Plato · a new plain-English translation from the Greek
I went into the school of Dionysius the grammar teacher, and there I saw some of the young men who seemed to be the most respectable in appearance and had the most distinguished fathers, and along with them their lovers. As it happened, two of the boys were arguing, though I couldn't quite make out about what. But it looked like they were arguing about Anaxagoras or Oenopides, since they seemed to be drawing circles and imitating certain angles of inclination with their hands, tilting them and looking very serious about it. Now I was sitting next to the lover of one of them, so I nudged him with my elbow and asked what in the world had these two boys so worked up, and I said, "Surely it must be something great and fine, that they've thrown themselves into it so seriously?" And he said, "Great and fine? Hardly. These two just chatter endlessly about things in the sky and talk nonsense while playing at philosophy." I was surprised by his answer and said, "Young man, do you think philosophizing is shameful? Or why do you speak of it so harshly?" And the other one—who happened to be sitting nearby, being the rival lover—when he heard me ask and the first one answer, said, "It's beneath you, Socrates, to even ask him whether he thinks philosophy is shameful. Don't you know that this fellow has spent his whole life with his neck bent back, stuffing himself, and sleeping? So what did you expect him to answer except that philosophy is shameful?" Now of these two lovers, this one had spent his time on music, and the other, whom he was insulting, on athletics. And it seemed to me best to let the one go—the one being questioned—since he himself made no claim to expertise in arguments but only in practical matters, and instead to question further the one who claimed to be wiser, so that I might get some benefit from him if I could. So I said, "I put the question to both of you in common. But if you think you could answer better than he did, I'll ask you the very same thing I asked him: does it seem to you that philosophizing is a fine thing or not?"
While we were saying more or less this, the two boys, having overheard us, fell silent, and having stopped their own dispute, became listeners to ours. Now I don't know what happened to the lovers, but as for myself, I was struck dumb—I'm always struck that way by the young and the beautiful. Still, the other man seemed no less anxious than I was; nevertheless he did answer me, and quite ambitiously too. "Look, Socrates," he said, "if I ever thought philosophizing was shameful, I wouldn't consider myself a human being, nor anyone else who felt that way"—pointing at his rival as he said this, and speaking in a loud voice so that his darling could hear him clearly. And I said, "So philosophizing seems to you a fine thing?" "Absolutely," he said. "Well then," I said, "do you think it's possible to know whether any given thing is fine or shameful, when one doesn't even know from the start what it is?" "No," he said. "Then you know," I said, "what philosophizing is?" "Certainly," he said. "So what is it?" I asked. "What else could it be but what Solon says? For Solon said somewhere—'I grow old always learning many things'—and I think it's the same way for anyone who's going to be a philosopher: he must always be learning something, whether younger or older, so that he learns as much as possible in his life." At first this struck me as saying something worthwhile, but then, thinking it over, I asked him whether he considered philosophy to be the same as learning many things. And he said, "Absolutely." "But do you think philosophy is only fine, or also good?" I asked. "Good too," he said, "very much so." "Then do you see this as something particular to philosophy, or does it seem to you to hold in other cases as well? For instance, do you think a love of athletics is not only fine but also good—or not?" And he said, quite ironically, two things: "As for this fellow here, let me say neither; but to you, Socrates, I admit it's both fine and good, since I think that's the right view." So I asked, "Then do you also think that working hard in the gymnasium is the same thing as loving athletics?" And he said, "Certainly, just as I think that learning many things is the same as philosophizing." And I said, "Do you think those who love athletics desire anything other than this: that it will make their bodies fit?" "That's it," he said. "And does a great deal of exertion," I said, "make the body fit?"
"How could someone get their body into good condition from just a little exertion?" he said. And it seemed to me the moment had come to bring in the lover of athletics, so he could help me with his experience in gymnastics. So I asked him, "And why are you so silent with us, my good man, while he's saying all this? Do you too think people's bodies get fit from a great deal of exertion, or from a moderate amount?" "For my part, Socrates," he said, "I would have thought even a pig could grasp what's being said here—that moderate exertion makes bodies fit. So why wouldn't it be so, when we can see a man who's sleepless, unfed, has a stiff neck from disuse, and is thin from worry?" And when he said this, the boys were delighted and laughed, and the other one blushed. And I said, "Well then? Do you now agree that it's neither a great deal nor a small amount of exertion that makes people's bodies fit, but the moderate amount? Or will you fight the two of us on this point?" And he said, "Against this fellow here, I'd gladly do battle, and I'm quite confident I could hold up the position I set out, even if I'd set out an even weaker one—since there's nothing to it anyway. But with you, Socrates, I have no wish to argue against my own opinion just for the sake of winning; I agree that it's not a great deal but a moderate amount of exercise that produces good condition in people." "And what about food? Moderate or abundant?" I asked. And he agreed about food too. And I went on pressing him to agree that all the other things concerning the body are most beneficial in moderate amounts, not great or small ones—and he agreed that it was the moderate amount. "And what," I said, "about things concerning the soul? Do moderate or immoderate amounts of what's brought to it do good?" "The moderate," he said. "Then isn't one of the things brought to the soul learning itself?" He agreed. "And so it's the moderate amount of this too that benefits, not a great deal?" He agreed. "Then who could we rightly ask, to find out what sort of moderate exertion and food is right for the body?" We agreed, the three of us, that it would be a doctor or a trainer. "And who, about the sowing of seed, could tell us how much is moderate?" And we agreed that this too would be the farmer. "And who, if we ask about the planting and sowing of learning in the soul, could we rightly ask how much and what kind is moderate?"
