Parmenides

Plato · a new plain-English translation from the Greek

When we arrived in Athens from our home in Clazomenae, we ran into Adeimantus and Glaucon in the marketplace. Adeimantus took my hand and said, "Welcome, Cephalus—if there's anything here we can help with, just say so." "As it happens," I said, "that's exactly why I've come—to ask a favor of you." "Then name it," he said. And I said: "What was the name of your half-brother on your mother's side? I don't remember. He was just a boy when I was here before, visiting from Clazomenae—and that was a long time ago now. His father, I think, was named Pyrilampes." "That's right," he said. "And the boy himself?" "Antiphon. But why do you ask?" "These men," I said, "are fellow citizens of mine, quite devoted to philosophy, and they've heard that this Antiphon spent a great deal of time with a certain Pythodorus, a companion of Zeno's, and that he has memorized the arguments that Socrates, Zeno, and Parmenides once discussed—having heard them often from Pythodorus." "True enough," he said. "Well, we'd like to hear them." "That's no trouble," he said. "When he was a young man he worked hard at mastering them, though these days, like his grandfather and namesake, he spends most of his time with horses. But if you like, let's go find him—he just went home from here, and he lives nearby, in Melite."

With that we set off walking, and found Antiphon at home, handing a bridle over to a smith to have it fitted. Once the smith had gone, his brothers told him why we had come, and he recognized me from my earlier visit and greeted me warmly. When we asked him to go through the arguments, he hesitated at first—saying it was a great deal of work—but then he told the whole story. Antiphon said that Pythodorus told him that Zeno and Parmenides once came to Athens for the Great Panathenaea. Parmenides was already quite an old man, his hair very white, but handsome and of noble bearing—somewhere around sixty-five. Zeno at that time was nearly forty, tall and good-looking, and was said to have been Parmenides' beloved. They were staying with Pythodorus, outside the city wall in the Cerameicus, and Socrates went there, along with a good many others, all eager to hear Zeno's writings—for that was the first time they had been brought to Athens by their authors. Socrates was very young at the time. Zeno himself read the arguments aloud to them, while Parmenides happened to be out. Pythodorus said that only a small part of the arguments remained to be read when he himself came in from outside, together with Parmenides and Aristotle—the same man who later became one of the Thirty—and that they caught just a little of what was being read; not that it mattered to him, since he had heard it all before from Zeno. When Socrates had listened, he asked Zeno to read the first hypothesis of the first argument again, and once it had been read, he said: "What do you mean by this, Zeno? If existing things are many, then, you say, they must be both like and unlike—but that's impossible, since unlike things cannot be like, nor like things unlike. Isn't that your claim?" "Yes," said Zeno. "Then if it's impossible for unlike things to be like and like things unlike, it's also impossible for there to be many things—since if there were many, they would suffer these impossibilities. Is this the point of your arguments—simply to fight, against every common claim, the thesis that things are many? And do you take each of your arguments as proof of exactly this, so that you think you're offering as many proofs that there aren't many things as you've written arguments? Is that your meaning, or have I misunderstood?"

"No," said Zeno, "you've grasped very well the overall point of the piece." "I see, Parmenides," said Socrates, "that Zeno here wants to be linked with you not only in friendship but in his writing too. He's written, in a way, the same thing you have, but by changing the presentation he tries to make us think he's saying something different. You claim in your poems that the all is one, and you give fine, solid proofs of it; he, for his part, claims that it isn't many, and he too offers a great abundance of impressive proofs. So when one of you says 'one' and the other says 'not many,' and each of you speaks in such a way that you seem to be saying nothing the same, though you're really saying almost the same thing, what you've both said seems to go over the heads of the rest of us." "Yes, Socrates," said Zeno, "but you haven't caught the whole truth of the piece. Still, like a Spartan hound you track and chase down what's said quite well. First, though, you're missing this: the piece doesn't put on such airs as you suppose—as if it were written with some grand design in mind, to hide something important from people. What you mentioned is only incidental; the real truth is that this writing comes to the defense of Parmenides' argument against those who try to make fun of it by claiming that if it's one, the argument runs into many absurd and self-contradictory results. So this piece answers those who assert the many, and gives back the same treatment and more, aiming to show that their hypothesis—that things are many—would end up in even more absurd trouble than the hypothesis that it's one, if someone examined it thoroughly enough. I wrote it in that competitive spirit when I was young, and someone stole it once it was written, so I never even got the chance to decide whether to publish it or not. That's what you're missing, Socrates—you assume it was written from a young man's love of argument, rather than an older man's ambition for reputation. Though, as I said, your guess wasn't far off."

"Well, I accept that," said Socrates, "and I think it's just as you say. But tell me this: don't you think there is a form of likeness, itself by itself, and again another form opposite to it, which is unlikeness—and that you and I and the other things we call many come to share in these two? And that whatever shares in likeness becomes like, in that respect and to the degree it shares in it, while whatever shares in unlikeness becomes unlike, and whatever shares in both becomes both? And even if all things share in both, being opposite as they are, and by partaking of both are like and unlike themselves—what's so strange in that? If someone showed that the likes themselves become unlike, or the unlikes like, that would be a marvel; but if he shows that things which share in both undergo both, there's nothing odd in that, Zeno, to my mind—nor is it odd if someone shows that all things are one by sharing in the one, and that these same things are also many by sharing in multitude. But if he shows that what is itself one is many, and that the many are, in turn, one itself—now that would astonish me. And likewise with everything else: if he can show that the kinds and forms themselves undergo these opposite conditions in themselves, that's worth marveling at; but if he shows that I am one and many, what's strange in that, when to show me as many he says that my right side is different from my left, my front from my back, my top from my bottom—since I do partake of multitude—while to show me as one, he'll say that though we are seven, I am one man, sharing also in the one? So both are shown to be true. If, then, someone tries to show that the very same things—sticks, stones, and the like—are many and one, we'll say he's shown something to be many and one, not that the one is many or the many one, and that he's said nothing marvelous, only what we'd all agree to. But if someone first distinguishes, each by itself, the forms themselves—likeness, unlikeness, multitude, unity, rest, motion, and all such things—and then shows that these, in themselves, can be mixed together and separated, that, Zeno, is what I would admire."

"I think what you've done here has been argued with real courage—but I'd admire it far more if someone could show this same puzzle woven all through the forms themselves, just as you've shown it in the visible world, and display it likewise in the realm grasped by reasoning." Pythodorus said that as Socrates spoke, he himself expected that Parmenides and Zeno would grow annoyed at each point, but instead they paid him close attention, glancing at each other from time to time and smiling, as if in admiration of Socrates. And indeed, when Socrates finished, Parmenides said just that: "Socrates, you deserve admiration for your eagerness in argument. Now tell me—have you yourself drawn this distinction you speak of, separating certain forms, on the one hand, from the things that share in them, on the other? And do you think there is such a thing as likeness itself, apart from the likeness we ourselves have, and one and many and all the things you just heard Zeno discuss?" "I do," said Socrates. "And also things like these," said Parmenides, "such as a form of justice itself, by itself, and of beauty and goodness and all such things?" "Yes," he said. "And a form of man, apart from us and all those like us—some form itself of man, or of fire, or of water?" "I've often been at a loss, Parmenides, whether to say the same about these as about the others, or not." "And what about things like these, Socrates, which might seem quite laughable—hair, mud, dirt, or anything else utterly worthless and trivial? Are you at a loss whether to say there is a form for each of these too, separate from the things we handle, or not?" "Not at all," said Socrates. "These things are just what we see them to be; it would be too absurd to suppose there's a form of them. Though sometimes the worry does strike me that the same might hold for everything—but then, when I take that stand, I flee, afraid of tumbling into some abyss of nonsense and being destroyed. So I go back to the things we agreed do have forms, and spend my time on those." "That's because you're still young, Socrates," said Parmenides, "and philosophy hasn't yet taken hold of you the way it will, in my judgment—when you'll no longer look down on any of these things. For now you still defer to people's opinions, because of your age. But tell me this: do you think, as you say, that there are certain forms, from which the other things, by partaking of them, take their names—so that things partaking of likeness become like, of largeness become large, and of beauty and justice become beautiful and just?"

"Certainly," said Socrates. "So whatever partakes of the form partakes either of the whole of it or of a part of it. Or could there be some other way of partaking, apart from these two?" "How could there be?" he said. "Well then, do you think the whole form is present in each of the many things, being one, or how?" "What's to stop it being one?" said Socrates. "Then, being one and the same, it will be present whole at the same time in many things that are separate from one another, and so it will be separate from itself." "No it won't," he said, "not if it's like a day — one and the same day can be in many places at once without being separate from itself in the least. Suppose each of the forms is one and the same in all its instances in just that way." "How neatly you make one and the same thing be in many places at once, Socrates — as if you spread a sail over a number of people and then said one whole thing was over many. Isn't that the sort of thing you mean?" "Perhaps," he said. "Well then, would the sail be whole over each person, or would a different part of it be over each?" "A part." "So the forms themselves are divisible, Socrates, and the things that share in them would share in a part of them, and no longer would the whole form be in each thing, but only a part of it in each." "So it appears, at any rate." "Then will you be willing, Socrates, to say that the one form is really divided up, and still remains one?" "Not at all," he said. "Consider this," he said. "If you divide up largeness itself, and each of the many large things is large by a smaller part of largeness than largeness itself, won't that seem absurd?" "It certainly will," he said. "And what about this — if something takes off a small part of the equal, will what has that part, which is less than the equal itself, be equal to anything by it?" "Impossible." "But suppose one of us has a part of the small — the small itself will be larger than this part, since it is a part of it, and so the small itself will turn out larger; and whatever the removed piece is added to will become smaller, not larger than before." "That could never happen," he said. "Then in what way, Socrates," he said, "will the other things come to share in your forms, if they can partake of them neither part by part nor as wholes?" "By Zeus," he said, "it doesn't seem to me an easy thing to settle at all." "Well now, what do you say to this?" "To what?"

