Meno

Plato · a new plain-English translation from the Greek

MENO: Can you tell me, Socrates, whether virtue is something that can be taught? Or if not taught, then trained into a person by practice? Or is it neither taught nor practiced, but comes to people by nature, or in some other way? SOCRATES: Meno, in times past the Thessalians had a fine reputation among the Greeks, admired for their horsemanship and their wealth. Now, it seems to me, they're admired for wisdom too — not least your friend Aristippus's fellow citizens, the Larisans. And you have Gorgias to thank for that. When he arrived in your city he won the devotion of your leading men as lovers of wisdom — the Aleuadae first, among them your own admirer Aristippus, and the rest of the Thessalians besides. And he's given you this habit too, of answering fearlessly and grandly whenever someone asks a question, the way people do who actually know the answer — since he offers himself to any Greek who wants to ask him anything at all, and never refuses to answer.

SOCRATES: But here, my dear Meno, it's just the opposite. A kind of drought of wisdom has settled on us, and it looks as though wisdom has packed up and left our part of the world for yours. If you tried asking that question of anyone here, there's no one who wouldn't laugh and say: 'Stranger, you must think I'm some blessed soul, to know whether virtue can be taught, or however it is people come to have it — but I'm so far from knowing whether it can be taught or not that I don't even know what virtue itself actually is, at all.' And that's exactly my own condition, Meno. I share in my fellow citizens' poverty on this score, and I blame myself for knowing nothing whatsoever about virtue. And if I don't know what a thing is, how could I know what qualities it has? Do you think it's possible for someone who has no idea at all who Meno is to know whether he's handsome, or rich, or well-born, or the opposite of these things? Does that seem possible to you? MENO: Not to me. But Socrates, is it really true you don't even know what virtue is? Is that the report we're to carry home about you? SOCRATES: Not only that, my friend, but that I've never yet met anyone else who did know, as far as I can tell. MENO: What? Didn't you meet Gorgias when he was here? SOCRATES: I did. MENO: And you didn't think he knew? SOCRATES: I don't have a very good memory, Meno, so I can't tell you offhand what I thought at the time. But he probably does know, and you know what he used to say — so remind me how he put it. Or better, tell me yourself, since presumably your view matches his. MENO: It does. SOCRATES: Then let's leave him out of it, since he isn't here anyway. But you yourself, Meno, in the gods' name — what do you say virtue is? Tell me, and don't begrudge me the answer, so that I may have the good luck of being proven wrong in the happiest way possible — if it turns out that you and Gorgias do know, while I've been going around saying I've never met anyone who did. MENO: Well, it's not hard to say, Socrates. First, if you want the virtue of a man, that's easy: a man's virtue is to be capable of managing the city's affairs, and in doing so to benefit his friends and harm his enemies, while taking care that nothing of the sort happens to himself. Or if you want the virtue of a woman, that's not hard to explain either: she must manage the household well, keeping safe what's inside it and being obedient to her husband. And there's a different virtue for a child, whether a girl or a boy, and another for an older man — a free man's virtue, if you like, or if you prefer, a slave's.

MENO: And there are a great many other virtues besides, so there's no shortage of things to say about what virtue is. For each activity and each stage of life, in relation to each task, there's a virtue suited to each of us — and the same goes, I think, Socrates, for vice as well. SOCRATES: I seem to have had a great stroke of luck, Meno — I was looking for one single virtue, and I've turned up a whole swarm of them sitting there in your keeping. But tell me, Meno, sticking with this image of the swarm — if I asked you what a bee actually is, in its essence, and you told me there are many different kinds of bees, what would you say if I then asked: is it by being bees that they're many and various and different from one another? Or do they not differ at all in that respect, but rather in some other way — in beauty, say, or size, or something of that kind? Tell me, what would you answer if asked that? MENO: I'd say this: that as bees, they don't differ from one another at all. SOCRATES: And suppose I then said: then tell me this very thing, Meno — that in which they don't differ at all, but are all the same — what do you say that is? You'd surely have some answer for me? MENO: I would. SOCRATES: Well, it's the same with the virtues. Even if they're many and various, they all share one single form that makes them virtues — and it's to that form, presumably, that one ought to look in answering the question of what virtue really is, when someone asks it. Or don't you follow what I mean? MENO: I think I follow — though I don't yet have as firm a grasp of the question as I'd like. SOCRATES: And does it seem to you this way only about virtue, Meno — that there's one virtue for a man and another for a woman and so on — or is it the same with health, and size, and strength as well? Does health seem to you to be one thing in a man and another in a woman? Or is it the same form everywhere, whether it's found in a man or in anyone else at all? MENO: Health seems to me to be the same, both for man and for woman. SOCRATES: And what about size and strength? If a woman is strong, will she be strong by that same form and that same strength? By 'the same' I mean this: strength doesn't differ at all as strength, whether it's found in a man or in a woman. Or does it seem to you to differ at all? MENO: Not to me.

SOCRATES: And will virtue differ at all, as virtue, whether it's found in a child or an old man, in a woman or a man? MENO: Somehow, Socrates, this case seems to me no longer quite like those others. SOCRATES: Really? Didn't you say that a man's virtue was to manage a city well, and a woman's to manage a household? MENO: I did. SOCRATES: Well, is it possible to manage a city well, or a household, or anything else at all, without managing it with restraint and justice? MENO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: So if they manage justly and with restraint, they'll manage by means of justice and restraint? MENO: Necessarily. SOCRATES: Then both of them need the same things, if they're to be good — the woman and the man alike — namely justice and restraint. MENO: It appears so. SOCRATES: And what about a child and an old man? Could they ever become good while being undisciplined and unjust? MENO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: But by being restrained and just? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: So all human beings are good in the same way — since it's by getting hold of the same things that they become good. MENO: So it seems. SOCRATES: And surely, if their virtue weren't the same, they wouldn't be good in the same way. MENO: No, they wouldn't. SOCRATES: Since, then, the virtue of all is the same, try to say — try to recall — what Gorgias says it is, and you along with him. MENO: What else but this: to be capable of ruling over people — if indeed you're looking for some single thing that holds in every case. SOCRATES: Well, that is exactly what I'm looking for. But is it also a child's virtue, Meno, and a slave's, to be capable of ruling over his master? And do you think someone ruling would still be a slave? MENO: That doesn't seem right to me at all, Socrates. SOCRATES: No, it's not likely, my good man. Consider this too: you say virtue is 'being capable of ruling.' Shouldn't we add to that 'justly, and not unjustly'? MENO: I think so, yes — for justice, Socrates, is virtue. SOCRATES: Is it virtue, Meno, or a virtue? MENO: What do you mean by that? SOCRATES: What I'd mean about anything else. Take roundness, for instance — I would say it's a shape, not simply that it is shape, full stop. And I'd say it that way because there are other shapes as well. MENO: And you'd be right to put it that way — just as I say there isn't only justice but other virtues as well.

