us this, I think that we can only imagine to be a simple
creature who is likely to have been deceived by some wizard or actor
whom he met, and whom he thought all-knowing, because he himself was
unable to analyse the nature of knowledge and ignorance and imitation.
Most true.
And so, when we hear persons saying that the tragedians, and
Homer, who is at their head, know all the arts and all things human,
virtue as well as vice, and divine things too, for that the good
poet cannot compose well unless he knows his subject, and that he
who has not this knowledge can never be a poet, we ought to consider
whether here also there may not be a similar illusion. Perhaps they
may have come across imitators and been deceived by them; they may not
have remembered when they saw their works that these were but
imitations thrice removed from the truth, and could easily be made
without any knowledge of the truth, because they are appearances
only and not realities? Or, after all, they may be in the right, and
poets do really know the things about which they seem to the many to
speak so well?
The question, he said, should by all means be considered.
Now do you suppose that if a person were able to make the original
as well as the image, he would seriously devote himself to the
image-making branch? Would he allow imitation to be the ruling
principle of his life, as if he had nothing higher in him?
I should say not.
The real artist, who knew what he was imitating, would be interested
in realities and not in imitations; and would desire to leave as
memorials of himself works many and fair; and, instead of being the
author of encomiums, he would prefer to be the theme of them.
Yes, he said, that would be to him a source of much greater honour
and profit.
Then, I said, we must put a question to Homer; not about medicine,
or any of the arts to which his poems only incidentally refer: we
are not going to ask him, or any other poet, whether he has cured
patients like Asclepius, or left behind him a school of medicine
such as the Asclepiads were, or whether he only talks about medicine
and other arts at second hand; but we have a right to know
respecting military tactics, politics, education, which are the
chiefest and noblest subjects of his poems, and we may fairly ask
him about them. 'Friend Homer,' then we say to him, 'if you are only
in the second remove from truth in what you say of virtue, and not
in the third --not an image maker or imitator --and if you are able to
discern what pursuits make men better or worse in private or public
life, tell us what State was ever better governed by your help? The
good order of Lacedaemon is due to Lycurgus, and many other cities
great and small have been similarly benefited by others; but who
says that you have been a good legislator to them and have done them
any good? Italy and Sicily boast of Charondas, and there is Solon
who is renowned among us; but what city has anything to say about
you?' Is there any city which he might name?
I think not, said Glaucon; not even the Homerids themselves
pretend that he was a legislator.
Well, but is there any war on record which was carried on
successfully by him, or aided by his counsels, when he was alive?
There is not.
Or is there any invention of his, applicable to the arts or to human
life, such as Thales the Milesian or Anacharsis the Scythian, and
other ingenious men have conceived, which is attributed to him?
There is absolutely nothing of the kind.
But, if Homer never did any public service, was he privately a guide
or teacher of any? Had he in his lifetime friends who loved to
associate with him, and who handed down to posterity an Homeric way of
life, such as was established by Pythagoras who was so greatly beloved
for his wisdom, and whose followers are to this day quite celebrated
for the order which was named after him?
Nothing of the kind is recorded of him. For surely, Socrates,
Creophylus, the companion of Homer, that child of flesh, whose name
always makes us laugh, might be more justly ridiculed for his
stupidity, if, as is said, Homer was greatly neglected by him and
others in his own day when he was alive?
Yes, I replied, that is the tradition. But can you imagine, Glaucon,
that if Homer had really been able to educate and improve mankind --if
he had possessed knowledge and not been a mere imitator --can you
imagine, I say, that he would not have had many followers, and been
honoured and loved by them? Protagoras of Abdera, and Prodicus of
Ceos, and a host of others, have only to whisper to their
contemporaries: 'You will never be able to manage either your own
house or your own State until you appoint us to be your ministers of
education' --and this ingenious device of theirs has such an effect in
making them love them that their companions all but carry them about
on their shoulders. And is it conceivable that the contemporaries of
Homer, or again of Hesiod, would have allowed either of them to go
about as rhapsodists, if they had really been able to make mankind
virtuous? Would they not have been as unwilling to part with them as
with gold, and have compelled them to stay at home with them? Or, if
the master would not stay, then the disciples would have followed
him about everywhere, until they had got education enough?
Yes, Socrates, that, I think, is quite true.