"I imagine it's something like this that makes you think each form is one: whenever a number of things seem large to you, there seems, perhaps, looking at them all, to be some one identical character over them, and that's why you take the large to be one." "True," he said. "But what about largeness itself and the other large things — if you look at all of them the same way in your mind, won't some further one large thing appear, by which all of these appear large?" "It seems so." "So another form of largeness will show up, arising alongside largeness itself and the things that share in it; and over all of these again another, by which all of them will be large; and each of your forms will no longer be one, but unlimited in number." "But, Parmenides," said Socrates, "maybe each of these forms is a thought, and it's not right for it to arise anywhere except in minds. In that way each would be one, and would no longer suffer what was just described." "Well then," he said, "is each of these thoughts one, but a thought of nothing?" "No, that's impossible," he said. "A thought of something, then?" "Yes." "Of something that is, or that is not?" "Of something that is." "Of some one thing, which that thought thinks as present over all the instances, some single character?" "Yes." "Then won't this thing that is thought to be one be a form, always the same over all the instances?" "That seems necessary again." "Well then," said Parmenides, "given the necessity by which you say the other things share in the forms, doesn't it follow that either each thing is made of thoughts and everything thinks, or else that they are thoughts which do not think?" "That doesn't make sense either," he said. "No, Parmenides, what appears to me most likely is this: these forms stand fixed in nature like patterns, and the other things resemble them and are likenesses of them, and this sharing that the other things come to have in the forms is simply their being modeled on them." "Well," he said, "if something resembles the form, can that form fail to be like the thing modeled on it, to the extent that it has been made like it? Or is there any way for a likeness not to be like its like?" "There is not." "And isn't it a great necessity that the like share in one and the same form as its like?" "It is." "And won't the thing by sharing in which like things are like be the form itself?" "Absolutely."

"So it's not possible for anything to be like the form, nor the form like anything else. Otherwise, alongside the form another form will always appear, and if that one is like anything, yet another again, and it will never stop, new forms constantly arising, if the form comes to be like what shares in it." "That's very true." "So it isn't by likeness that the other things share in the forms; some other means of sharing must be sought." "So it seems." "Do you see, then, Socrates," he said, "how great the difficulty is, if one marks the forms off as being just by themselves?" "I do indeed." "Then be assured," he said, "that you haven't even begun to touch how great the difficulty is, so to speak, if you're going to posit one form for each existing thing, marking it off every time." "How so?" he said. "There are many other reasons," he said, "but the greatest is this. Suppose someone said that the forms, being what we say they must be, aren't even the sort of thing that can be known — no one could show that person he was wrong, unless the one arguing against him happened to be widely experienced and not lacking in ability, and were willing to follow the demonstrator through a long and far-ranging argument; otherwise the one who insists that the forms are unknowable would remain unpersuaded." "How so, Parmenides?" said Socrates. "Because, Socrates, I think you — and anyone else who posits that each thing has some being that exists just by itself — would agree, first, that none of these beings exists in us." "How could it still be itself by itself, if it did?" said Socrates. "Well put," he said. "So all the forms that are what they are in relation to one another have their being in relation to themselves, not in relation to the things among us — whether we take these as likenesses or however else one posits them — things which, by sharing in them, give us each our names. And these things among us, though they share a name with those forms, are themselves again in relation to themselves, not in relation to the forms, and belong to themselves, not to those other things that are likewise named." "What do you mean?" said Socrates. "For instance," said Parmenides, "if one of us is master or slave of someone, he is not, of course, slave of mastery itself, of what mastery is, nor is the master, master of slavery itself, of what slavery is; rather, being a man, he is these things in relation to a man. But mastery itself is what it is in relation to slavery itself, and slavery likewise is itself in relation to mastery itself; the things among us do not have their power in relation to those, nor do those have theirs in relation to us — rather, as I say, those things are themselves in relation to themselves and belong to one another, and the things among us are likewise in relation to themselves.

"Or don't you follow what I mean?" "I follow perfectly well," said Socrates. "Then knowledge too," he said, "knowledge itself, what it is, would be knowledge of truth itself, what it is?" "Certainly." "And each particular kind of knowledge, what it is, would be knowledge of some particular thing that is, what it is — isn't that so?" "Yes." "But the knowledge that exists among us would be knowledge of the truth among us, and each kind of knowledge among us would turn out to be knowledge of some particular thing among us?" "Necessarily." "But indeed, as you agree, we neither possess the forms themselves nor can they exist among us." "No, we can't." "And the kinds themselves, what each of them is, are known, surely, by the form of knowledge itself?" "Yes." "Which we don't possess." "No, we don't." "Then none of the forms is known by us, since we have no share in knowledge itself." "It seems not." "So the beautiful itself, what it is, and the good, and all the things we take to be forms existing in themselves, are unknowable to us." "It looks that way." "Now see something still more alarming than this." "What is it?" "You'd surely agree that if there is indeed some kind of knowledge itself, it's far more exact than the knowledge that exists among us — and the same for beauty and everything else." "Yes." "So if anything else shares in knowledge itself, wouldn't you say no one has the most exact knowledge more than a god does?" "Necessarily." "Then will a god, having knowledge itself, be able to know the things among us?" "Why not?" "Because, Parmenides said, we've agreed that those forms don't have the power they have in relation to the things among us, nor do the things among us have theirs in relation to those forms — each set has power only in relation to itself." "Yes, we've agreed to that." "Then if the most exact mastery and the most exact knowledge are with the god, that mastery of theirs could never rule us, nor could that knowledge know us or anything else among us — rather, just as we do not govern them with our authority, nor know anything divine by our knowledge, so too, by the same reasoning, they, being gods, are neither our masters nor do they know human affairs." "But surely," he said, "this is far too strange an argument, if it's going to deprive god of knowing."

"And yet, Socrates," said Parmenides, "these difficulties and many others besides are unavoidable for the forms, if these characters of things really exist and one is going to mark off each form as a thing itself — so that the listener is left at a loss, and disputes whether they exist at all, and, if they do exist as much as possible, insists they must be altogether unknowable to human nature; and in saying this he seems to be saying something, and, as we said just now, he's remarkably hard to talk out of it. It would take a truly gifted man to grasp that there is a kind and a being in itself for each thing, and a still more remarkable one to discover this and be able to teach someone else who has worked it all out with sufficient rigor." "I grant you that, Parmenides," said Socrates. "You're speaking very much to my own mind." "And yet, Socrates," said Parmenides, "if someone, in light of all these difficulties and others like them, refuses to allow that there are forms of things, and won't mark off a form for each single thing, he won't have anywhere to turn his thought, since he won't allow that the character of each thing is always the same — and so he'll utterly destroy the power of discourse. It's this consequence, I think, that you've noticed especially well." "That's true," he said. "Then what will you do about philosophy? Which way will you turn, with all this left unresolved?" "I don't see my way clear at all, at least for the present." "That's because you're trying too soon, Socrates, before you've been properly trained, to define the beautiful, the just, the good, and each of the other forms. I noticed this the other day too, listening to you talking here with Aristotle. The impulse you feel toward argument is a fine and godlike one, be assured — but pull yourself back and train yourself more, while you're still young, in that discipline the many consider useless and call idle chatter. Otherwise the truth will slip past you." "Then what is this discipline, Parmenides," he said, "what form does the training take?" "The one you heard from Zeno," he said. "Except that there was one thing you said to him that I admired: you wouldn't let him confine the wandering inquiry to visible things and what concerns them, but made him range over those things that one could most grasp by reasoning and would take to be forms." "Yes," he said, "because it seems to me there's no difficulty at all, this way, in showing that visible things are both like and unlike, and undergo anything else whatever."

"Yes, and rightly so," he said. "But there's something else you should do besides this: not only suppose that each thing is, and examine what follows from that supposition, but also suppose that the same thing is not, if you want to get more practice." "What do you mean?" said Socrates. "Take, for instance," he said, "if you like, this hypothesis that Zeno proposed, that things are many—you should examine what must follow both for the many themselves in relation to each other and in relation to the one, and for the one in relation to itself and in relation to the many. And again, if things are not many, you must examine in turn what will follow for the one and for the many, both in relation to themselves and in relation to each other. And yet again, if you suppose that likeness exists or that it does not exist, you must ask what follows in each case, both for the things supposed and for everything else, both in relation to themselves and to each other. And the same method applies to unlikeness, to motion and to rest, to coming-to-be and passing away, and to being itself and not-being. In a word, whatever you ever suppose to exist or not to exist, or to undergo any other affection, you must examine what follows—both in relation to the thing itself and in relation to each of the other things, whichever you choose, and in relation to several of them and to all of them together; and likewise the other things too, both in relation to themselves and in relation to whatever else you choose, always—whether you suppose the thing you posited to exist or not to exist—if you're going to train yourself fully and see the truth clearly in the end." "That's an overwhelming task you're describing, Parmenides," he said, "and I don't quite follow it. Why don't you go through it yourself, taking some hypothesis, so I can understand it better?" "That's a lot to ask of a man my age, Socrates," he said. "Well, Zeno," said Socrates, "why don't you go through it for us?" And Zeno, he said, laughed and said: "Let's ask Parmenides himself, Socrates—this is no light matter he's describing. Don't you see what a task you're setting him? If there were more of us, it wouldn't be right to ask this of him; talking about such things in front of a large crowd isn't fitting, especially for a man his age—most people don't realize that without this thorough excursion through everything, this wandering, it's impossible to arrive at the truth with understanding. So I join Socrates in asking you, Parmenides, so that I too can hear it again after all this time." When Zeno had said this, Antiphon said that Pythodorus told him that he himself, along with Aristotle and the others, joined in asking Parmenides to demonstrate what he meant and not refuse. So Parmenides said: "I must do as you ask, then.