SOCRATES: What are these others? Tell me. Just as I could tell you other shapes, if you asked me to, so you tell me other virtues. MENO: Well, courage seems to me to be a virtue, and restraint, and wisdom, and magnificence, and a great many others besides. SOCRATES: We're in the same fix again, Meno — we've once more turned up many virtues while looking for one, though by a different route than before. But the one virtue that runs through all of these, we still can't find. MENO: No — I still can't manage, Socrates, to grasp one single virtue covering every case, the way you're asking, the way I could with those other things. SOCRATES: Naturally enough. But I'll do my best, if I can, to help us make some progress. You understand, I take it, that the same holds for everything: if someone asked you the question I just asked — what is shape, Meno? — and you told him 'roundness,' and he then asked you, as I did, whether roundness is shape or a shape, you'd surely say it's a shape. MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: And that's because there are other shapes as well? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: And if he pressed you further to say what kinds, you'd tell him? MENO: I would. SOCRATES: And suppose he asked the same question about color — what it is — and when you said 'white,' he then asked in turn: is white a color, or a color? You'd say 'a color,' because there happen to be other colors too? MENO: I would. SOCRATES: And if he told you to name other colors, you'd name others, which are no less colors than white is? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: Now suppose he pursued the argument the way I have, and said: we always end up with many things, but don't answer me that way — since you call all these many things by one single name, and say that not one of them fails to be a shape, even though they're opposites of one another, tell me what this is, this thing that contains the round no less than the straight, this thing you call shape — and you don't say the round is any more a shape than the straight is. Isn't that how you'd put it? MENO: I would. SOCRATES: Then when you speak that way, are you not saying that the round is no more round than straight, nor the straight any more straight than round? MENO: Certainly not, Socrates. SOCRATES: But you are saying that the round is no more a shape than the straight is, nor one more than the other. MENO: That's true.

SOCRATES: So what is this thing, then, whose name is 'shape'? Try to say. Suppose someone asked you the same question about shape or color, and you answered, 'But I don't even understand what you want, sir, and I don't know what you mean' -- he might well be puzzled and say, 'Don't you understand that I'm looking for the one thing that is the same in all these cases?' Or can't you even answer that, Meno, if someone asked you: what is it that is the same in the round and the straight and the other things you call shapes? Try to say it, so you'll get some practice for answering about virtue. MENO: No, you say it, Socrates. SOCRATES: You want me to do you the favor? MENO: I certainly do. SOCRATES: And will you then be willing to tell me about virtue in return? MENO: I will. SOCRATES: Then I should put some effort into it -- it's worth the trouble. MENO: It certainly is. SOCRATES: Come then, let's try to tell you what shape is. See whether you accept this account of it: let this be shape for us -- the one thing among all beings that always follows along with color. Is that enough for you, or are you after something else? I myself would be satisfied if you gave me an answer like that about virtue. MENO: But that's a silly answer, Socrates. SOCRATES: How do you mean? MENO: Because shape, on your account, is whatever always follows along with color. Fine -- but suppose someone said he didn't know what color was either, and was just as stuck about it as about shape -- what do you think your answer would have accomplished? SOCRATES: The truth, as far as I'm concerned. And if the questioner happened to be one of those clever debaters, fond of contention and showing off, I'd tell him: I've said my piece; if I'm wrong, it's your job to take up the argument and refute it. But when two people are friends, as you and I are now, and want to talk things through together, the answers need to be gentler, more suited to genuine discussion. And perhaps the more properly dialectical way is not just to answer truly, but to answer through things the person being asked will agree that he knows. That's how I'll try to put it to you. Tell me: do you have a word for 'end'? I mean something like a limit, an extremity -- I take all these to mean the same thing. Prodicus might quibble with us about it, but you, at any rate, speak of something as having been limited, or having come to an end. That's the sort of thing I mean -- nothing subtle. MENO: Yes, I do use it that way, and I think I understand what you mean.

SOCRATES: Well then -- do you have a word for 'flat surface,' and again another for 'solid,' the sort of things they use in geometry? MENO: I do. SOCRATES: Then from these you should already be able to grasp what I mean by shape. For I say of every shape, that whatever a solid comes to an end in, that is shape -- or, putting it in a single phrase, I'd say shape is the limit of a solid. MENO: And what do you say color is, Socrates? SOCRATES: You're a bully, Meno -- you order an old man around, making him answer, while you yourself won't take the trouble to recall and say what Gorgias claims virtue is. MENO: But once you've told me this, Socrates, I'll tell you. SOCRATES: Even blindfolded, Meno, a person could tell from the way you talk that you're handsome and still have lovers. MENO: Why do you say that? SOCRATES: Because all you ever do in conversation is give orders, the way spoiled young men do, playing the tyrant while their good looks last -- and no doubt you've also sized me up as a pushover for handsome men. Well, I'll indulge you and answer. MENO: Please do, by all means. SOCRATES: Would you like me to answer in Gorgias's manner, the style you'd find easiest to follow? MENO: I would -- why not? SOCRATES: You people speak of certain effluences from things, following Empedocles? MENO: Very much so. SOCRATES: And of passages into which and through which these effluences travel? MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: And that some of the effluences fit some of the passages, while others are too small or too large? MENO: That's so. SOCRATES: And you have a word for 'sight' too? MENO: I do. SOCRATES: From all this, then, 'grasp what I'm telling you,' as Pindar says. For color is an effluence from shapes, commensurate with sight and perceptible by it. MENO: That strikes me as an excellent answer, Socrates. SOCRATES: Perhaps it appeals to you because it's in a familiar style -- and I imagine you also realize that from it you could say what sound is, and smell, and many other such things. MENO: Quite so. SOCRATES: Yes, it's a showy answer, Meno, and that's why you like it better than the one about shape. MENO: I do. SOCRATES: But it isn't the better one, son of Alexidemus, or so I persuade myself -- the other is better. And I don't think you'd think otherwise either, if you didn't have to leave before the Mysteries, as you said yesterday, but could stay and be initiated.

MENO: Well, I would stay, Socrates, if you'd tell me many more things like that. SOCRATES: Then I certainly won't be lacking in eagerness, for your sake and my own, to say such things -- only I hope I'll be able to keep saying many more of them. But come now, try in turn to make good on your promise to me, by telling me, taken as a whole, what virtue is -- and stop making many things out of the one, the way people joke about those who break things apart. Instead, leave it whole and sound, and say what virtue is. You have the examples from me to go by. MENO: Well then, Socrates, it seems to me that virtue is, as the poet says, to delight in fine things and to have the power for them -- and I say this is virtue: to desire fine things and be capable of procuring them. SOCRATES: Do you mean that the one who desires fine things is a desirer of good things? MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: Meaning there are some who desire bad things, and others who desire good things? Don't all people, in your view, best of men, desire good things? MENO: Not in my view. SOCRATES: But some desire bad things? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: Thinking the bad things are good, do you mean, or knowing they are bad and desiring them all the same? MENO: I think both happen. SOCRATES: Do you really think, Meno, that anyone, knowing bad things to be bad, desires them nonetheless? MENO: I certainly do. SOCRATES: Desires them how do you mean -- to come to possess them? MENO: To possess them -- what else? SOCRATES: Thinking that the bad things benefit the one they come to, or knowing that they harm whoever has them? MENO: Some think the bad things benefit them; others know they cause harm. SOCRATES: And do you think those who suppose bad things beneficial actually know that they are bad? MENO: No, I don't think that at all. SOCRATES: So clearly these people, who don't recognize the bad things as bad, don't desire the bad, but rather what they took to be good, which is in fact bad. So those who don't recognize it, and think it good, clearly desire the good. Isn't that so? MENO: It looks that way, in their case. SOCRATES: And what about those who, as you say, desire bad things while believing that the bad things harm whoever they come to -- surely they know they'll be harmed by them?