Then must we not infer that all these poetical individuals,
beginning with Homer, are only imitators; they copy images of virtue
and the like, but the truth they never reach? The poet is like a
painter who, as we have already observed, will make a likeness of a
cobbler though he understands nothing of cobbling; and his picture
is good enough for those who know no more than he does, and judge only
by colours and figures.
Quite so.
In like manner the poet with his words and phrases may be said to
lay on the colours of the several arts, himself understanding their
nature only enough to imitate them; and other people, who are as
ignorant as he is, and judge only from his words, imagine that if he
speaks of cobbling, or of military tactics, or of anything else, in
metre and harmony and rhythm, he speaks very well --such is the
sweet influence which melody and rhythm by nature have. And I think
that you must have observed again and again what a poor appearance the
tales of poets make when stripped of the colours which music puts upon
them, and recited in simple prose.
Yes, he said.
They are like faces which were never really beautiful, but only
blooming; and now the bloom of youth has passed away from them?
Exactly.
Here is another point: The imitator or maker of the image knows
nothing of true existence; he knows appearances only. Am I not right?
Yes.
Then let us have a clear understanding, and not be satisfied with
half an explanation.
Proceed.
Of the painter we say that he will paint reins, and he will paint
a bit?
Yes.
And the worker in leather and brass will make them?
Certainly.
But does the painter know the right form of the bit and reins?
Nay, hardly even the workers in brass and leather who make them;
only the horseman who knows how to use them --he knows their right
form.
Most true.
And may we not say the same of all things?
What?
That there are three arts which are concerned with all things: one
which uses, another which makes, a third which imitates them?
Yes.
And the excellence or beauty or truth of every structure, animate or
inanimate, and of every action of man, is relative to the use for
which nature or the artist has intended them.
True.
Then the user of them must have the greatest experience of them, and
he must indicate to the maker the good or bad qualities which
develop themselves in use; for example, the flute-player will tell the
flute-maker which of his flutes is satisfactory to the performer; he
will tell him how he ought to make them, and the other will attend
to his instructions?
Of course.
The one knows and therefore speaks with authority about the goodness
and badness of flutes, while the other, confiding in him, will do what
he is told by him?
True.
The instrument is the same, but about the excellence or badness of
it the maker will only attain to a correct belief; and this he will
gain from him who knows, by talking to him and being compelled to hear
what he has to say, whereas the user will have knowledge?
True.
But will the imitator have either? Will he know from use whether
or no his drawing is correct or beautiful? Or will he have right
opinion from being compelled to associate with another who knows and
gives him instructions about what he should draw?
Neither.
Then he will no more have true opinion than he will have knowledge
about the goodness or badness of his imitations?
I suppose not.
The imitative artist will be in a brilliant state of intelligence
about his own creations?
Nay, very much the reverse.
And still he will go on imitating without knowing what makes a thing
good or bad, and may be expected therefore to imitate only that
which appears to be good to the ignorant multitude?
Just so.
Thus far then we are pretty well agreed that the imitator has no
knowledge worth mentioning of what he imitates. Imitation is only a
kind of play or sport, and the tragic poets, whether they write in
iambic or in Heroic verse, are imitators in the highest degree?
Very true.
And now tell me, I conjure you, has not imitation been shown by us
to be concerned with that which is thrice removed from the truth?
Certainly.
And what is the faculty in man to which imitation is addressed?
What do you mean?
I will explain: The body which is large when seen near, appears
small when seen at a distance?
True.
And the same object appears straight when looked at out of the
water, and crooked when in the water; and the concave becomes
convex, owing to the illusion about colours to which the sight is
liable. Thus every sort of confusion is revealed within us; and this
is that weakness of the human mind on which the art of conjuring and
of deceiving by light and shadow and other ingenious devices
imposes, having an effect upon us like magic.
True.
And the arts of measuring and numbering and weighing come to the
rescue of the human understanding-there is the beauty of them --and
the apparent greater or less, or more or heavier, no longer have the
mastery over us, but give way before calculation and measure and
weight?
Most true.
And this, surely, must be the work of the calculating and rational
principle in the soul
To be sure.
And when this principle measures and certifies that some things
are equal, or that some are greater or less than others, there
occurs an apparent contradiction?
True.