"And yet I feel I'm in the position of Ibycus's horse—the one that, being an old racehorse about to compete in a chariot race, trembled at what was coming because it knew from experience what it meant, and Ibycus, comparing himself to it, said that he too, old as he was, was being forced against his will into love. I feel much the same, remembering how frightened I am at how, at my age, I'm to swim across such a vast sea of arguments. Still, I must oblige you, since, as Zeno says, we're all friends here. So where should we begin, and what should we suppose first? Since it seems we're to play this laborious game, shall I begin from myself and my own hypothesis, taking the one itself as my subject, and asking what must follow whether it is one or not one?" "Yes, do that," said Zeno. "Then who will answer my questions?" he said. "The youngest one, perhaps? He'd be least likely to make trouble, and would answer just what he thinks—and at the same time his answers would give me a rest." "I'm ready for that, Parmenides," said Aristotle. "You mean me, when you say the youngest. Go ahead and ask, and I'll answer." "Very well," he said. "If it is one, the one couldn't be many, could it?" "How could it?" "So it must have neither part nor be a whole." "Why not?" "Because a part is part of a whole." "Yes." "And what is a whole? Isn't it that from which no part is missing?" "Certainly." "So in both ways the one would consist of parts, both as being a whole and as having parts." "Necessarily." "So in both ways the one would turn out to be many, not one." "True." "But it must be not many but one itself." "It must." "So it will be neither a whole nor have parts, if it is to be one." "No, it won't." "Now if it has no part, it can have neither beginning, nor end, nor middle—for such things would already be parts of it." "Right." "And surely an end and a beginning are the limit of anything." "Of course." "So the one is unlimited, if it has neither beginning nor end." "Unlimited." "And also without shape—for it partakes of neither the round nor the straight." "How so?" "The round, surely, is that whose extremities are everywhere equally distant from the middle." "Yes." "And the straight is that whose middle stands in front of both extremities." "Just so." "So the one would have parts and be many, whether it partook of straight or of round shape." "Certainly." "So it is neither straight nor round, since it has no parts at all." "Right.

"And being such, it could be nowhere—for it would be neither in another nor in itself." "How so?" "If it were in another, it would be surrounded on all sides by that in which it was contained, and would touch it at many points with many parts of itself; but what is one and partless and has no share of roundness cannot possibly touch something all around in a circle." "Impossible." "But then again, if it were in itself, it would be surrounded by nothing other than itself, since it would indeed be in itself—for it's impossible for a thing to be in something that doesn't contain it." "Impossible indeed." "So the container would be one thing and the contained another—for the same whole thing can't both undergo and produce the same effect at once; and in that way the one would no longer be one but two." "That's right." "So the one is not anywhere, being contained neither in itself nor in another." "It isn't." "Now consider whether, being so, it's possible for it to be at rest or in motion." "Why shouldn't it be?" "Because if it moved, it would either be carried along or be altered—those are the only kinds of motion." "Yes." "But the one, being altered from itself, surely couldn't still be one." "Impossible." "So it doesn't move by alteration, at least." "Apparently not." "Then does it move by being carried along?" "Perhaps." "But if the one were carried along, it would either revolve in a circle in the same place, or shift from one place to another." "It must be one or the other." "Now if it revolves in a circle, it must be fixed on a center, and the parts moving around the center must be other parts of itself; but for something to which neither center nor parts belong, what mechanism could ever carry it in a circle around a center?" "None." "But does it move by changing places, coming to be now here, now there?" "If it moves at all, yes." "But wasn't it shown to be impossible for it to be in anything?" "Yes." "Then isn't it even more impossible for it to come to be in something?" "I don't see how." "If a thing comes to be in something, mustn't it be that it isn't yet entirely in it while still coming to be, and yet isn't entirely outside it either, since it's already coming to be in it?" "Necessarily." "So if anything else is to undergo this, only that which has parts could undergo it—for part of it would already be in the thing, and part outside at the same time; but what has no parts can't possibly, as a whole, be neither wholly inside nor wholly outside something." "True." "And what has neither parts nor is a whole—isn't it even more impossible for it to come to be in something, since it can come to be neither part by part nor as a whole?" "So it seems.

"So it neither shifts place by going somewhere and coming to be in it, nor revolves in the same place, nor is altered." "It seems not." "So in every kind of motion, the one is unmoved." "Unmoved." "But we also said it's impossible for it to be in anything." "Yes, we did." "So it's never in the same place either." "Why?" "Because it would then be in that very thing in which it is the same." "Certainly." "But it was impossible for it to be in itself or in another." "Yes, it was." "So the one is never in the same place." "It seems not." "But what's never in the same place neither stays still nor is at rest." "No, it can't be." "So the one, it seems, is neither at rest nor in motion." "So it appears." "Nor again will it be the same as another or as itself, nor different from itself or from another. " "How so?" "If it were different from itself, it would be different from one, and so wouldn't be one." "True." "And if it were the same as another, it would be that other thing, and not itself; so it wouldn't be what it in fact is, namely one, but something different from one." "Just so." "So it won't be the same as another, or different from itself." "No." "Nor will it be different from another, so long as it's one—for it doesn't belong to one to be different from anything; that belongs only to different, in relation to different, and to nothing else." "Right." "So by virtue of being one, it won't be different." "No, indeed." "But if not by virtue of that, then not by virtue of itself; and if not by virtue of itself, then not itself; and being in no way different, it will be different from nothing." "Right." "Nor again will it be the same as itself." "How so?" "Because the nature of the one isn't, surely, the same as the nature of the same." "Why?" "Because a thing doesn't become one whenever it becomes the same as something." "What then?" "Whatever becomes the same as the many must become many, not one." "True." "But if the one and the same didn't differ at all, then whenever a thing became the same, it would always become one, and whenever one, the same." "Quite so." "So if the one is to be the same as itself, it won't be one with itself; and thus, being one, it won't be one." "But that's impossible; so it's impossible for the one to be either different from another or the same as itself." "Impossible." "So the one could not be either different or the same, either in relation to itself or in relation to another." "No, it couldn't.

"Nor again will it be like or unlike anything, either itself or another." "Why?" "Because whatever has undergone the same is, presumably, like." "Yes." "But the same was shown to have a nature separate from the one." "Yes, it was." "But if the one has undergone anything apart from being one, it would have undergone being more than one, and that's impossible." "Yes." "So the one can in no way have undergone the same as anything, either another or itself." "It seems not." "So it can't possibly be like anything, either another or itself." "It seems not." "Nor, again, has the one undergone being different—for in that way too it would have undergone being more than one." "Yes, more." "But what has undergone being different from itself or from another would be unlike itself or another, since what has undergone the same is like." "Right." "But the one, it seems, having in no way undergone being different, is in no way unlike, either itself or another." "No, indeed." "So the one could be neither like nor unlike, either another or itself." "It appears not." "And being such, it will be neither equal nor unequal, either to itself or to another." "How so?" "Being equal, it will be of the same measures as that to which it's equal." "Yes." "And being greater or smaller, in relation to things commensurate with it, it will have more measures than the smaller things and fewer than the larger." "Yes." "And in relation to things not commensurate with it, it will have smaller measures in one case and larger in the other." "Of course." "But isn't it impossible for a thing that has no share in sameness to have the same measures, or anything else the same, as another?" "Impossible." "So it won't be equal to itself or to another, having no share of the same measures." "It doesn't appear so." "But if it has more or fewer measures, it will have just as many parts as it has measures, and in this way again it will no longer be one but as many as its measures are." "Right." "And if it were of one measure, it would become equal to that measure; but that was shown to be impossible, for it to be equal to anything." "Yes, it was." "So having no share of one measure, or of many, or of few, and no share of the same at all, it will never, it seems, be equal to itself or to another; nor again will it be greater or smaller than itself or than another." "Just so, altogether." "Well then, does it seem possible for the one to be older or younger, or to have the same age, as anything?" "Why shouldn't it?" "Because if it had the same age as itself or another, it would share in equality and likeness of time, and we said the one had no share in either likeness or equality." "Yes, we did say that." "And we also said it has no share of unlikeness or inequality." "Quite so."

—So how could it be older or younger than anything, or the same age as anything, being such as this? —No way at all. —Then the one would be neither younger nor older nor the same age, either as itself or as anything else. —It doesn't appear so. —Well then, could the one exist in time at all, if it's like that? Or isn't it necessary, if a thing is in time, that it's always becoming older than itself? —Necessary. —And what's older is always older than something younger? —Of course. —So a thing becoming older than itself is at the same time becoming younger than itself, if indeed it's going to have something than which it becomes older. —What do you mean? —Like this. A thing that's already different from another doesn't need to become different — it already is; but what has become different has become so, what is going to be different is going to become so, and what is becoming different has neither become, nor is going to become, nor is yet different, but is in the process of becoming so, and can't be otherwise. —That's certainly necessary. —But 'older' is difference from 'younger', and from nothing else. —It is. —So a thing becoming older than itself must also, at the same time, be becoming younger than itself. —So it seems. —And further, it can't take a longer or shorter time than itself in becoming — it takes exactly the same time, both becoming and being and having become and being going to be. —Yes, that too is necessary. —So it seems necessary, then, that anything in time, anything that shares in this, must have exactly the same age as itself and, at the same time, must be becoming both older and younger than itself. —It looks that way. —But the one had no share in any of these conditions. —No, it had no share. —Then it has no share in time either, and doesn't exist in any time. —No, at least not by the argument's own reckoning. —Well now — don't 'was' and 'has become' and 'was becoming' seem to signify a sharing in time gone by? —They certainly do. —And don't 'will be' and 'will become' and 'will come to be' signify time yet to come? —Yes. —And 'is' and 'becomes' signify the present now? —Certainly. —So if the one has no share of time whatsoever, it never has become, nor was becoming, nor ever was; it hasn't now become, isn't becoming, isn't; and it won't become, won't come to be, and won't be hereafter. —Quite true. —Is there any way for something to share in being except along one of these lines? —There is not. —Then the one has no share in being whatsoever. —It seems not. —Then the one in no way is. —It doesn't appear to.