MENO: Necessarily. SOCRATES: But don't these people think that those who are harmed are wretched, precisely to the extent they're harmed? MENO: That too is necessary. SOCRATES: And the wretched are unhappy? MENO: I think so, yes. SOCRATES: Is there anyone who wants to be wretched and unhappy? MENO: I don't think so, Socrates. SOCRATES: Then no one wants bad things, Meno, if indeed no one wants to be that sort of person. For what else is being wretched but desiring bad things and getting them? MENO: You're probably right, Socrates -- no one wants bad things. SOCRATES: Now, didn't you just say a moment ago that virtue is wanting good things and being able to get them? MENO: Yes, I said that. SOCRATES: But given what's been said, the 'wanting' part belongs to everyone, and in that respect no one is any better than anyone else? MENO: So it appears. SOCRATES: Then clearly, if one person is better than another, it must be in respect of the ability. MENO: Quite so. SOCRATES: This, then, it seems, is virtue by your account: the ability to procure good things. MENO: I think that's exactly how it stands, Socrates, just as you now understand it. SOCRATES: Let's see, then, whether what you say is true -- you may well be right. You say that being able to procure good things is virtue? MENO: I do. SOCRATES: And by good things you mean things like health and wealth? MENO: Yes, and I mean acquiring gold and silver, and honors and offices in the city. SOCRATES: You don't mean any other sort of good things besides these? MENO: No, I mean all things of that kind. SOCRATES: Very well -- procuring gold and silver is virtue, according to Meno, the hereditary guest-friend of the Great King. But tell me, Meno, do you add to this 'procuring' the words 'justly and piously,' or does it make no difference to you, but even if someone procures these things unjustly, you'd call it virtue just the same? MENO: Certainly not, Socrates. SOCRATES: Then you'd call it vice. MENO: Absolutely. SOCRATES: So it seems that justice, or moderation, or piety, or some other part of virtue must attach to this procuring -- otherwise it won't be virtue, even though it does supply good things. MENO: Yes, how could it be virtue without these? SOCRATES: And failing to procure gold and silver, when it wouldn't be just to do so, for oneself or for another -- isn't this failure itself also virtue?

SOCRATES: So it's no more the procuring of such goods than the failure to procure them that would be virtue -- rather, it seems, whatever comes about with justice will be virtue, and whatever comes about without any such thing will be vice. MENO: It seems necessary, as you say. SOCRATES: Now didn't we say a little earlier that each of these -- justice and moderation and all the rest -- is a part of virtue? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: Then, Meno, are you playing games with me? MENO: Why do you say that, Socrates? SOCRATES: Because just now, after I asked you not to break virtue into pieces or chop it up, and gave you examples of how you ought to answer, you paid no attention to that, and instead you tell me that virtue is being able to procure good things along with justice -- and this, you say, is a part of virtue? MENO: I do say that. SOCRATES: Then it follows from what you've agreed to, that doing whatever one does along with a part of virtue is itself virtue -- since you say justice is a part of virtue, and likewise each of the others. Why do I say this? Because when I asked you to tell me virtue as a whole, you're far from telling me what it is itself, and instead you say every action is virtue provided it's done along with a part of virtue -- as though you'd already told me what virtue as a whole is, and I'd already know it, just from your chopping it up into parts. So it seems to me you need to be asked the very same question again, from the beginning, dear Meno: what is virtue, if every action done with a part of virtue is virtue? For that's what it amounts to, when someone says that every action done with justice is virtue. Or don't you think you need the same question asked again, and instead suppose that someone can know a part of virtue, what it is, without knowing virtue itself? MENO: I don't think so. SOCRATES: For if you remember, when I answered you just now about shape, we rejected that kind of answer -- one that tries to answer by means of things still being investigated and not yet agreed upon. MENO: And we were right to reject it, Socrates. SOCRATES: Then don't you, my good friend, while virtue as a whole is still in question, think you can make it clear to anyone by answering through its parts, or by any other such approach -- you'll only need the same question asked again: what virtue is, that you're talking about, when you say what you say. Or don't I seem to be saying anything? MENO: You seem to me to be right. SOCRATES: Then answer again, from the beginning: what do you and your friend say virtue is?

MENO: Socrates, even before I met you, I used to hear that you do nothing but find yourself at a loss and bring everyone else to the same state. And now, it seems to me, you are working some spell on me, drugging me, simply casting a charm over me, so that I have become completely stuck. And if I may even make a little joke, you seem to me, in appearance and in every other way, exactly like that flat sting-ray of the sea. It numbs anyone who comes near and touches it, and you seem to have done something like that to me now, made me numb. Truly, both my soul and my tongue are numb, and I have nothing to answer you. Yet I have spoken about excellence countless times, in a great many speeches, before many people, and quite well too, or so I thought at the time. But now I cannot even say what it is at all. And I think you are wise not to sail off or travel away from here. If you were a foreigner behaving this way in another city, you would probably be arrested as a sorcerer. SOCRATES: You are a rascal, Meno, and you nearly fooled me. MENO: How do you mean, Socrates? SOCRATES: I know why you compared me that way. MENO: Why do you think? SOCRATES: So that I would compare you back. But I know this about all beautiful people: they enjoy being compared to things, since it works to their advantage—the images of beautiful things are beautiful too, I suppose. But I will not compare you back. As for me, if the sting-ray itself is numb and that is how it makes others numb too, then I resemble it. But if not, I don't. It isn't that I am myself resourceful and make others be at a loss; rather, I am utterly at a loss myself, and that is exactly how I make others be at a loss too. And so now, about excellence—what it is—I myself don't know, though perhaps you knew before you came into contact with me; but now you are like someone who doesn't know either. All the same, I am willing to examine it together with you and search out what in the world it is. MENO: But how will you search for something, Socrates, when you don't know at all what it is? Which of the things you don't know will you set up as your object of inquiry? And even if you happen to meet with it, how will you know that this is the thing you didn't know? SOCRATES: I understand what you mean to say, Meno. Do you see what a quarrelsome argument you are dragging in—that it is impossible for a person to search for either what he knows or what he doesn't know? He wouldn't search for what he knows, since he knows it, and there is no need of searching for that; nor for what he doesn't know, since he doesn't even know what he is to search for.

MENO: Well then, Socrates, does this argument seem well put to you? SOCRATES: Not to me. MENO: Can you say how it fails? SOCRATES: I can. I have heard from men and women who are wise about divine matters— MENO: Saying what? SOCRATES: Something true, I think, and beautiful. MENO: What is it, and who are the ones saying it? SOCRATES: Those who say it are among the priests and priestesses who have made it their concern to be able to give an account of the things they handle; and Pindar says it too, and many other poets, all those who are divinely inspired. What they say is this—but consider whether it seems true to you. They say that the soul of a human being is immortal, and at one time comes to an end—which people call dying—and at another is born again, but is never destroyed; and that because of this one must live out one's life as righteously as possible. For those from whom Persephone receives requital for ancient grief, in the ninth year she gives their souls back again to the sun above; and from these grow glorious kings and men mighty in strength and greatest in wisdom, and for the rest of time they are called sacred heroes by mankind. Since, then, the soul is immortal and has been born many times, and has seen all things both here and in the house of Hades—everything there is—there is nothing it has not learned. So it is no wonder that it is able to recollect, about excellence and about other things too, what it already knew before. For since the whole of nature is akin to itself, and the soul has learned everything, nothing prevents someone who recollects one single thing—what people call learning—from discovering all the rest for himself, provided he is courageous and does not tire in the search; for searching and learning, as it turns out, are entirely recollection. So one must not be persuaded by that quarrelsome argument, for it would make us lazy, and it is pleasant for soft-minded people to hear; but this other one makes us hard-working and inclined to search. Trusting that it is true, I am willing to search together with you into what excellence is. MENO: Yes, Socrates, but how do you mean this—that we do not learn, but that what we call learning is recollection? Can you teach me that this is really so?