But were we not saying that such a contradiction is the same faculty
cannot have contrary opinions at the same time about the same thing?
Very true.
Then that part of the soul which has an opinion contrary to
measure is not the same with that which has an opinion in accordance
with measure?
True.
And the better part of the soul is likely to be that which trusts to
measure and calculation?
Certainly.
And that which is opposed to them is one of the inferior
principles of the soul?
No doubt.
This was the conclusion at which I was seeking to arrive when I said
that painting or drawing, and imitation in general, when doing their
own proper work, are far removed from truth, and the companions and
friends and associates of a principle within us which is equally
removed from reason, and that they have no true or healthy aim.
Exactly.
The imitative art is an inferior who marries an inferior, and has
inferior offspring.
Very true.
And is this confined to the sight only, or does it extend to the
hearing also, relating in fact to what we term poetry?
Probably the same would be true of poetry.
Do not rely, I said, on a probability derived from the analogy of
painting; but let us examine further and see whether the faculty
with which poetical imitation is concerned is good or bad.
By all means.
We may state the question thus: --Imitation imitates the actions
of men, whether voluntary or involuntary, on which, as they imagine, a
good or bad result has ensued, and they rejoice or sorrow accordingly.
Is there anything more?
No, there is nothing else.
But in all this variety of circumstances is the man at unity with
himself --or rather, as in the instance of sight there was confusion
and opposition in his opinions about the same things, so here also
is there not strife and inconsistency in his life? Though I need
hardly raise the question again, for I remember that all this has been
already admitted; and the soul has been acknowledged by us to be
full of these and ten thousand similar oppositions occurring at the
same moment?
And we were right, he said.
Yes, I said, thus far we were right; but there was an omission which
must now be supplied.
What was the omission?
Were we not saying that a good man, who has the misfortune to lose
his son or anything else which is most dear to him, will bear the loss
with more equanimity than another?
Yes.
But will he have no sorrow, or shall we say that although he
cannot help sorrowing, he will moderate his sorrow?
The latter, he said, is the truer statement.
Tell me: will he be more likely to struggle and hold out against his
sorrow when he is seen by his equals, or when he is alone?
It will make a great difference whether he is seen or not.
When he is by himself he will not mind saying or doing many things
which he would be ashamed of any one hearing or seeing him do?
True.
There is a principle of law and reason in him which bids him resist,
as well as a feeling of his misfortune which is forcing him to indulge
his sorrow?
True.
But when a man is drawn in two opposite directions, to and from
the same object, this, as we affirm, necessarily implies two
distinct principles in him?
Certainly.
One of them is ready to follow the guidance of the law?
How do you mean?
The law would say that to be patient under suffering is best, and
that we should not give way to impatience, as there is no knowing
whether such things are good or evil; and nothing is gained by
impatience; also, because no human thing is of serious importance, and
grief stands in the way of that which at the moment is most required.
What is most required? he asked.
That we should take counsel about what has happened, and when the
dice have been thrown order our affairs in the way which reason
deems best; not, like children who have had a fall, keeping hold of
the part struck and wasting time in setting up a howl, but always
accustoming the soul forthwith to apply a remedy, raising up that
which is sickly and fallen, banishing the cry of sorrow by the healing
art.
Yes, he said, that is the true way of meeting the attacks of
fortune.
Yes, I said; and the higher principle is ready to follow this
suggestion of reason?
Clearly.
And the other principle, which inclines us to recollection of our
troubles and to lamentation, and can never have enough of them, we may
call irrational, useless, and cowardly?
Indeed, we may.
And does not the latter --I mean the rebellious principle
--furnish a great variety of materials for imitation? Whereas the wise
and calm temperament, being always nearly equable, is not easy to
imitate or to appreciate when imitated, especially at a public
festival when a promiscuous crowd is assembled in a theatre. For the
feeling represented is one to which they are strangers.
Certainly.
Then the imitative poet who aims at being popular is not by nature
made, nor is his art intended, to please or to affect the principle in
the soul; but he will prefer the passionate and fitful temper, which
is easily imitated?
Clearly.