—Then it isn't even in such a way as to be one; for it would already be, and would share in being — but it seems, if we're to trust an argument like this, that the one neither is one nor is at all. —So it seems. —But can there be anything belonging to, or of, what does not exist, for that non-existent thing? —How could there? —Then it has no name, no account, no knowledge, no perception, and no opinion of it either. —It doesn't appear so. —So it isn't named, isn't spoken of, isn't opined about, isn't known, and nothing that exists perceives it. —It seems not. —Is it even possible for things to stand this way regarding the one? —I certainly don't think so. —Shall we go back to our starting assumption, then, and see if something different appears to us on going back over it? —Yes, I'd very much like that. —We're saying, then: if one is, we must come to agreement about what follows for it, whatever that turns out to be. Isn't that so? —Yes. —Look, then, right from the start. If one is, can it be, without sharing in being? —It cannot. —Then the being of the one would also exist, not being the same thing as the one; otherwise that being wouldn't be the being of that thing, nor would the one share in it, but it would be just like saying 'one is' and 'one one'. But that's not our assumption now — not what must follow if one is one, but what must follow if one is. Isn't that so? —Certainly. —So 'is' must mean something different from 'one'? —Necessarily. —So, whenever someone says in a single phrase that one is, wouldn't this just mean that the one shares in being? —Quite so. —Let's say again, then, what follows if one is. Consider whether this assumption doesn't necessarily mean that the one, being such as it is, has parts. —How so? —Like this. If 'is' is said of the one that is, and 'one' is said of the being that is one, and being and the one aren't the same thing, yet both belong to that same thing we assumed, namely the one that is — isn't it necessary that the one that is, being a whole, is itself one thing, and that 'one' and 'being' become parts of it? —Necessary. —Shall we call each of these two parts merely a part, or must each part be called a part of the whole? —Of the whole. —Then whatever is one is also a whole, and has a part. —Quite so. —Well then, of these two parts of the one that is, the one and the being — does either the one fall short of the part 'being', or the being fall short of the part 'one'? —That couldn't be.

—Then again, each of these parts too has the one and the being, and the smallest part again turns out to consist of two parts, and so on always, by the same reasoning: whatever turns out to be a part always has these two parts, since 'the one' always has 'being' and 'being' always has 'the one'. So whatever keeps becoming two can never be one. —Absolutely right. —Then wouldn't the one, existing in this way, be unlimited in multitude? —It seems so. —Come now, look at it this way too. —How? —We say the one shares in being, and that's why it is. —Yes. —And it's because of this that the one, being one, turned out to be many. —Just so. —But now — this 'one itself', which we say shares in being — if we grasp it by itself in thought, apart from that in which we say it shares, will it show up as just one, or will this very thing also turn out to be many? —One, I should think. —Let's see, then. Its being must be one thing and it itself another, if indeed the one isn't being, but as one, has partaken of being. —Necessary. —So if being is one thing and the one is another, it's not by being one that the one differs from being, nor by being being that being differs from the one, but they differ from each other by 'the different' and 'the other'. —Certainly. —So 'the different' is the same as neither the one nor the being. —How could it be? —Now then — if we pick out, say, being and the different, or being and the one, or the one and the different, don't we in each choice pick out a pair that it's right to call 'both'? —How so? —Like this. Can one say 'being'? —One can. —And again say 'one'? —That too. —Hasn't each of them, then, been named? —Yes. —And when I say 'being and one', haven't I named both? —Certainly. —And likewise if I say 'being and different', or 'different and one' — in every case I'm naming a pair? —Yes. —Now whatever pair is rightly called by both names — can it be both of these and yet not two? —It cannot. —And if they're two, is there any way for each of them not to be one? —None. —So since each of these pairs turns out to be a couple, each of them would also be one. —So it appears. —And if each of them is one, then when any one whatever is added to any pairing, doesn't the sum become three? —Yes. —And three is odd, while two is even? —Of course. —Well then — where there are two, mustn't there also be twice, and where three, thrice, given that two carries within it twice-one, and three carries thrice-one? —Necessary. —And given two and twice, isn't there necessarily two-times-two? And given three and thrice, isn't there necessarily three-times-three? —How could it be otherwise? —And again, given three and twice, and two and thrice — mustn't there be two-times-three and three-times-two? —Very much so.

—So there would be even numbers taken evenly, and odd numbers taken oddly, and even taken oddly, and odd taken evenly. —That's how it stands. —If that's so, do you think there's any number left over that need not exist? —None whatsoever. —So if one is, number must also be. —Necessary. —But if number exists, there would be many things, indeed an unlimited multitude of things that are — or doesn't number, unlimited in multitude, itself come to share in being? —It certainly does. —So if every number shares in being, wouldn't each part of number also share in it? —Yes. —Then being is distributed over all the many things there are, and is absent from none of them, neither the smallest nor the greatest — or is that an absurd question to even ask? —Absurd indeed; for how could being be absent from anything that is? —No way at all. —So it has been cut up into pieces as small and as great as can be, in every possible way, and has been divided more thoroughly than anything, and its parts are without limit. —That's how it stands. —Then its parts are the most numerous of all things. —Most numerous indeed. —Well then — is there any one of them that is a part of being, and yet no part at all? —How could that be? —No, rather, if it exists at all, it must, I think, always be some one thing so long as it exists, and it's impossible for it to be nothing. —Necessary. —So the one is attached to every single part of being, never absent from any part, whether smaller or greater or of any other size. —So it is. —Is the one, then, being one, present as a whole in many places at the same time? Consider that. —I am considering it, and I see that it's impossible. —Then it's divided up, if it isn't whole; for there's no other way it could be present to all the parts of being at once except by being divided. —True. —And what is divisible must be exactly as many as its parts. —Necessary. —So what we said just now wasn't true, when we said that being is distributed into the most parts of all. For it isn't divided into more parts than the one, but into parts equal to the one, as it seems — since neither does being fall short of the one, nor the one of being, but the two of them are everywhere equal, matched against each other throughout. —That's exactly how it appears. —So the one itself, cut up into pieces by being, is many, and unlimited in multitude. —So it appears. —So it's not only being-one that turns out to be many, but the one itself, distributed by being, must also be many.

And surely, since the parts belong to a whole, the one would be limited in respect of the whole — or are the parts not contained by the whole? They must be. And what contains would be a limit. Of course. So the one that is would be both one and many, both whole and parts, both limited and unlimited in number. So it appears. Then since it is limited, doesn't it also have extremities? It must. And again, if it is a whole, wouldn't it have a beginning, a middle, and an end? Or can anything be a whole without these three? No — if even one of them is missing, will it still consent to be whole? It will not. So the one, it seems, would have a beginning, a middle, and an end. It would. But surely the middle is equidistant from the extremities — otherwise it wouldn't be a middle. True. And being such, the one would partake of some shape, either straight or round or some mixture of the two. It would partake of one of these. Being so constituted, then, won't it be both in itself and in another? How so? Each of the parts is surely in the whole, and none outside the whole. That's so. And all the parts are contained by the whole? Yes. And surely all the parts, taken together, are the one — no more and no less than all. True. So the whole too is the one? Of course. If, then, all the parts happen to be in the whole, and the whole is both all the parts and itself, and the whole contains all the parts, then the one would be contained by the one — and thus the one itself would already be in itself. So it appears. But then again the whole is not in its parts — neither in all of them nor in any one. For if it were in all, it would have to be in one; for if it were not in some one part, it could hardly be in all of them; and if this one part is among all of them, but the whole is not in it, how could it still be in all of them? It couldn't. Nor is it in some of the parts; for if the whole were in some, the greater would be in the less, which is impossible. Impossible, yes. And not being in several parts, nor in one, nor in all the parts, mustn't it be in something else, or be nowhere at all? It must. And being nowhere, it would be nothing; but being a whole, since it is not in itself, it must be in something else? Quite so. So insofar as the one is a whole, it is in another; but insofar as it happens to be all its parts, it is in itself. And thus the one must be both in itself and in another. It must. Being naturally so constituted, mustn't the one also be both in motion and at rest? In what way?

It is at rest, surely, if it is in itself; for being in one thing and not shifting from it, it would be in the same thing — namely itself. It is, indeed. And what is always in the same thing must surely always be at rest. Quite so. But what about this: what is always in another — mustn't the opposite hold, that it is never in the same thing, and never being in the same thing, is not at rest either, and not being at rest, is in motion? So it seems. So the one, being always both in itself and in another, must always be both in motion and at rest. So it appears. And surely it must be the same as itself and different from itself, and likewise it must be the same as and different from the others, if indeed it has undergone what came before. How so? Everything, in relation to everything else, stands thus: either it is the same or different, or — if it is neither the same nor different — it would be a part of that to which it so relates, or it would stand to it as a whole to a part. So it appears. Is the one, then, a part of itself? By no means. Then it wouldn't be a whole in relation to itself as a part, being a part of itself. No, that couldn't be. But is the one different from one? Certainly not. Nor, then, could it be different from itself. No, indeed. If, then, it is neither different, nor a whole, nor a part in relation to itself, isn't it now necessary that it be the same as itself? It must be. But then, what's in one place being itself, while it is in the same place as itself — mustn't it be different from itself, if indeed it will also be elsewhere? So it seems to me. And this is just how the one was shown to be — both in itself and, at the same time, in another. It was shown so. Then in this respect the one would be different from itself, it seems. It seems so. Well then — if a thing is different from something, won't it be different from something different? It must. And all the things that are not one are different from the one, and the one is different from the things that are not one? Of course. So the one would be different from the others. Different. Now look: aren't sameness and difference themselves opposites of each other? Of course. Would the same ever consent to be in the different, or the different in the same? It would not consent. So if the different will never be in the same, then there is nothing among the things that are in which the different is present for any time at all; for if it were in anything at all, for that time the different would be in the same. Isn't that so? It is so. And since it is never in the same, the different could never be in any of the things that are. True. Then the different would not be present either in the things that are not one, or in the one. That follows. So the one would not be different from the things that are not one by virtue of the different, nor would the things that are not one be different from the one by that means. No, indeed.