SOCRATES: I just said, Meno, that you're a rascal, and now you ask me whether I can teach you—I, who say there is no such thing as teaching, only recollection—so that I will immediately appear to be contradicting myself. MENO: No, by Zeus, Socrates, I didn't say it looking at that, but out of habit. But if you have some way of showing me that it is as you say, show me. SOCRATES: Well, it isn't easy, but still I am willing to make the effort for your sake. Call over one of these many attendants of yours here, whichever one you like, so that I can demonstrate it to you using him. MENO: Certainly. Come here, you. SOCRATES: He is Greek, and speaks Greek? MENO: Very much so, indeed—born in my household. SOCRATES: Pay close attention to whether he seems to you to be recollecting or learning from me. MENO: I will pay attention. SOCRATES: Tell me, boy, do you know that a square figure is like this? BOY: I do. SOCRATES: Is a square figure, then, one that has all these lines equal, there being four of them? BOY: Certainly. SOCRATES: And doesn't it also have these lines through the middle equal? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: And couldn't such a figure be larger or smaller? BOY: Certainly. SOCRATES: Now if this side were two feet, and this side two feet, how many feet would the whole be? Look at it this way: if it were two feet this way, and only one foot that way, wouldn't the figure be just once two feet? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: But since it is two feet this way too, doesn't it become twice two? BOY: It does. SOCRATES: So it becomes twice two feet? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: How many feet, then, is twice two? Work it out and tell me. BOY: Four, Socrates. SOCRATES: Now couldn't there be another figure, double the size of this one, but of the same kind, having all its lines equal like this one? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: How many feet will it be? BOY: Eight. SOCRATES: Come then, try to tell me how long each of its lines will be. This one's line is two feet—what about the line of that double figure? BOY: Clearly, Socrates, it will be double. SOCRATES: You see, Meno, I am not teaching him anything, only asking questions throughout? And right now he thinks he knows what line the eight-foot figure will come from—or don't you think so? MENO: I do. SOCRATES: Does he actually know it? MENO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: But he thinks it comes from the double line? MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: Watch him now recollecting, step by step, the way one ought to recollect. Tell me: do you say that the double figure comes from the double line? I mean something like this—not long on one side and short on the other, but equal in every direction like this one, only double its size, eight feet. See whether it still seems to you it will come from the double line. BOY: It does to me. SOCRATES: And doesn't this line become double that one, if we add another equal one on from here? BOY: Certainly. SOCRATES: From this line, then, you say, will come the eight-foot figure, if four such lines are made? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: Then let's draw four equal lines from it. Wouldn't this be what you say the eight-foot figure is? BOY: Certainly. SOCRATES: And in it aren't there these four squares, each equal to this four-foot one? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: How big does it come to, then? Isn't it four times this one? BOY: Of course. SOCRATES: Is what is four times as big double, then? BOY: No, by Zeus. SOCRATES: Then how many times as big is it? BOY: Four times. SOCRATES: So from the double line, boy, comes a figure not double but four times as large. BOY: That's true. SOCRATES: For four times four is sixteen. Isn't it? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: Then from what line does the eight-foot figure come? Doesn't the double line give four times the size? BOY: I agree. SOCRATES: And doesn't this half-length line here give a four-foot figure like this one? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: Very well. Now isn't the eight-foot figure double this one, and half of that one? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: Won't it come, then, from a line longer than this one but shorter than that one? Or not? BOY: It seems so to me. SOCRATES: Good. Just answer what seems so to you. And tell me: wasn't this line two feet, and that one four? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: The line of the eight-foot figure, then, must be longer than this two-foot one, but shorter than the four-foot one. BOY: It must. SOCRATES: Try, then, to tell me how long you say it is. BOY: Three feet. SOCRATES: Then if it is to be three feet, shall we add half of this one on and it will be three feet? For here are two, and here one; and from this side likewise two and one; and that makes the figure you're speaking of. BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: Now if it is three this way and three that way, doesn't the whole figure come to three times three feet? BOY: So it appears. SOCRATES: And three times three feet, how many is that? BOY: Nine. SOCRATES: And how many feet was the double figure supposed to be? BOY: Eight. SOCRATES: So the eight-foot figure doesn't come from the three-foot line either, after all. BOY: No, it doesn't.

SOCRATES: Then from what line does it come? Try to tell us exactly. And if you don't want to reckon it in numbers, at least show us from what line. BOY: But by Zeus, Socrates, I really don't know. SOCRATES: Do you notice again, Meno, how far along he already is in the path of recollection? At first he did not know what the line of the eight-foot figure is—just as he still doesn't know now—but at that time he thought he knew it, and answered boldly as one who knew, and did not think himself at a loss. Now, though, he does think himself at a loss, and just as he doesn't know, he doesn't think he knows either. MENO: That's true. SOCRATES: So isn't he now in a better position with regard to the matter he didn't know? MENO: That seems so to me too. SOCRATES: By bringing him to a loss, then, and numbing him like the sting-ray, have we done him any harm? MENO: I don't think so. SOCRATES: In fact it seems we have accomplished something useful toward discovering how things stand. For now, not knowing, he would search gladly; but before, he would easily have thought—speaking often and before many people—that he was speaking well about the double figure, saying that its line must be double in length. MENO: So it seems. SOCRATES: Do you think, then, that he would have attempted to search out or learn what he thought he knew, though he didn't, before he fell into a state of being at a loss, realized he did not know, and felt a longing to know? MENO: I don't think so, Socrates. SOCRATES: So he has profited from being made numb? MENO: I think so. SOCRATES: Now watch what he will discover, searching along with me, out of this state of being at a loss—by my simply asking questions and not teaching him. Be on guard, in case you catch me anywhere teaching him and explaining things to him, rather than questioning him about his own opinions. Tell me now: isn't this a four-foot figure we have here? Do you follow? BOY: I do. SOCRATES: And couldn't we add on another equal figure here? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: And a third here, equal to each of these? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: And couldn't we fill in this one in the corner as well? BOY: Certainly. SOCRATES: So wouldn't these come to four equal figures? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: Well then—how many times the size of this one does the whole figure become? BOY: Four times. SOCRATES: But it was supposed to come out double for us—or don't you remember? BOY: I certainly do.