And now we may fairly take him and place him by the side of the
painter, for he is like him in two ways: first, inasmuch as his
creations have an inferior degree of truth --in this, I say, he is
like him; and he is also like him in being concerned with an
inferior part of the soul; and therefore we shall be right in refusing
to admit him into a well-ordered State, because he awakens and
nourishes and strengthens the feelings and impairs the reason. As in a
city when the evil are permitted to have authority and the good are
put out of the way, so in the soul of man, as we maintain, the
imitative poet implants an evil constitution, for he indulges the
irrational nature which has no discernment of greater and less, but
thinks the same thing at one time great and at another small-he is a
manufacturer of images and is very far removed from the truth.
Exactly.
But we have not yet brought forward the heaviest count in our
accusation: --the power which poetry has of harming even the good (and
there are very few who are not harmed), is surely an awful thing?
Yes, certainly, if the effect is what you say.
Hear and judge: The best of us, as I conceive, when we listen to a
passage of Homer, or one of the tragedians, in which he represents
some pitiful hero who is drawling out his sorrows in a long oration,
or weeping, and smiting his breast --the best of us, you know, delight
in giving way to sympathy, and are in raptures at the excellence of
the poet who stirs our feelings most.
Yes, of course I know.
But when any sorrow of our own happens to us, then you may observe
that we pride ourselves on the opposite quality --we would fain be
quiet and patient; this is the manly part, and the other which
delighted us in the recitation is now deemed to be the part of a
woman.
Very true, he said.
Now can we be right in praising and admiring another who is doing
that which any one of us would abominate and be ashamed of in his
own person?
No, he said, that is certainly not reasonable.
Nay, I said, quite reasonable from one point of view.
What point of view?
If you consider, I said, that when in misfortune we feel a natural
hunger and desire to relieve our sorrow by weeping and lamentation,
and that this feeling which is kept under control in our own
calamities is satisfied and delighted by the poets;-the better
nature in each of us, not having been sufficiently trained by reason
or habit, allows the sympathetic element to break loose because the
sorrow is another's; and the spectator fancies that there can be no
disgrace to himself in praising and pitying any one who comes
telling him what a good man he is, and making a fuss about his
troubles; he thinks that the pleasure is a gain, and why should he
be supercilious and lose this and the poem too? Few persons ever
reflect, as I should imagine, that from the evil of other men
something of evil is communicated to themselves. And so the feeling of
sorrow which has gathered strength at the sight of the misfortunes
of others is with difficulty repressed in our own.
How very true!
And does not the same hold also of the ridiculous? There are jests
which you would be ashamed to make yourself, and yet on the comic
stage, or indeed in private, when you hear them, you are greatly
amused by them, and are not at all disgusted at their unseemliness;
--the case of pity is repeated; --there is a principle in human nature
which is disposed to raise a laugh, and this which you once restrained
by reason, because you were afraid of being thought a buffoon, is
now let out again; and having stimulated the risible faculty at the
theatre, you are betrayed unconsciously to yourself into playing the
comic poet at home.
Quite true, he said.
And the same may be said of lust and anger and all the other
affections, of desire and pain and pleasure, which are held to be
inseparable from every action ---in all of them poetry feeds and
waters the passions instead of drying them up; she lets them rule,
although they ought to be controlled, if mankind are ever to
increase in happiness and virtue.
I cannot deny it.
Therefore, Glaucon, I said, whenever you meet with any of the
eulogists of Homer declaring that he has been the educator of
Hellas, and that he is profitable for education and for the ordering
of human things, and that you should take him up again and again and
get to know him and regulate your whole life according to him, we
may love and honour those who say these things --they are excellent
people, as far as their lights extend; and we are ready to acknowledge
that Homer is the greatest of poets and first of tragedy writers;
but we must remain firm in our conviction that hymns to the gods and
praises of famous men are the only poetry which ought to be admitted
into our State. For if you go beyond this and allow the honeyed muse
to enter, either in epic or lyric verse, not law and the reason of
mankind, which by common consent have ever been deemed best, but
pleasure and pain will be the rulers in our State.
That is most true, he said.