Nor again would they be different from each other by being themselves, if they do not partake of the different. How could they? But if they are different neither by themselves nor by the different, wouldn't they altogether escape being different from each other? They would escape it. But surely the things that are not one do not partake of the one either; for otherwise they would not be not-one, but would somehow be one. True. Nor could the things that are not one be a number; for then too they would not be altogether not-one, if they had number. No, indeed. Well then — are the things that are not one parts of the one? Or would the things that are not one partake of the one in that way too? They would partake of it that way. If, then, the one is entirely one thing and the others are entirely not-one, the one could not be a part of the things that are not one, nor a whole of them as parts; nor again could the things that are not one be parts of the one, nor wholes with the one as their part. No, indeed. But we said that things which are neither parts nor wholes nor different from one another would be the same as one another. We did say that. Shall we say, then, that the one, standing thus in relation to the things that are not one, is the same as they are? Let's say so. So the one, it seems, is both different from the others and from itself, and the same as both them and itself. It certainly appears so, from the argument at least. Is it, then, also both like and unlike itself and the others? Perhaps. Since it was shown to be different from the others, the others too would surely be different from it. Of course. And is it different from the others in the same degree that they are different from it, neither more nor less? Why would it be otherwise? If, then, neither more nor less, then equally. Yes. So insofar as it has undergone being different from the others, and they likewise from it, in that respect the one and the others would have undergone the same thing as each other. How do you mean? Like this: don't you apply each of your names to something? I do. And could you utter the same name more than once, or only once? I could utter it more than once. And if you utter it once, do you name that of which the name is the name, and if many times, do you not name it? Or whether you speak the same name once or many times, mustn't you necessarily always mean the same thing? Of course. And isn't 'different' too a name for something? Certainly. So whenever you utter it, whether once or many times, you are naming nothing else, and calling nothing else, than that of which it is the name. Necessarily. So when we say that the others are different from the one, and the one is different from the others, in saying 'different' twice we are not thereby naming some other nature, but always naming that very nature whose name it is. Quite so.

So insofar as the one is different from the others and the others from the one, by that very fact of being different, the one would have undergone nothing other than what the others have undergone; and what has undergone the same thing is like — isn't that so? Yes. So insofar as the one has undergone being different from the others, in that very respect everything would be like everything; for everything is different from everything. So it seems. But surely the like is opposite to the unlike. Yes. And the different is opposite to the same as well. That too. But this too was shown — that the one is the same as the others. It was shown. And being the same as the others is the opposite condition to being different from the others. Quite so. But insofar as it is different, it was shown to be like. Yes. So insofar as it is the same, it will be unlike, by the opposite condition to the one that made it like — for the different, surely, made it like. Yes. So the same will make it unlike, or else it will not be the opposite of the different. So it seems. So the one will be both like and unlike the others: like insofar as it is different, unlike insofar as it is the same. And it does seem to have this argument too, it seems. Yes, and it has this one as well. Which one? Insofar as it has undergone being the same, it has undergone not being of another sort; and not being of another sort, it is not unlike; and not being unlike, it is like. But insofar as it has undergone being different, it is of another sort, and being of another sort, it is unlike. True. So the one, being both the same as the others and different from them, on both these grounds and on each separately, would be both like and unlike the others. Quite so. And likewise toward itself as well: since it was shown to be both different from itself and the same as itself, on both these grounds and on each, will it not appear both like and unlike itself? Necessarily. Now then — consider the question of the one's touching itself and the others, and of not touching, in respect of contact. I'm considering it. The one was shown to be, in itself, within the whole of itself. Rightly so. And is the one also within the others? Yes. So insofar as it is within the others, it would touch the others; but insofar as it is in itself, it would be kept from touching the others, while touching itself, being within itself. So it appears. So in this way the one would touch both itself and the others. It would touch them. But what about this: mustn't everything that is going to touch something lie next to that which it is to touch, occupying the position which, next to that in which the thing lies, would touch it? It must. So the one too, if it is going to touch itself, must lie immediately next to itself, occupying the place adjoining that in which it itself is. Yes, it must.

—So being two, the one would make these things happen, and it would be in two places at the same time; and as long as it is one, it won't allow that.—No, it won't.—So the same one is bound neither to be two nor to touch itself.—The same, yes.—But then it won't touch the others either.—Why not?—Because, we say, what is going to touch something must lie next to that thing, separate from it, with nothing else between them.—True.—So there must be at least two things, if there's to be any touching.—There must.—And if a third term is added next to the first two, there will be three things, but only two touchings.—Yes.—And so on: each time one thing is added, one touching is added too, and it turns out that the touchings are always one fewer than the total number of things. Because whatever advantage the first two had over their single touching—one more thing than touchings—that same advantage holds for every number after it: each additional thing adds one to the count and one to the touchings.—Right.—So however many things there are, the touchings are always one fewer than that number.—True.—But if there is only the one, and no two, there can be no touching.—Of course not.—And we say the others are not one and don't share in the one, if they really are other.—No, they don't.—So there's no number present in the others, since the one is not present in them.—Right.—So the others are neither one nor two nor named by any other number.—No.—The one, then, is alone one, and there can be no two.—So it seems.—So there's no touching where there aren't two things.—There isn't.—So neither does the one touch the others, nor do the others touch the one, since there's no touching.—No, indeed.—So by all this reasoning, the one both touches and does not touch itself and the others.—It seems so. —Now then—is it also both equal and unequal to itself and to the others?—How so?—If the one were larger or smaller than the others, or the others larger or smaller than the one, then merely by the one's being one and the others being other than the one, wouldn't neither be any larger or smaller than the other simply in virtue of what each is?—But if, beyond being what they are, each also had size, they would be equal to each other; but if one had largeness and the other smallness—or the one itself had largeness and the others smallness—then whichever kind had largeness attached to it would be larger, and whichever had smallness would be smaller.—Necessarily.

—Now these are two distinct forms, aren't they—largeness and smallness? For if they weren't, they couldn't be opposite to each other or come to exist in things that are.—How could they?—So if smallness comes to be present in the one, it must be present either in the whole of it or in a part of it.—Necessarily.—And what if it came to be present in the whole? Wouldn't it then either be stretched out through the whole of the one, matching it exactly, or else surround it?—Clearly.—Now if smallness matched the one exactly, wouldn't it be equal to it; but if it surrounded it, wouldn't it be larger?—How could it be otherwise?—Is it possible, then, for smallness to be equal to something or larger than something, and so to perform the functions of largeness and equality rather than its own?—Impossible.—So smallness cannot be in the whole of the one; if it's anywhere, it's in a part.—Yes.—Nor again in the whole of that part—otherwise it will do the same thing it did with the whole: it will be equal to, or larger than, the part it's in.—Necessarily.—So smallness will never be present in anything that is, whether it comes to be in a part or in a whole; nothing at all will be small except smallness itself.—So it seems.—And largeness won't be present in it either. For then something else besides largeness itself would be larger, namely whatever largeness were in—and this without there being anything small in it for it to exceed, if it's really going to be large. But that's impossible, since smallness is nowhere at all.—True.—But largeness itself is not larger than anything but its own smallness, nor is smallness itself smaller than anything but its own largeness.—No.—So the others are neither larger nor smaller than the one, having neither largeness nor smallness; nor do these two things themselves, largeness and smallness, have the power to exceed or be exceeded in relation to the one, but only in relation to each other; nor again could the one be larger or smaller than these two or than the others, having neither largeness nor smallness.—It doesn't appear so.—So if the one is neither larger nor smaller than the others, it must be that it neither exceeds them nor is exceeded by them.—Necessarily.—And surely what neither exceeds nor is exceeded must be quite necessarily on equal terms; and being on equal terms, it must be equal.—Of course.—And indeed the one would stand this way toward itself too: having neither largeness nor smallness in itself, it could neither exceed itself nor be exceeded by itself, but being on equal terms with itself, it would be equal to itself.—Quite so.—The one, then, would be equal both to itself and to the others.—So it appears.

—And yet, being in itself, it would also be around itself from outside; and containing itself, it would be larger than itself, while being contained, it would be smaller; and so the one would be both larger and smaller than itself.—Yes, it would be.—And isn't this also necessary: that there be nothing outside the one and the others?—Of course.—But surely what is must always be somewhere.—Yes.—And what is in something will be in something larger, being itself smaller—for that's the only way one thing could be in another.—Yes.—And since there is nothing else apart from the others and the one, and they must be in something, isn't it now necessary that they be in each other—the others in the one and the one in the others—or else be nowhere at all?—So it appears.—Because the one is in the others, the others would be larger than the one, containing it, while the one would be smaller than the others, being contained; and because the others are in the one, the one would by the same reasoning be larger than the others, and the others smaller than the one.—So it seems.—The one, then, is equal to, and larger than, and smaller than, both itself and the others.—So it appears.—And indeed, if it is larger and smaller and equal, it would be of equal and greater and lesser measures than itself and than the others; and since it has measures, it also has parts.—Of course.—Being then of equal and greater and lesser measures, it would also be, in number, fewer and more than itself and than the others, and equal to itself and to the others in the same way.—How so?—Whatever things it's larger than, it would be of more measures than those, and however many measures, so many parts too; and the same for whatever it's smaller than; and the same again for whatever it's equal to.—So it is.—Being then larger and smaller than itself, and equal to itself, it would be of equal and more and fewer measures than itself, and since it has measures, of parts too.—Of course.—Being then of equal parts with itself, it would be equal to itself in number; being of more parts, more; being of fewer, fewer than itself in number.—So it appears.—And won't the one stand the same way toward the others too? Because it appears larger than them, it must also be more in number than them; because smaller, fewer; and because equal in size, equal also in number to the others.—Necessarily.—So again, it seems, the one will be equal to, and more than, and fewer than, itself and the others in number.—It will. —Now then, does the one also share in time, and is it and does it become both younger and older than itself and than the others, and neither younger nor older than either itself or the others, sharing as it does in time?—How so?—Well, being belongs to it somehow, if it is indeed one.—Yes.