SOCRATES: So this line, running from corner to corner, cuts each of these areas in half? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: So we get four equal lines here, enclosing this area? BOY: We do. SOCRATES: Now think — how big is this area? BOY: I don't follow. SOCRATES: Given that there are four of these squares, hasn't this line cut off half of each one, on the inside? Or not? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: So how many pieces that size are contained in this area? BOY: Four. SOCRATES: And how many in this one? BOY: Two. SOCRATES: And four is what, compared to two? BOY: Double. SOCRATES: So how many feet is this area, then? BOY: Eight feet. SOCRATES: Drawn from which line? BOY: From this one. SOCRATES: From the line stretching corner to corner of the four-foot square? BOY: Yes. SOCRATES: The experts call that line the diagonal. So if 'diagonal' is its name, then according to you, son of Meno, the double area would come from the diagonal. BOY: Absolutely, Socrates. SOCRATES: What do you think, Meno? Has he given a single answer that wasn't his own opinion? MENO: No, they were his own. SOCRATES: And yet he didn't know the answer — as we said a little while ago. MENO: True. SOCRATES: But these opinions were in him all along, weren't they? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: So in someone who doesn't know a given subject, there are true opinions about the very things he doesn't know? MENO: So it appears. SOCRATES: And right now these opinions have just been stirred up in him, like a dream. But if he's asked these same questions repeatedly, in many different ways, you understand that in the end he'll grasp the truth about them as accurately as anyone. MENO: It seems so. SOCRATES: So he'll come to know it without anyone teaching him — simply by being questioned, recovering the knowledge out of himself? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: And isn't recovering knowledge that's already in oneself the same thing as recollecting it? MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: Now the knowledge he has at this moment — did he either acquire it at some point, or has he always had it? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: Well, if he's always had it, then he's always known it. But if he acquired it at some point, he can't have acquired it in his present life — unless someone has taught him geometry. This boy would give the same correct answers about every point of geometry, and about every other subject as well. So is there anyone who has taught him all of that? You'd surely know, especially since he was born and raised in your household. MENO: Well, I know for a fact that no one has ever taught him. SOCRATES: And yet he has these opinions, doesn't he? MENO: It seems he must, Socrates.

SOCRATES: And if he didn't acquire them in his present life, isn't it now clear that he had them, and had learned them, at some other time? MENO: It appears so. SOCRATES: And that time must be when he wasn't yet a human being? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: So if, both during the time he is a human being and the time he isn't, true opinions are present in him — opinions that turn into knowledge when stirred awake by questioning — then his soul must have possessed this learning for all time. For clearly he either is or is not a human being for the whole of time. MENO: It appears so. SOCRATES: And if the truth about things is always present in our soul, then the soul must be immortal — which means you should take courage, and whatever you don't presently know — that is, whatever you don't remember — you should set about searching for it and recollecting it. MENO: What you say strikes me as right, Socrates, though I can't say why. SOCRATES: So it strikes me too, Meno. I wouldn't stake too much on most of the argument. But on this point — that believing we ought to search for what we don't know will make us better, braver, and less idle than believing that what we don't know is neither discoverable nor worth searching for — on that I would fight hard, in word and in deed, if I were able. MENO: On that point too, I think you're right, Socrates. SOCRATES: Well then, since we agree that one should search for what one doesn't know, shall we join forces and try to find out what virtue actually is? MENO: By all means. But really, Socrates, what I'd most like to examine — the very thing I asked about first — is whether one should approach virtue as something taught, or as something that comes to people by nature, or in whatever other way it comes to them. SOCRATES: Well, if I were in command — not only of myself but of you too, Meno — we wouldn't have examined whether virtue can be taught before first asking what it actually is. But since you don't even try to govern yourself, wanting to stay free, while you do try to govern me, and succeed at it, I'll give way — what else can I do? So, it seems, we must examine what sort of thing this is, when we don't yet know what it is. At least loosen your grip on me a little, and allow the question to be examined from a hypothesis — whether virtue can be taught, or however else it may come to be.

SOCRATES: By 'from a hypothesis' I mean the way geometers often proceed, when someone asks them, say about a figure, whether it's possible for this particular area to be inscribed as a triangle within this circle. One of them will say: I don't yet know whether this is so, but I think I have, so to speak, a hypothesis useful for the problem, along these lines — if this area is such that, when you apply it alongside the circle's given line, it falls short by a figure similar to the one applied, then I think one result follows, and a different one follows if it's impossible for that to happen. So working from the hypothesis, I'm willing to tell you what follows about inscribing it in the circle — whether it's impossible or not. In just the same way, let's proceed about virtue: since we don't know either what it is or what sort of thing it is, let's examine, working from a hypothesis, whether it can be taught or not, putting it like this — supposing virtue is one of the things belonging to the soul, of a certain kind, would it be teachable or not? First, then, if it's different in kind from knowledge, is it teachable, or is it — as we were just saying — a matter of recollection? It makes no difference to us which name we use — but is it teachable? Or is this obvious to everyone, that a human being is taught nothing except knowledge? MENO: That's how it seems to me. SOCRATES: And if virtue is a kind of knowledge, clearly it would be teachable. MENO: Of course. SOCRATES: So we've quickly settled this much — that if virtue is of one sort it is teachable, and if of another sort, it is not. MENO: Quite so. SOCRATES: The next thing to examine, it seems, is whether virtue is knowledge, or something different from knowledge. MENO: Yes, I think that's what we should examine next. SOCRATES: Well then — don't we say that virtue is itself something good, and doesn't this claim stand as our hypothesis, that it is good? MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: Now if there's some good thing that is separate from knowledge, virtue might turn out not to be a form of knowledge at all. But if there is no good thing that knowledge doesn't encompass, then we'd be right to suspect it's some form of knowledge. MENO: That's so. SOCRATES: And it's by virtue that we are good? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: And if we're good, we're beneficial — for all good things are beneficial. Isn't that so? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: So virtue too is beneficial? MENO: That follows necessarily from what we've agreed. SOCRATES: Let's examine, then, taking them one by one, what sort of things benefit us. Health, we say, and strength, and beauty, and wealth as well — these and things like them we call beneficial. Isn't that right? MENO: Yes.

SOCRATES: But we also say these very same things sometimes cause harm — or would you put it differently? MENO: No, that's how I'd put it. SOCRATES: Then consider — when each of these is under the guidance of what, does it benefit us, and under the guidance of what does it harm us? Isn't it that when the use is right, it benefits, and when it isn't, it harms? MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: Now let's examine, further, the things that belong to the soul. Do you call something 'temperance,' and 'justice,' and 'courage,' and 'quickness to learn,' and 'memory,' and 'magnanimity,' and all things of that kind? MENO: I do. SOCRATES: Then consider, of these, whichever ones seem to you not to be knowledge but something other than knowledge — don't they sometimes harm and sometimes benefit? Take courage, for instance: if courage isn't wisdom but a kind of boldness — isn't it true that when a person is bold without sense, he is harmed, but when he is bold with sense, he is benefited? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: And isn't temperance the same way, and quickness at learning? Things learned and things trained, when accompanied by sense, are beneficial, but without sense, harmful? MENO: Very much so. SOCRATES: So, in short, don't all the soul's undertakings and endurances end in happiness when wisdom leads them, and in the opposite when folly does? MENO: It seems so. SOCRATES: So if virtue is something belonging to the soul, and it must be beneficial, then it must be wisdom — since all the qualities of the soul are, in themselves, neither beneficial nor harmful, but become harmful or beneficial depending on whether wisdom or folly is added to them. By this reasoning, since virtue is beneficial, virtue must be a kind of wisdom. MENO: I think so too. SOCRATES: And as for the other things we mentioned just now, wealth and the like, being sometimes good and sometimes harmful — isn't it the case that, just as wisdom, when it governs the rest of the soul, makes the soul's own qualities beneficial, while folly makes them harmful, so too the soul, when it uses and directs these external things rightly, makes them beneficial, and wrongly, harmful? MENO: Quite so. SOCRATES: And the wise soul directs them rightly, the foolish soul wrongly? MENO: That's so.