And now since we have reverted to the subject of poetry, let this
our defence serve to show the reasonableness of our former judgment in
sending away out of our State an art having the tendencies which we
have described; for reason constrained us. But that she may impute
to us any harshness or want of politeness, let us tell her that
there is an ancient quarrel between philosophy and poetry; of which
there are many proofs, such as the saying of 'the yelping hound
howling at her lord,' or of one 'mighty in the vain talk of fools,'
and 'the mob of sages circumventing Zeus,' and the 'subtle thinkers
who are beggars after all'; and there are innumerable other signs of
ancient enmity between them. Notwithstanding this, let us assure our
sweet friend and the sister arts of imitation that if she will only
prove her title to exist in a well-ordered State we shall be delighted
to receive her --we are very conscious of her charms; but we may not
on that account betray the truth. I dare say, Glaucon, that you are as
much charmed by her as I am, especially when she appears in Homer?
Yes, indeed, I am greatly charmed.
Shall I propose, then, that she be allowed to return from exile, but
upon this condition only --that she make a defence of herself in
lyrical or some other metre?
Certainly.
And we may further grant to those of her defenders who are lovers of
poetry and yet not poets the permission to speak in prose on her
behalf: let them show not only that she is pleasant but also useful to
States and to human life, and we will listen in a kindly spirit; for
if this can be proved we shall surely be the gainers --I mean, if
there is a use in poetry as well as a delight?
Certainly, he said, we shall the gainers.
If her defence fails, then, my dear friend, like other persons who
are enamoured of something, but put a restraint upon themselves when
they think their desires are opposed to their interests, so too must
we after the manner of lovers give her up, though not without a
struggle. We too are inspired by that love of poetry which the
education of noble States has implanted in us, and therefore we
would have her appear at her best and truest; but so long as she is
unable to make good her defence, this argument of ours shall be a
charm to us, which we will repeat to ourselves while we listen to
her strains; that we may not fall away into the childish love of her
which captivates the many. At all events we are well aware that poetry
being such as we have described is not to be regarded seriously as
attaining to the truth; and he who listens to her, fearing for the
safety of the city which is within him, should be on his guard against
her seductions and make our words his law.
Yes, he said, I quite agree with you.
Yes, I said, my dear Glaucon, for great is the issue at stake,
greater than appears, whether a man is to be good or bad. And what
will any one be profited if under the influence of honour or money
or power, aye, or under the excitement of poetry, he neglect justice
and virtue?
Yes, he said; I have been convinced by the argument, as I believe
that any one else would have been.
And yet no mention has been made of the greatest prizes and
rewards which await virtue.
What, are there any greater still? If there are, they must be of
an inconceivable greatness.
Why, I said, what was ever great in a short time? The whole period
of threescore years and ten is surely but a little thing in comparison
with eternity?
Say rather 'nothing,' he replied.
And should an immortal being seriously think of this little space
rather than of the whole?
Of the whole, certainly. But why do you ask?
Are you not aware, I said, that the soul of man is immortal and
imperishable?
He looked at me in astonishment, and said: No, by heaven: And are
you really prepared to maintain this?
Yes, I said, I ought to be, and you too --there is no difficulty
in proving it.
I see a great difficulty; but I should like to hear you state this
argument of which you make so light.
Listen then.
I am attending.
There is a thing which you call good and another which you call
evil?
Yes, he replied.
Would you agree with me in thinking that the corrupting and
destroying element is the evil, and the saving and improving element
the good?
Yes.
And you admit that every thing has a good and also an evil; as
ophthalmia is the evil of the eyes and disease of the whole body; as
mildew is of corn, and rot of timber, or rust of copper and iron: in
everything, or in almost everything, there is an inherent evil and
disease?
Yes, he said.
And anything which is infected by any of these evils is made evil,
and at last wholly dissolves and dies?
True.
The vice and evil which is inherent in each is the destruction of
each; and if this does not destroy them there is nothing else that
will; for good certainly will not destroy them, nor again, that
which is neither good nor evil.
Certainly not.
If, then, we find any nature which having this inherent corruption
cannot be dissolved or destroyed, we may be certain that of such a
nature there is no destruction?
That may be assumed.
Well, I said, and is there no evil which corrupts the soul?
Yes, he said, there are all the evils which we were just now passing
in review: unrighteousness, intemperance, cowardice, ignorance.
But does any of these dissolve or destroy her? --and here do not let
us fall into the error of supposing that the unjust and foolish man,
when he is detected, perishes through his own injustice, which is an
evil of the soul. Take the analogy of the body: The evil of the body
is a disease which wastes and reduces and annihilates the body; and
all the things of which we were just now speaking come to annihilation
through their own corruption attaching to them and inhering in them
and so destroying them. Is not this true?