—And is being anything other than a sharing in existence together with present time, just as 'was' is a sharing in existence together with past time, and 'will be' in turn a sharing in existence together with future time?—It is indeed.—So it shares in time, if it also shares in being.—Certainly.—And time moves forward, doesn't it?—Yes.—So it is always becoming older than itself, if indeed it proceeds along with time.—Necessarily.—Now do we remember that when the younger becomes older, the older becomes younger?—We remember.—So since the one becomes older than itself, wouldn't it, as its younger self becomes, be becoming older than that younger self?—Necessarily.—So it is in this way that it becomes both younger and older than itself.—Yes.—And is it older, when, in the process of becoming, it occupies the present moment, the 'now' that lies between 'was' and 'will be'? For surely, in moving on from the past toward the future, it will not skip over the now.—No, it won't.—So doesn't it stop becoming older at that point, once it meets the now, and instead of becoming, it simply is, from then on, older? For if it kept moving forward, it could never be caught by the now. What moves forward is of such a nature as to touch both the now and the future at once, releasing the now and grasping the future, coming to be between the two, between the future and the now.—True.—But if everything that becomes must not pass over the now, then whenever it is at that point, it always stops becoming, and it simply is, at that moment, whatever it happens to be becoming.—So it appears.—So the one too, whenever in becoming older it meets the now, stops becoming and is, at that point, older.—Quite so.—So it is, at that moment, that of which it was becoming older—and it was becoming older than itself.—Yes.—And is the older older than the younger?—It is.—So the one, at that moment, is also younger than itself, when in becoming older it meets the now.—Necessarily.—But the now is always present to the one throughout the whole of its being; for it is always now, whenever it is at all.—Of course.—So the one always both is and becomes older and younger than itself.—So it seems.—But does it exist, or become, for a longer time than itself, or for an equal time?—For an equal time.—But surely whatever becomes or is for an equal time has the same age.—Of course.—And what has the same age is neither older nor younger.—No.—So the one, existing and becoming for an equal time with itself, is neither younger nor older than itself, and does not become so either.—I don't think it does.—Well then—what about the others?

—I can't say. —But you can say this much: that the others, if they're really other than the one, and not just other in the singular, are more than one. For if a thing were merely other, it would be one thing; but things that are others are more than one, and would have plurality. —Yes, they would. —And having plurality, they'd partake of a larger number than the one. —Of course. —Well then: shall we say that the many come to be, and have come to be, prior to the few, or the few before the many? —The few. —So the smallest number is first, and that is the one. —Yes. —So the one came to be first of all things that have number; and all the others have number too, since they're others and not just one other thing. —They do. —And what comes to be first, I think, comes to be earlier, and the others later; and what has come to be later is younger than what came to be earlier. So the others would be younger than the one, and the one older than the others. —So it would seem. —Now here's another question: could the one have come to be contrary to its own nature? Or is that impossible? —Impossible. —But we found that the one has parts, and if it has parts, it has a beginning, an end, and a middle. —Yes. —Now doesn't a beginning come to be first of all—first for the one itself and for each of the others—and after the beginning, everything else, right up to the end? —Of course. —And we'll say all these—the others—are parts of the whole, the one; and the one itself only becomes one and whole at the same moment as its end. —We will. —And the end, I think, comes to be last; and the one is naturally suited to come to be at the same time as that. So if the one truly cannot come to be contrary to its nature, it would come to be, along with its end, last of all—last in its natural coming-to-be relative to the others. —It appears so. —So the one is younger than the others, and the others older than the one. —That's how it appears to me too, again. —Now what about this: mustn't the beginning, or any other single part—of the one or of anything else—provided it's a part and not parts, be one itself, being a part? —Necessarily. —And wouldn't the one come to be together with whatever comes first, and together with whatever comes second, and lag behind none of the others as they come to be, but as each new thing is added to any other, the one keeps pace, all the way through to the last, until the whole has become one, with nothing—middle, first, last, or anything else—left out of the coming-to-be? —True.

—So the one has the very same age as all the others. So if the one itself is not naturally contrary to its own nature, it would have come to be neither earlier nor later than the others, but at the same time. And by this argument the one would be neither older nor younger than the others, nor they than it; but by the earlier argument, older and younger—and likewise the others in relation to it. —Quite so. —So that's how it stands, and how it has come to be. But what about its coming to be older and younger than the others, and the others than the one, and neither older nor younger in its becoming—does the same hold for becoming as for being, or differently? —I can't say. —But I can say this much: even if one thing really is older than another, it couldn't still be becoming older by any more than the difference it already had at the very moment it first came to be; nor could the younger thing still be becoming younger. For when equal amounts are added to unequal things—whether in time or in anything else—the difference remains forever equal to what it was at first. —Of course. —So what is, being one, could never become older or younger than what is, if it always differs by an equal age; rather, it is and has become older, and the other younger, but neither is becoming so. —True. —And so the one, being among the other things that are, never becomes either older or younger than them. —No, indeed. —But look and see whether they become older and younger in this other way. —What way? —The way in which the one appeared older than the others, and the others than the one. —Well then: when the one is older than the others, it has existed, I take it, for more time than the others. —Yes. —Now consider again: if we add an equal span of time to a longer span and a shorter one, will the longer differ from the shorter by the same fraction, or by a smaller one? —A smaller one. —So it won't be true that whatever difference in age the one had from the others at first, it keeps the same difference forever after; rather, taking on equal time along with the others, it will differ from them in age, as time goes on, by an ever smaller fraction than before. Isn't that so? —Yes. —And won't what differs in age by a smaller amount than before, relative to something, become younger than it was before in relation to those things it was previously older than? —Yes, younger. —And if that thing becomes younger, won't the others, in turn, become older relative to the one than they were before? —Certainly.

—So what has come to be younger becomes older relative to what came to be earlier and is older, yet it is never actually older—it only ever becomes older than that thing; for the one is always moving toward the younger, and the other toward the older. And likewise the older, in turn, becomes younger than the younger. For as the two move toward opposite states, they become the opposite of each other: the younger becomes older than the older, and the older becomes younger than the younger. But they couldn't ever finish becoming so; for if they had finished, they would no longer be becoming, but simply be. As it is, they are becoming older and younger than each other: the one becomes younger than the others, because it appeared older and had come to be earlier, while the others become older than the one, because they came to be later. And by the same reasoning the others stand the same way toward the one, since they appeared older than it and came to be earlier. —Yes, that's clearly how it appears. —Now, in the respect in which nothing becomes older or younger than another—the respect in which they always differ from each other by an equal number—in that respect the one would become neither older nor younger than the others, nor they than the one. But in the respect in which things that came to be earlier must always differ by a different fraction from things that came to be later, and vice versa, in that respect they must become older and younger than one another—both the others than the one and the one than the others. —Quite so. —So on all these grounds the one both is and becomes older and younger than itself and than the others, and also neither is nor becomes older or younger, either than itself or than the others. —Entirely so. —And since the one partakes of time, and of becoming older and younger, mustn't it also partake of the past, the future, and the present, given that it partakes of time at all? —Necessarily. —So the one was, is, and will be; it was becoming, is becoming, and will become. —Of course. —And there would be something that belongs to it and of it, both was, is, and will be. —Quite so. —And there would be knowledge of it, and opinion, and perception, since we ourselves are now doing all these things in regard to it. —Rightly said. —And it has a name and an account, and it's named and spoken of; and everything else that applies to other such things applies to the one as well. —That is entirely how things stand. Let's now take up a third point. If the one is such as we've described it—being both one and many, neither one nor many, and partaking of time—mustn't it, since it is one, at some point partake of being, and since it is not, at some other point not partake of being? —Necessarily. —Now when it partakes of being, will it be possible for it, at that very time, not to partake, or, when it doesn't partake, to partake? —Not possible. —So it partakes at one time and doesn't partake at another; for only in that way could it partake and not partake of the same thing.

—Right. —So isn't there also a time at which it takes on being, and a time at which it parts with it? Or how else could it sometimes have the same thing and sometimes not, unless it at some point takes it on and lets it go? —No other way. —And don't you call taking on being a coming-to-be? —I do. —And parting with being, isn't that a perishing? —Very much so. —So the one, it seems, in taking on and letting go of being, comes to be and perishes. —Necessarily. —And being one and many, and coming to be and perishing, when it comes to be one, doesn't its being many perish, and when it comes to be many, doesn't its being one perish? —Quite so. —And in coming to be one and many, mustn't it be separated and combined? —Very much so. —And when it comes to be unlike and like, mustn't it be made like and made unlike? —Yes. —And when it becomes greater, smaller, and equal, mustn't it grow, diminish, and be equalized? —Just so. —And when what is in motion comes to rest, and what is at rest changes to being in motion, surely it can't be in any single moment of time at all. —How so? —Because it can't undergo being at rest and then later in motion, or being in motion and then later at rest, without changing. —Of course not. —And there's no time in which a thing can be at once neither in motion nor at rest. —No, indeed. —But surely it doesn't change without changing. —That's not likely. —So when does it change? For it changes neither while at rest, nor while in motion, nor while in time. —No, indeed. —Is there, then, this strange thing in which it would be, at the moment it changes? —What sort of thing? —The instant. The instant seems to signify something like this: that from it a thing changes into each of two states. For a thing doesn't change out of rest while rest continues, nor out of motion while motion continues; rather, this strange nature, the instant, sits between motion and rest, being in no time at all, and it is into this and out of this that what is in motion changes into rest, and what is at rest changes into motion. —So it seems. —And the one too, if it is indeed at rest and in motion, would change into each state—since only in that way could it do both—and in changing it changes instantaneously, and when it changes, it would be in no time at all, and it would neither be in motion then nor come to rest. —No, indeed.