SOCRATES: So can't we say the same of everything, in general — that for a human being, everything else depends on the soul, and the soul's own qualities depend on wisdom, if they are to be good? And by this reasoning, wisdom would be the beneficial thing — and we say virtue is beneficial? MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: So we're saying virtue is wisdom — either the whole of it, or some part of it? MENO: What's been said seems to me well said, Socrates. SOCRATES: Well, if that's how things stand, then good people couldn't be good by nature. MENO: I don't think so either. SOCRATES: Because here's something else that would follow: if good people came to be good by nature, we would surely have people able to recognize which of the young had good natures, and we could take the ones they pointed out and keep them under guard on the Acropolis, sealed up far more carefully than gold, so that no one could corrupt them, and so that when they reached the right age they'd become useful to their cities. MENO: That would be reasonable, Socrates. SOCRATES: So, since good people don't become good by nature, is it by learning? MENO: It now seems to me this must be so — and it's clear, Socrates, given our hypothesis, that if virtue is knowledge, it is teachable. SOCRATES: Yes, by Zeus, perhaps — but I wonder if we weren't right to agree to that. MENO: Yet it did seem, just now, to be well said. SOCRATES: Well, it's not enough for it to seem well said just now — it needs to seem so now and later too, if there's to be anything sound in it. MENO: What is it, then? What are you looking at that makes you uneasy and doubtful about whether virtue is knowledge? SOCRATES: I'll tell you, Meno. That it's teachable, if it is knowledge — that part I don't take back as poorly argued. But as for whether it is knowledge, see if you think my doubt is reasonable. Tell me this — if anything at all is teachable, not just virtue, mustn't there necessarily be both teachers and students of it? MENO: I think so. SOCRATES: And conversely, if something has neither teachers nor students, wouldn't we be right to guess that it isn't teachable? MENO: That's so — but don't you think there are teachers of virtue?

SOCRATES: Time and again, in fact, when I've looked to see whether there are any teachers of it, I've tried everything and can't find one. And yet I search with plenty of company, and especially with those I'd guess to be most experienced in the matter. And right now, Meno, here's Anytus, who has sat down beside us at just the right moment — let's bring him into the inquiry. It's only fitting that we should: Anytus here is, to begin with, the son of a rich and capable father, Anthemion, who became wealthy not by luck or by anyone's gift — the way Ismenias of Thebes just recently came into Polycrates' fortune — but earned it through his own skill and diligence. And besides that, he's not thought arrogant as a citizen, nor puffed up and overbearing, but a decent, well-ordered man. And on top of that, he raised and educated this son of his well, or so the Athenian public thinks — at any rate they elect him to the highest offices. So it's right to look, along with a man like this, for teachers of virtue, whether there are any and who they might be. So, Anytus, join the search with me and your friend Meno here, and help us find out who might be teachers of this thing. Look at it this way: if we wanted Meno here to become a good doctor, whom would we send him to study with? Doctors, wouldn't we? ANYTUS: Certainly. SOCRATES: And if we wanted him to become a good shoemaker, wouldn't it be shoemakers? ANYTUS: Yes. SOCRATES: And so on for everything else? ANYTUS: Certainly. SOCRATES: Then tell me again, in the same way, about these same cases. When we say we'd be sending him properly to the doctors if we wanted him to become a doctor, do we mean this: that in sending him to them we'd be acting sensibly, since they're the ones who claim the skill rather than those who don't, and who charge a fee for exactly this, having declared themselves teachers for anyone who wishes to come and learn? Isn't it with this in view that we'd be sending him well? ANYTUS: Yes. SOCRATES: And isn't it the same with flute-playing and everything else? It would be sheer folly, wanting to make someone a flute-player, to refuse to send him to those who promise to teach the skill and charge for it, and instead go bothering other people, seeking to learn from those who neither claim to be teachers nor have a single student in this subject we're insisting our man learn from them. Don't you think that would be absurd? ANYTUS: Yes, by Zeus, I do — and ignorant besides.

SOCRATES: Well said. Now then, you can join me in thinking through the case of our friend here, Meno. He's been telling me for some time, Anytus, that he longs for that wisdom and virtue by which people manage their households and their cities well, care for their own parents, and know how to welcome and send off citizens and strangers in a manner worthy of a good man. So consider: to whom should we rightly send him to acquire this kind of virtue? MENO: Isn't it obvious, Socrates, from what we just said, that it's those who promise to be teachers of virtue and declare themselves available to any Greek who wishes to learn, setting a fee and charging for it? ANYTUS: And who do you mean by that, Socrates? SOCRATES: You know as well as I do — the ones people call sophists. ANYTUS: Heracles! Watch your words, Socrates. May no madness like that ever seize anyone of mine — kinsman, friend, citizen, or stranger — driving him to go to those men and be ruined, since it's plain as day that they ruin and corrupt anyone who spends time with them. SOCRATES: What do you mean, Anytus? These men alone, among those who claim to know how to benefit people, differ from everyone else to this extent: not only do they fail to help, as everyone else does, whatever's entrusted to them, but they actually do the opposite and corrupt it? And for this they openly expect to be paid? I really don't know how I can believe you. I know of one man, Protagoras, who earned more money from this wisdom of his than Pheidias, whose works were so famously beautiful, or any ten sculptors together. Yet what you're saying is a marvel — if those who mend old shoes and patch up worn cloaks couldn't get away with returning them in worse shape than they received them for even thirty days without being found out — and if they did that, they'd quickly starve — then how could Protagoras go on corrupting everyone he dealt with, and sending them away worse than he found them, for more than forty years, without the whole of Greece noticing? I believe he died close to seventy years old, having practiced his craft for forty of them —

SOCRATES: — and throughout all that time, right up to this very day, he has never stopped being held in the highest regard. And it's not only Protagoras — there are countless others too, some who lived before him, some still living now. Are we to say, on your account, that they knowingly deceive and corrupt the young, or that they don't even realize it themselves? Are we really to declare that men some people call the wisest of all human beings are, in fact, out of their minds? ANYTUS: Far from being out of their minds, Socrates — it's rather the young men who hand over their money to them who are out of their minds, and even more so those who allow it — their guardians — but most of all the cities, which let these men come in and don't drive them out, whether it's a foreigner trying to pull off something like this or a citizen. SOCRATES: But has one of the sophists wronged you, Anytus? Or why are you so harsh with them? ANYTUS: No, by Zeus, I've never once kept company with any of them, nor would I let any relation of mine do so either. SOCRATES: So you're entirely without experience of these men? ANYTUS: And may I stay that way. SOCRATES: Then how, my good man, could you know whether this activity has anything good or bad in it, when you're entirely without experience of it? ANYTUS: Easily enough — I know well enough who they are, whether or not I have experience of them. SOCRATES: Perhaps you're a prophet, Anytus — since, judging by what you yourself say, I'd be amazed if you knew about them in any other way. But look — we're not trying to find out who these men are that would corrupt Meno if he went to them — let them be the sophists, if you like — but tell us instead about the others: do our friend here, whose father was your friend, the favor of naming those he might go to in so great a city and become worthy of the virtue I described a moment ago. ANYTUS: Why didn't you tell him yourself? SOCRATES: Well, I did name the men I thought were teachers of this, but it turns out I was talking nonsense, as you say — and perhaps you're right. So now it's your turn — you tell him which Athenians he should approach. Name whoever you like. ANYTUS: Why does he need to hear just one man's name? Any decent, respectable Athenian he happens to meet will make him a better man than the sophists would, so long as he's willing to listen.