Yes.
Consider the soul in like manner. Does the injustice or other evil
which exists in the soul waste and consume her? Do they by attaching
to the soul and inhering in her at last bring her to death, and so
separate her from the body ?
Certainly not.
And yet, I said, it is unreasonable to suppose that anything can
perish from without through affection of external evil which could not
be destroyed from within by a corruption of its own?
It is, he replied.
Consider, I said, Glaucon, that even the badness of food, whether
staleness, decomposition, or any other bad quality, when confined to
the actual food, is not supposed to destroy the body; although, if the
badness of food communicates corruption to the body, then we should
say that the body has been destroyed by a corruption of itself,
which is disease, brought on by this; but that the body, being one
thing, can be destroyed by the badness of food, which is another,
and which does not engender any natural infection --this we shall
absolutely deny?
Very true.
And, on the same principle, unless some bodily evil can produce an
evil of the soul, we must not suppose that the soul, which is one
thing, can be dissolved by any merely external evil which belongs to
another?
Yes, he said, there is reason in that.
Either then, let us refute this conclusion, or, while it remains
unrefuted, let us never say that fever, or any other disease, or the
knife put to the throat, or even the cutting up of the whole body into
the minutest pieces, can destroy the soul, until she herself is proved
to become more unholy or unrighteous in consequence of these things
being done to the body; but that the soul, or anything else if not
destroyed by an internal evil, can be destroyed by an external one, is
not to. be affirmed by any man.
And surely, he replied, no one will ever prove that the souls of men
become more unjust in consequence of death.
But if some one who would rather not admit the immortality of the
soul boldly denies this, and says that the dying do really become more
evil and unrighteous, then, if the speaker is right, I suppose that
injustice, like disease, must be assumed to be fatal to the unjust,
and that those who take this disorder die by the natural inherent
power of destruction which evil has, and which kills them sooner or
later, but in quite another way from that in which, at present, the
wicked receive death at the hands of others as the penalty of their
deeds?
Nay, he said, in that case injustice, if fatal to the unjust, will
not be so very terrible to him, for he will be delivered from evil.
But I rather suspect the opposite to be the truth, and that
injustice which, if it have the power, will murder others, keeps the
murderer alive --aye, and well awake too; so far removed is her
dwelling-place from being a house of death.
True, I said; if the inherent natural vice or evil of the soul is
unable to kill or destroy her, hardly will that which is appointed
to be the destruction of some other body, destroy a soul or anything
else except that of which it was appointed to be the destruction.
Yes, that can hardly be.
But the soul which cannot be destroyed by an evil, whether
inherent or external, must exist for ever, and if existing for ever,
must be immortal?
Certainly.
That is the conclusion, I said; and, if a true conclusion, then
the souls must always be the same, for if none be destroyed they
will not diminish in number. Neither will they increase, for the
increase of the immortal natures must come from something mortal,
and all things would thus end in immortality.
Very true.
But this we cannot believe --reason will not allow us --any more
than we can believe the soul, in her truest nature, to be full of
variety and difference and dissimilarity.
What do you mean? he said.
The soul, I said, being, as is now proven, immortal, must be the
fairest of compositions and cannot be compounded of many elements?
Certainly not.
Her immortality is demonstrated by the previous argument, and
there are many other proofs; but to see her as she really is, not as
we now behold her, marred by communion with the body and other
miseries, you must contemplate her with the eye of reason, in her
original purity; and then her beauty will be revealed, and justice and
injustice and all the things which we have described will be
manifested more clearly. Thus far, we have spoken the truth concerning
her as she appears at present, but we must remember also that we
have seen her only in a condition which may be compared to that of the
sea-god Glaucus, whose original image can hardly be discerned
because his natural members are broken off and crushed and damaged
by the waves in all sorts of ways, and incrustations have grown over
them of seaweed and shells and stones, so that he is more like some
monster than he is to his own natural form. And the soul which we
behold is in a similar condition, disfigured by ten thousand ills. But
not there, Glaucon, not there must we look.
Where then?