—So is it the same way with the other changes, whenever something changes from being to perishing, or from not-being to becoming—does it then come to be between certain states of motion and rest, and at that moment neither is nor is not, neither comes to be nor perishes? —So it seems, at least. —By the same reasoning, then, a thing passing from one to many and from many to one is neither one nor many, and is neither being separated out nor being combined. And passing from like to unlike and from unlike to like, it is neither like nor unlike, neither becoming like nor becoming unlike. And passing from small to large, and to equal, and into their opposites, it would be neither small nor large nor equal, and neither increasing nor diminishing nor being equalized. —It doesn't seem so. —So the one, if it is, would undergo all these affections. —How could it not? —But should we also examine what the other things must undergo, if the one is? —We should. —Let's say, then: if the one is, what must the others—as distinct from the one—have undergone? —Let's say. —Well, since they are other than the one, the one is not the others; for then they would not be other than the one. —Right. —Yet the others are surely not entirely deprived of the one either, but share in it somehow. —How so? —Because the others, presumably, are others by having parts; for if they had no parts, they would be entirely one. —Right. —And parts, we say, belong to whatever is a whole. —Yes, we say that. —But a whole must necessarily be one thing made of many, of which the parts will be parts; for each of the parts must be a part not of many things but of a whole. —How is that? —If something were a part of many things among which it itself was included, it would be a part of itself too, which is impossible, and likewise a part of each of the others, if indeed of all of them. For not being a part of one of them, it will be a part of the rest, apart from that one, and so it will not be a part of each one, and being a part of none of them individually, it will be a part of none of the many. And being nothing belonging to any of these things, of none of which it is anything, it is impossible for it to be a part, or anything else, of them. —So it appears. —So the part is not a part of the many, nor of all of them, but of some single form and some one thing that we call a whole—one complete thing come to be out of all of them—of that the part would be a part. —Quite so. —If, then, the others have parts, they would also share in the whole and the one. —Certainly. —So the others must necessarily be a whole, complete, having parts, being other than the one. —Necessarily.

—And indeed the same argument holds for each part: for this too must necessarily share in the one. For if each of them is a part, then surely each being one thing means something—marked off from the others, being by itself—if indeed each is to be. —Right. —And it would share in the one clearly by being something other than the one; for otherwise it would not share in it, but would itself be the one. But in fact it's impossible, presumably, for anything to be one except the one itself. —Impossible. —And both the whole and the part must necessarily share in the one. For the one will be a whole, of which the parts are parts; while each of the parts, in turn, will be one part of the whole, of which it is a part. —So it is. —So won't the things that share in the one, being other than it, share in it as things distinct from it? —How could they not? —And the things other than the one would be many; for if the others were neither one nor more than one, they would be nothing. —Just so. —And since the things that share in the one part and the things that share in the whole one are more than one, must not those very things that partake of the one already be unlimited in multitude? —How so? —Let's look at it this way. Isn't it the case that when they partake of the one, at the very moment they partake of it, they are not one and are not yet sharing in it? —Clearly. —So they are multitudes, in which the one is not present. —Multitudes indeed. —Well then, if we wanted to subtract from such things in thought as little as we possibly could, wouldn't that portion subtracted, if it did not share in the one, necessarily be a multitude and not one? —Necessarily. —So, always examining in this way the nature of the form taken by itself, apart from the one, won't as much of it as we ever see be unlimited in multitude? —Quite so. —And yet whenever each part becomes a part, it already has a limit in relation to the others and to the whole, and the whole in relation to the parts. —Precisely so. —So it turns out for the things other than the one that, out of the one and out of themselves combining, as it seems, something different comes to be within them, which provides a limit in relation to one another; while their own nature, taken by itself, provides unlimitedness. —It appears so. —Thus the others than the one, both as wholes and part by part, are unlimited and also share in limit. —Quite so. —And so are they both like and unlike one another and themselves? —How so? —Insofar as they are all unlimited according to their own nature, in that respect they would have undergone the same thing. —Quite so. —And insofar as they all share in limit, in that respect too they would all have undergone the same thing. —How could they not?

—But insofar as they have undergone being both limited and unlimited, these being opposite affections to one another, in that respect they have undergone opposite affections. —Yes. —And opposites are as unlike as can be. —Certainly. —So according to each affection taken separately, they would be like themselves and one another; but according to both together, they would be most opposite and most unlike of all. —It seems likely. —So the others would be both like and unlike themselves and one another. —So it is. —And likewise we will no longer have trouble finding that they are both the same as and different from one another, both in motion and at rest, and undergoing all the opposite affections, since these too have appeared to be things they undergo. —You're right. —So, if we now set these matters aside as evident, and examine again whether the one is, shall we ask whether the others than the one are affected in this way alone, or otherwise as well? —Certainly. —Let's say, then, from the start: if the one is, what must the others than the one have undergone? —Let's say it. —Isn't it that the one is separate from the others, and the others separate from the one? —Why so? —Because there is nothing else besides these that is other than the one on one hand and other than the others on the other; for everything has been named once we've said 'the one' and 'the others.' —Everything indeed. —So there is no longer anything else, other than these, in which the one and the others could both be found together. —No. —So the one and the others are never in the same thing. —It doesn't seem so. —So they are separate? —Yes. —Nor indeed do we say that the truly one has parts. —How could it? —So the one would be neither a whole present in the others nor parts of it present in them, if it is separate from the others and has no parts. —How could it? —So the others could in no way share in the one, neither by sharing in some part of it nor by sharing in the whole. —It doesn't seem so. —So the others are in no way one, nor do they have any one within themselves. —No indeed. —Nor, then, are the others many; for each of them would be one part of the whole, if they were many. But as it is, the others than the one are neither one nor many, neither a whole nor parts, since they share in it in no way at all. —Right. —So the others are neither two nor three, nor are these numbers present in them, if they are entirely deprived of the one throughout. —So it is. —Nor, then, are the others like or unlike the one, nor is likeness or unlikeness present in them; for if they were like or unlike, or had likeness and unlikeness within themselves, the others than the one would have two forms opposite to each other within themselves. —It appears so. —But it was impossible for things that share in neither of two things to share in either one of them. —Impossible.

—So the others are neither like nor unlike, nor both. For if they were like or unlike, they would share in one or the other form; and if both, in two opposite forms—and that has appeared impossible. —True. —So they are neither the same nor different, neither in motion nor at rest, neither coming to be nor perishing, neither larger nor smaller nor equal, nor have they undergone anything else of this kind. For if the others endure undergoing anything of this sort, they would share in one and two and three, and odd and even—things which it has appeared impossible for them to share in, given that they are entirely and altogether deprived of the one. —Most true. —So, if the one is, the one is everything, and is not even one, both in relation to itself and in relation to the others alike. —Absolutely so. —Well then; and if the one is not, what must follow—shouldn't we examine that next? —We should. —What, then, would this hypothesis be, that the one is not? Does it differ at all from this one—that not-one is not? —It does differ. —Does it merely differ, or is saying 'if the one is not' the complete opposite of saying 'if not-one is not'? —The complete opposite. —And what if someone said 'if largeness is not' or 'if smallness is not,' or anything else of that kind—wouldn't it be clear in each case that he meant something different by 'is not'? —Quite so. —So now too it's clear that he means something different from the others by 'is not,' when he says 'if the one is not'—and we know what he means? —We know. —First, then, he means something knowable, and second, something other than the others, when he says 'one,' whether he adds 'being' to it or 'not being'; for it is no less known what is said 'not to be,' and that it is different from the others. Isn't that so? —Necessarily. —So we must say, starting from the beginning: if the one is not, what must be the case? First, then, this must belong to it, it seems—that there is knowledge of it, or else it would not even be known what is meant when someone says 'if the one is not.' —True. —And also that the others are other than it, or else it could not even be said that that thing is other than the others. —Quite so. —So otherness also belongs to it, besides knowledge. For he does not mean the otherness of the others when he calls the one other than the others, but its own. —It appears so. —And indeed the not-being one shares in 'that,' and 'something,' and 'this,' and 'to this,' and 'of these,' and all such things; for the one would not have been spoken of, nor would the others than the one, nor would anything have belonged to that, nor would anything have been said of it, nor would anything have been said at all, if it shared neither in 'something' nor in any of these others. —Right.

"Being, then, can't belong to the one, if indeed it is not — but nothing stops it from partaking of many things; in fact it must, if it is that particular one and not something else that is not. But if neither the one nor that one is going to be, and the argument is about something else, we shouldn't even utter a word about it. But if it's assumed that that one, and no other, is not, then it must partake both of that one and of many other things." "Quite so." "So it has unlikeness to the other things — for the others, being different from the one, would be of a different sort." "Yes." "And things of a different sort aren't things of another kind?" "Of course they are." "And things of another kind aren't unlike?" "Unlike, certainly." "So if they're unlike the one, clearly it's by something unlike that unlike things are unlike." "Clearly." "So the one too would have an unlikeness, in virtue of which the others are unlike it." "So it seems." "But if it has unlikeness to the others, isn't it necessary that it have likeness to itself?" "How so?" "If the one had unlikeness to the one, the argument wouldn't be about anything of the sort the one is, nor would the hypothesis be about one, but about something other than one." "Quite so." "But it must not be." "No indeed." "So the one must have likeness to itself." "It must." "And again, it isn't equal to the others either — for if it were equal, it would already exist, and would be like them by virtue of the equality. But both of these are impossible, if the one is not." "Impossible." "And since it isn't equal to the others, isn't it necessary that the others also be unequal to it?" "Necessary." "And aren't unequal things unequal?" "Yes." "And aren't unequal things unequal by virtue of the unequal?" "Of course." "So the one partakes of inequality, in virtue of which the others are unequal to it?" "It partakes." "But inequality belongs to largeness and smallness." "It does." "So this sort of one has largeness and smallness in it?" "So it seems." "But largeness and smallness always stand apart from each other." "Quite so." "So there is always something between them." "There is." "Can you name anything else between them besides equality?" "No, only that." "So whatever has largeness and smallness also has equality, lying between the two." "It appears so." "So the one, though it is not, would partake of equality, and of largeness and smallness." "So it seems." "And what's more, it must also somehow partake of being." "How so?" "It must be in the state we're describing — for if it weren't, we wouldn't be speaking truly when we say the one is not. But if we're speaking truly, clearly we're speaking of things that are. Isn't that so?" "Just so."