SOCRATES: But did these decent, respectable men become what they are all on their own, learning from no one, yet somehow able to teach others what they themselves never learned? ANYTUS: I'd say they learned it too, from their predecessors, who were themselves decent and respectable men. Or don't you think many good men have arisen in this city? SOCRATES: I do think so, Anytus — I think there are men here good at public affairs, and have been no less in the past than now. But have they also proven good teachers of their own virtue? That's really the question we're asking — not whether there are, or have been, good men here, but whether virtue can be taught, which is what we've been examining all along. And in examining that, this is what we're examining: whether the good men, both of the present and of former times, knew how to pass on to someone else this virtue by which they themselves were good, or whether it's something that can't be handed from one person to another, or received by one from another. That's what Meno and I have been searching for all this time. Look at it this way, going by your own reasoning: wouldn't you say Themistocles was a good man? ANYTUS: I would, more than anyone. SOCRATES: And if anyone was ever a good teacher of his own virtue, wasn't he one too? ANYTUS: I suppose so, if he'd wanted to be. SOCRATES: But don't you think he'd have wanted others to become good men — his own son most of all? Or do you think he begrudged him, and deliberately withheld the virtue he himself possessed? Haven't you heard that Themistocles taught his son Cleophantus to be an excellent horseman? He could stand upright on a horse's back and hurl a javelin from that position, and performed all sorts of other remarkable feats that his father trained him in and made him skilled at — everything that depends on good teachers. Haven't you heard this from your elders? ANYTUS: I have. SOCRATES: So no one could blame his son's nature for being bad. ANYTUS: Perhaps not. SOCRATES: But what about this — have you ever heard, from anyone young or old, that Cleophantus, Themistocles' son, turned out to be a good and wise man in the way his father was? ANYTUS: No, never. SOCRATES: Then are we to suppose he wanted to train his son in those other things, but had no interest in making him better than the neighbors in the very wisdom he himself possessed — if indeed virtue could be taught? ANYTUS: Perhaps not, by Zeus.

SOCRATES: So much, then, for this teacher of virtue, whom you yourself agree was among the best men of former times. Let's look at another — Aristides, son of Lysimachus. Don't you agree he was a good man? ANYTUS: I do, without question. SOCRATES: And didn't he too train his son Lysimachus, as far as teachers go, better than any Athenian? Yet do you think he's made him a better man than anyone else? You've kept company with him yourself and can see what he's like. And if you like, take Pericles, so magnificently wise a man — you know he raised two sons, Paralus and Xanthippus? ANYTUS: I do. SOCRATES: These two, as you also know, he had trained as horsemen second to none in Athens, and educated in music and athletics and everything else that skill can teach, second to none — but did he not want them to become good men? I think he did want that — but it simply isn't something that can be taught. And so you won't think it's only a few of the lowliest Athenians who've failed at this, consider that Thucydides too raised two sons, Melesias and Stephanus, and trained them well in everything else — they were the finest wrestlers in Athens, for he gave one to Xanthias and the other to Eudorus to train, and these were considered the best wrestlers of their day — don't you remember? ANYTUS: I do, by report. SOCRATES: So it's clear that this man, who spent money teaching his sons things that required expense, would surely have taught them, at no cost at all, to become good men — if that could be taught. But perhaps Thucydides was a lowly man, without many friends among the Athenians and their allies? No — he was of a great house, and held great power in the city and among the other Greeks, so that if this thing could be taught, he would have found someone to make his sons good men, whether a local or a foreigner, even if he himself had no time for it because of his public duties. But no, my friend Anytus — it seems virtue simply cannot be taught.

ANYTUS: Socrates, you seem to me altogether too free with your abuse of people. I'd advise you, if you'll listen to me, to be careful — perhaps in another city it's easier to do people harm than good, but in this one it's very much easier. I imagine you know that yourself. SOCRATES: Meno, Anytus seems to be angry with me, and I'm not at all surprised — he thinks, first, that I'm speaking ill of these men, and second, he takes himself to be one of them. But if he ever comes to understand what it means to speak ill of someone, he'll stop being angry — right now he doesn't understand it. Tell me, though — aren't there among you men who are admired as fine and good? MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: Well then — are these men willing to offer themselves as teachers to the young, and to agree that they are teachers, and that virtue can be taught? MENO: No, by Zeus, Socrates — sometimes you'd hear them say it can be taught, sometimes that it can't. SOCRATES: Should we call these men teachers of the subject, when they don't even agree among themselves on this very point? MENO: I don't think so, Socrates. SOCRATES: Well then — what about the sophists, the only ones who actually advertise themselves as such — do they seem to you to be teachers of virtue? MENO: That's exactly what I admire in Gorgias, Socrates — you'd never hear him promising any such thing, and in fact he laughs at the others when he hears them promising it. What he thinks he ought to produce is skilled speakers. SOCRATES: So you don't think the sophists are teachers either? MENO: I can't say, Socrates. I'm in the same condition as most people — sometimes I think they are, sometimes not. SOCRATES: Do you know that it isn't only you and other public men who waver on whether this can be taught — the poet Theognis says exactly the same thing? MENO: In which verses? SOCRATES: In the elegies, where he says — Eat and drink with such men, sit among them, and please those whose power is great. For from good men you'll learn good things; but if you mix with bad ones, you'll destroy even the sense you have. You see that here he speaks as though virtue can be taught? MENO: So it seems.

SOCRATES: But elsewhere, shifting his ground slightly, he says — If understanding could be made and put into a man, then — those who could do this would earn many great rewards, and — never would a good father's son turn out bad, persuaded by wise words. But teaching will never turn a bad man good. Do you notice that he's contradicting himself on the very same subject? MENO: It does seem so. SOCRATES: Can you name any other subject where the men who claim to be teachers of it are not only unacknowledged as teachers of others, but not even admitted to understand the thing themselves — indeed are said to be poor at the very thing they claim to teach — while the ones who are acknowledged to be fine and good men say at one time that it can be taught and at another that it can't? Would you say people so confused about anything are, in any proper sense, teachers of it? MENO: No, by Zeus, I would not. SOCRATES: Then if neither the sophists nor the men acknowledged to be fine and good are teachers of the subject, clearly no one else could be either? MENO: I don't think so. SOCRATES: And if there are no teachers, there are no students either? MENO: I think that follows, as you say. SOCRATES: And we've agreed that where there are neither teachers nor students of a thing, that thing cannot be taught? MENO: We have agreed to that. SOCRATES: So virtue turns out nowhere to have teachers? MENO: That's so. SOCRATES: And if it has no teachers, it has no students? MENO: It appears so. SOCRATES: Then virtue could not be something taught? MENO: It doesn't seem so, if we've examined this correctly. And so I find myself wondering, Socrates, whether there really are good men at all, or what manner of coming-to-be there could be for those who do become good. SOCRATES: It looks, Meno, as though you and I are rather worthless fellows — Gorgias hasn't educated you well enough, nor Prodicus me. So we'd better pay the closest attention to ourselves, and look for someone who can make us better in some way or other. I say this with an eye on the inquiry we've just made — how ridiculously it escaped us that it isn't only under the guidance of knowledge that people act rightly and well, which is perhaps why we're missing how it is that good men come to be. MENO: What do you mean by that, Socrates?