At her love of wisdom. Let us see whom she affects, and what society
and converse she seeks in virtue of her near kindred with the immortal
and eternal and divine; also how different she would become if
wholly following this superior principle, and borne by a divine
impulse out of the ocean in which she now is, and disengaged from
the stones and shells and things of earth and rock which in wild
variety spring up around her because she feeds upon earth, and is
overgrown by the good things of this life as they are termed: then you
would see her as she is, and know whether she has one shape only or
many, or what her nature is. Of her affections and of the forms
which she takes in this present life I think that we have now said
enough.
True, he replied.
And thus, I said, we have fulfilled the conditions of the
argument; we have not introduced the rewards and glories of justice,
which, as you were saying, are to be found in Homer and Hesiod; but
justice in her own nature has been shown to be best for the soul in
her own nature. Let a man do what is just, whether he have the ring of
Gyges or not, and even if in addition to the ring of Gyges he put on
the helmet of Hades.
Very true.
And now, Glaucon, there will be no harm in further enumerating how
many and how great are the rewards which justice and the other virtues
procure to the soul from gods and men, both in life and after death.
Certainly not, he said.
Will you repay me, then, what you borrowed in the argument?
What did I borrow?
The assumption that the just man should appear unjust and the unjust
just: for you were of opinion that even if the true state of the
case could not possibly escape the eyes of gods and men, still this
admission ought to be made for the sake of the argument, in order that
pure justice might be weighed against pure injustice. Do you remember?
I should be much to blame if I had forgotten.
Then, as the cause is decided, I demand on behalf of justice that
the estimation in which she is held by gods and men and which we
acknowledge to be her due should now be restored to her by us; since
she has been shown to confer reality, and not to deceive those who
truly possess her, let what has been taken from her be given back,
that so she may win that palm of appearance which is hers also, and
which she gives to her own.
The demand, he said, is just.
In the first place, I said --and this is the first thing which you
will have to give back --the nature both of the just and unjust is
truly known to the gods.
Granted.
And if they are both known to them, one must be the friend and the
other the enemy of the gods, as we admitted from the beginning?
True.
And the friend of the gods may be supposed to receive from them
all things at their best, excepting only such evil as is the necessary
consequence of former sins?
Certainly.
Then this must be our notion of the just man, that even when he is
in poverty or sickness, or any other seeming misfortune, all things
will in the end work together for good to him in life and death: for
the gods have a care of any one whose desire is to become just and
to be like God, as far as man can attain the divine likeness, by the
pursuit of virtue?
Yes, he said; if he is like God he will surely not be neglected by
him.
And of the unjust may not the opposite be supposed?
Certainly.
Such, then, are the palms of victory which the gods give the just?
That is my conviction.
And what do they receive of men? Look at things as they really
are, and you will see that the clever unjust are in the case of
runners, who run well from the starting-place to the goal but not back
again from the goal: they go off at a great pace, but in the end
only look foolish, slinking away with their ears draggling on their
shoulders, and without a crown; but the true runner comes to the
finish and receives the prize and is crowned. And this is the way with
the just; he who endures to the end of every action and occasion of
his entire life has a good report and carries off the prize which
men have to bestow.
True.
And now you must allow me to repeat of the just the blessings
which you were attributing to the fortunate unjust. I shall say of
them, what you were saying of the others, that as they grow older,
they become rulers in their own city if they care to be; they marry
whom they like and give in marriage to whom they will; all that you
said of the others I now say of these. And, on the other hand, of
the unjust I say that the greater number, even though they escape in
their youth, are found out at last and look foolish at the end of
their course, and when they come to be old and miserable are flouted
alike by stranger and citizen; they are beaten and then come those
things unfit for ears polite, as you truly term them; they will be
racked and have their eyes burned out, as you were saying. And you may
suppose that I have repeated the remainder of your tale of horrors.
But will you let me assume, without reciting them, that these things
are true?
Certainly, he said, what you say is true.
These, then, are the prizes and rewards and gifts which are bestowed
upon the just by gods and men in this present life, in addition to the
other good things which justice of herself provides.
Yes, he said; and they are fair and lasting.
And yet, I said, all these are as nothing, either in number or
greatness in comparison with those other recompenses which await
both just and unjust after death. And you ought to hear them, and then
both just and unjust will have received from us a full payment of
the debt which the argument owes to them.
Speak, he said; there are few things which I would more gladly hear.
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