"And since we say we're speaking truly, we must also be saying we're speaking of what is." "We must." "So the one is, it seems, not-being — for if it isn't going to be not-being, but is going to let go of being in some way toward not-being, it will straightaway be a being." "Absolutely." "So it must hold a bond of not-being to being-not-being, if it's to not-be — just as what is must have not-being of not-being, in order to be, completely, in turn — for that's how what is would most fully be, and what is not would not be, since the one partakes of being, in that it is-not, and of not-being, in that it is-not-not, if it's to be completely; while what is not must, in turn, partake of not-being of not-being, in that it is-not, and of being, in that it is-not, if what is not is likewise to be completely not." "Very true." "So then, since being belongs to what is in respect of not-being, and not-being belongs to what is not in respect of being, must not being also belong to the one, since it is not, in respect of not-being?" "It must." "So being, it appears, belongs to the one, if it is not." "It appears so." "And not-being too, then, if indeed it is not." "Of course." "Now can a thing that is in a certain state fail to be in that state without changing out of that condition?" "It cannot." "So everything of this kind — whatever is in one state and then not in it — signifies a change." "Of course." "And a change is a motion — or what shall we call it?" "A motion." "And hasn't the one appeared to be, and also not to be?" "Yes." "So it appears to be in one state and also not in it." "So it seems." "So the one that is not has also turned out to be in motion, since it undergoes a change from being to not-being." "It would seem so." "But then again, if it's nowhere among the things that are — as indeed it isn't, since it is not — it couldn't shift from one place to another either." "How could it?" "So it couldn't move by changing place." "No." "Nor again could it revolve in the same spot — for it never touches the same thing anywhere. For the same is a being, and it's impossible for what is not to be in any of the things that are." "Impossible, yes." "So the one, being not, couldn't revolve within that in which it is not." "No, indeed." "And surely the one doesn't alter from itself either, whether as a being or as a not-being — for the argument would no longer be about the one, if it altered from itself, but about something else." "Right." "But if it neither alters, nor revolves in the same place, nor shifts, could it still be in motion in any way at all?" "How could it?" "But surely what is unmoved must be at rest, and what is at rest must be standing still." "It must." "So the one, it seems, being not, both stands still and is in motion." "So it seems."

"And what's more, if it's in motion, it's under great necessity to alter — for whatever way a thing is moved, to that extent it no longer holds in the same state as before, but differently." "True." "So the one, in being moved, also alters." "Yes." "And surely, if it isn't moved in any way at all, it couldn't alter in any way at all." "No." "So insofar as the one that is not is moved, it alters; but insofar as it isn't moved, it doesn't alter." "No." "So the one that is not both alters and doesn't alter." "It appears so." "And mustn't whatever alters necessarily come to be something other than it was before, and perish out of its former condition, while whatever doesn't alter neither comes to be nor perishes?" "Necessarily." "So the one that is not, in altering, comes to be and perishes; and in not altering, neither comes to be nor perishes; and so the one that is not both comes to be and perishes, and also neither comes to be nor perishes." "Just so." "Let's go back again to the beginning, to see whether the same conclusions will appear to us as now, or different ones." "We must." "We're asking, then, what must hold for the one, if it is not." "Yes." "And when we say 'is not,' doesn't that signify nothing other than the absence of being from that of which we say it is not?" "Nothing else." "So whenever we say something is not, do we mean it both is not, in a way, and is, in a way? Or does this phrase 'it is not,' said simply, mean that it isn't anywhere, in any way, and doesn't partake of being at all, this thing that is not?" "Most simply put, yes." "So what is not could neither be, nor in any other way partake of being." "No." "And weren't coming-to-be and perishing nothing other than the one taking on being, and the other losing being?" "Nothing else." "But whatever has no share in being could neither take it on nor lose it." "How could it?" "So the one, since it isn't anywhere at all, mustn't be taken to have, or to be released from, or to partake of being in any way." "That's reasonable." "So the one that is not neither perishes nor comes to be, since it in no way partakes of being." "It doesn't appear to." "Nor does it alter at all — for if it did, it would already be coming to be and perishing by undergoing that." "True." "And if it doesn't alter, isn't it necessary that it also not be moved?" "Necessary." "And surely we won't say that what is nowhere stands still either — for what stands still must always be in some same place." "The same place — of course." "So, in this way too, let's say that what is not is never at rest and never in motion." "No, indeed."

"And what's more, none of the things that are belongs to it either — for if it partook of any such being, it would thereby partake of being." "Clear enough." "So neither largeness nor smallness nor equality belongs to it." "No." "Nor again could likeness or difference belong to it, either toward itself or toward the others." "It doesn't appear so." "Well then — could the others be in any state relative to it, if nothing at all need belong to it?" "They could not." "So the others are neither like nor unlike it, neither the same as it nor different from it." "No." "Well then — could the terms 'of that,' 'to that,' 'something,' 'this,' 'of this,' 'of another,' 'to another,' 'once,' 'later,' 'now,' knowledge, opinion, perception, speech, name, or anything else among the things that are, apply to what is not?" "They could not." "So the one that is not is in no condition whatsoever." "It certainly doesn't appear to be in any condition at all." "Let's go on and say what must hold for the other things, if the one is not." "Let's say it." "They must, at any rate, be others — for if they weren't even others, there'd be nothing to say about 'the others.'" "Just so." "And if the argument is about the others, the others are different things. Or don't you use 'other' and 'different' for the same thing?" "I do." "And we say the different is different from something different, and likewise the other is other than something other?" "Yes." "So if the others are to be others, there is something they will be other than." "Necessarily." "What, then, could that be? For they won't be other than the one, since it is not." "No." "So they must be other than each other — that's the only option left them, unless they're other than nothing." "Right." "So each group is other than each other group by virtue of its multitude — for they couldn't be so by virtue of being one, since there is no one." "No — but as it seems, each mass of them is unlimited in multitude, and even if one takes what seems to be the smallest bit, it suddenly appears, like something in a dream, to be many instead of one, seeming just now the smallest, and instead turns out immense compared to the fragments cut from it." "Quite right." "So by such masses the others would be other than one another, if, the one not being, there are others at all." "Exactly so." "So there will be many masses, each appearing as one but not being one, if indeed there's to be no one." "Just so." "And number too will seem to belong to them, if each of them appears as one, though they are many." "Quite so." "And some among them will appear even and some odd, though not truly, if indeed there's to be no one." "No, indeed."

—And surely the smallest too will seem to be present in them; yet this appears many and large in relation to each of the many, as though they were small. —How could it not? —And each mass will be thought equal to the many small things; for it could not pass from larger to smaller in appearance without first seeming to arrive at a middle point, and this would be an appearance of equality. —That's likely. —So then, having a limit in relation to some other mass, it has, in relation to itself, neither beginning nor end nor middle? —How so? —Because whenever anyone grasps in thought any one of them as being some one thing, another beginning always appears before the beginning, and another end is left over after the end, and in the middle other things more middle than the middle, but smaller, because it's impossible to grasp any single one of them, since the one does not exist. —Very true. —So everything that is, whatever anyone grasps in thought, must, I think, be crumbled and broken into bits; for it would always be grasped as a mass without unity. —Quite so. —So then such a thing, seen from a distance and dimly, must necessarily appear as one, but seen up close and sharply thought through, each one must appear infinite in multitude, if indeed it is deprived of the one, since the one does not exist? —Most necessarily so. —So in this way each of the other things must appear both unlimited and limited, and one and many, if the one does not exist, and the others are other than the one. —So it must. —So they will also seem to be both like and unlike? —How so? —Like things sketched in shadow-painting, when one stands apart, all appear as one, and seem to have undergone the same thing and to be alike. —Quite so. —But drawing near, they appear many and different, and by the appearance of difference, different and unlike each other. —Just so. —So the masses themselves must appear both like and unlike, both to themselves and to each other. —Quite so. —And also both the same and different from each other, and both touching and apart from themselves, and moving with every kind of motion and standing still in every way, and both coming to be and perishing and neither, and all such things, which it is now easy for us to run through, if, the one not existing, many things exist. —Most true. —Now let us go once more, once again, back to the beginning and say: if the one does not exist, but the others are other than the one, what must they be. —Let us say it, then. —So then the others will not be one. —Of course not. —Nor indeed many either; for in things that are many the one would also be present. For if none of them is one, all of them are nothing, so that they could not even be many. —True. —And since the one is not present among the others, the others are neither many nor one.

—Nor indeed do they even appear as one or as many. —Why is that? —Because the others have no communion whatsoever, in any way or manner, with any of the things that do not exist, nor does any part of the things that do not exist belong to any of the others; for the things that do not exist have no part at all. —True. —So there is no opinion of what does not exist among the others, nor any appearance of it, nor is what does not exist thought of in any way whatsoever with respect to the others. —No indeed. —So if the one does not exist, none of the others is thought to be one, nor many; for without the one it is impossible to think of many things. —Impossible indeed. —So if the one does not exist, the others neither exist nor are thought to be one or many. —It seems not. —Nor then are they thought like or unlike. —No. —Nor indeed are they the same or different, nor touching nor apart, nor any of the other things we went through before as appearing to be so — none of these things is true of the others, nor does it appear to be, if the one does not exist. —True. —So then, if we were to say it all together: if the one does not exist, nothing exists — would we be speaking correctly? —Absolutely. —Let this, then, be said, and also this: that, as it seems, whether the one exists or does not exist, it itself and the others, both in relation to themselves and to each other, all in every way both are and are not, and both appear and do not appear. —Most true.

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