SOCRATES: Like this. That good men must be beneficial — we were right to agree that this can't be otherwise, weren't we? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: And that they'll be beneficial if they guide our affairs rightly — that too we agreed to soundly enough? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: But that one cannot guide rightly unless one has understanding — in agreeing to that, it looks as though we agreed wrongly. MENO: What do you mean, that we were right just now? SOCRATES: I'll explain. If a man knows the road to Larisa, or wherever else you like, and walks it and guides others, wouldn't he guide them rightly and well? MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: But what about someone who has a correct opinion about which road it is, but has never gone there and doesn't actually know it — wouldn't he too guide correctly? MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: And as long as he holds a true opinion about the very thing the other man knows, he'll be just as good a guide, thinking truly though without understanding, as the man who does understand. MENO: Just as good. SOCRATES: So true opinion is no worse a guide to correct action than knowledge — and this is exactly what we passed over a moment ago in examining what sort of thing virtue is, when we said that only understanding guides right action. It turns out true opinion does the same. MENO: So it seems. SOCRATES: Then right opinion is no less beneficial than knowledge. MENO: Except in this respect, Socrates — the man with knowledge will always hit the mark, while the man with right opinion will hit it sometimes and miss it other times. SOCRATES: What do you mean? Won't the man who always holds right opinion always hit the mark, so long as his opinions remain right? MENO: That does seem necessary — and so I'm puzzled, Socrates, given that this is so, why knowledge is held in so much higher honor than right opinion, and why the two are different at all. SOCRATES: Do you know why you're puzzled, or shall I tell you? MENO: Please, tell me. SOCRATES: It's because you've never paid attention to the statues of Daedalus. Perhaps you don't even have them where you come from. MENO: What are you getting at? SOCRATES: That those statues, if not tied down, run off and escape, but if tied down, they stay put. MENO: What of it?

SOCRATES: To own one of his works unfastened isn't worth very much — it's like owning a runaway slave, since it won't stay; but fastened down, it's worth a great deal, for the workmanship is truly beautiful. And why am I saying this? Because of true opinions. True opinions too, for as long as they stay in place, are a fine thing and accomplish nothing but good — but they're not willing to stay put for long; they run off out of a person's soul, and so they aren't worth much until someone ties them down by working out the reason why. And that tying-down, my friend Meno, is recollection, as we agreed earlier. Once they're tied down, they become, first of all, knowledge, and then also stable. That's exactly why knowledge is worth more than right opinion, and why knowledge differs from right opinion in being bound. MENO: By Zeus, Socrates, it does seem to be something like that. SOCRATES: And yet I too am speaking not from knowledge but from guesswork. That there is some difference between right opinion and knowledge, though, is not something I'm merely guessing — if there's anything at all I'd claim to know — and I'd claim to know very few things — this would be one of the things I'd count among them. MENO: And rightly so, Socrates. SOCRATES: And isn't this also right — that true opinion, guiding the performance of any action, achieves the result no worse than knowledge does? MENO: That too seems true to me. SOCRATES: So right opinion is in no way inferior to knowledge, nor any less useful for action, nor is the man who has right opinion any less use than the man who has knowledge. MENO: That's so. SOCRATES: And we've agreed that the good man is beneficial to us. MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: Since, then, men could be good and beneficial to their cities not only through knowledge, if they were good at all, but also through right opinion, and since neither of these — neither knowledge nor true opinion — belongs to people by nature, nor is acquired — or does it seem to you that either one is present in people by nature? MENO: Not to me. SOCRATES: So since they aren't there by nature, good men wouldn't be good by nature either. MENO: Certainly not. SOCRATES: And since it isn't by nature, we went on to ask whether it could be taught. MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: And it seemed it could be taught, if virtue is understanding? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: And if it could be taught, it would be understanding? MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: And if there were teachers, it could be taught, but if there were none, it couldn't? MENO: So it seemed. SOCRATES: But we've agreed there are no teachers of it? MENO: That's so. SOCRATES: Then we've agreed it can neither be taught nor is understanding? MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: But we do agree that it's something good? MENO: Yes. SOCRATES: And that whatever guides rightly is both beneficial and good? MENO: Certainly.

SOCRATES: And that there are only these two things that guide rightly — true opinion and knowledge — which a person has when he guides rightly. Things that turn out right by some stroke of luck don't come about through human guidance — but where a human being is the guide toward what is right, these are the two things, true opinion and knowledge. MENO: I think that's so. SOCRATES: Then since virtue can't be taught, it no longer follows that virtue is knowledge? MENO: It doesn't seem so. SOCRATES: So of the two good and beneficial things, one has been ruled out, and knowledge cannot be the guide in political action. MENO: I don't think so. SOCRATES: Then it isn't through any wisdom, nor because they were wise men, that men of this sort have guided their cities — men like Themistocles, and those Anytus mentioned just now. That's exactly why they can't produce others like themselves — since it isn't through knowledge that they are what they are. MENO: It does seem to be as you say, Socrates. SOCRATES: Then if not through knowledge, what remains is that they act through good judgment, sound as it turns out — the very thing by which statesmen keep their cities upright, being no different in their capacity for understanding from soothsayers and diviners who speak by inspiration. For these too, in their inspired state, say many true things, but know nothing of what they're saying. MENO: That's probably how it is. SOCRATES: Then, Meno, wouldn't it be right to call these men divine — men who, without possessing understanding, succeed at many great things in what they do and say? MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: So we'd be right to call divine those we just spoke of — the soothsayers and diviners, and all the poets besides — and we'd say the statesmen, no less than these, are divine and inspired, breathed into and possessed by a god, whenever they succeed in speaking of many great matters while knowing nothing of what they're saying. MENO: Certainly. SOCRATES: And women too, I suppose, Meno, call good men divine — and the Spartans, when they praise a good man, say, 'That man is divine.' MENO: And they seem to be right, Socrates — though I suppose Anytus here is annoyed at you for saying so.

SOCRATES: That's no trouble to me. We can go over this again another time, Meno. But if what we've searched out and said through this whole discussion holds up, then excellence would be present neither by nature nor by teaching, but comes to whoever it comes to as a gift from the gods, without any understanding on their part -- unless there's some statesman capable of making another man a statesman too. And if there is such a person, he might almost be said to stand among the living as Homer says Tiresias stood among the dead, when he says of him that he alone keeps his wits in Hades, while the rest are flitting shadows. In just the same way, a man like that would be, here among us, a true reality standing out among shadows, when it comes to excellence. MENO: I think that's a beautiful way to put it, Socrates. SOCRATES: Well then, from this reasoning, Meno, excellence appears to come to us as a gift from the gods, to whoever it comes to. But we'll know the clear truth of it only when, before asking in what way excellence comes to people, we first set out to inquire, all on its own, what excellence actually is. For now, though, it's time for me to be off somewhere, and you should go persuade our friend Anytus here of these very things you've come to believe yourself, so that he's gentler for it. Because if you can persuade him, you'll be doing the Athenians a favor as well.

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