At this point we were all utterly at a loss. So I teased them a bit and asked, "Would you like us, since we're stuck, to ask these boys here? Or are we perhaps ashamed, like Homer said of the suitors, who didn't think any other man was worthy to string the bow?" Since they seemed discouraged by the discussion, I tried a different approach and said, "What sort of subjects, then, do we guess are the ones a philosopher must learn, since it clearly isn't all of them, nor even many?" So the wiser of the two spoke up and said that the finest and most fitting subjects of learning were those from which a person would gain the greatest reputation for philosophy; and he would gain the greatest reputation if he appeared to have expertise in all the crafts, or failing that, in as many as possible, and especially the most worthwhile ones, learning from them what is fitting for a free man to learn—that is, what belongs to understanding, not to manual skill. "So do you mean something like this," I said, "as in carpentry? There you could hire a carpenter for five or six minas, but you couldn't get a master architect for even ten thousand drachmas—and even across all of Greece there'd be very few of them. Is that the sort of thing you mean?" And having heard me, he agreed that this was indeed what he meant. So I asked him whether it wasn't impossible for the same person to learn even just two crafts thoroughly in this way, let alone many great ones. And he said, "Don't take me to mean, Socrates, that the philosopher must know each of the crafts as precisely as the man who actually practices it, but rather as befits a free and educated man—able to follow what's said by the craftsman better than the ordinary bystander, and to contribute his own judgment, so that he comes across as the most graceful and the wisest of those present whenever crafts are being discussed or practiced." And I, still unsure what exactly he meant, said, "Do I understand you rightly? It seems to me you mean the philosopher is like the pentathletes are in relation to runners or wrestlers in competition. For those athletes fall short of the specialists when it comes to the specialists' own events, and come in second to them, but they're first among all other athletes and beat them."
"Perhaps you mean something like that," I went on, "and that philosophizing produces in those who pursue it a similar result: falling short of the leaders in understanding of the crafts, but coming out ahead of everyone else by taking second place, and so the man who has philosophized becomes a sort of all-around runner-up in everything. That's the kind of thing you seem to be pointing to." "You seem to me to have grasped the matter about the philosopher quite well, Socrates," he said, "by comparing him to the pentathlete. For he's exactly the sort of man who is slave to no single pursuit, nor has worked hard at precision in anything, so that through devotion to any one thing he'd fall behind in all the others, as the craftsmen do, but instead has a moderate grasp of everything." After this answer, wanting to know clearly what he meant, I asked him whether he thought good men were useful or useless. "Useful, surely, Socrates," he said. "Then if the good are useful, are the worthless useless?" He agreed. "Well then? Do you consider philosophical men useful or not?" And he agreed they were useful, and in fact said he thought them the most useful of all. "Come, then, let's find out whether what you say is true—where and for what are these all-around runners-up useful to us? For clearly, compared with each man who has mastery of a craft, the philosopher is inferior." He agreed. "Come then," I said, "if you happened to fall ill yourself, or one of your friends whom you care about greatly, would you, wanting to regain health, bring that all-around philosopher into your house, or would you get the doctor?" "Both, I'd say," he answered. "Don't tell me both," I said, "but which one more, and which one first." "No one," he said, "would dispute that it's the doctor, both more and first." "And what about this: on a ship in a storm, to which of the two would you rather entrust yourself and your belongings—the helmsman or the philosopher?" "The helmsman, for my part." "And so it is with everything else in the same way: as long as there's a craftsman for the job, the philosopher is not useful?" "So it appears," he said. "So right now the philosopher turns out to be useless to us? For we always have craftsmen at hand; and we agreed that the good are useful, and the worthless useless." He was forced to agree. "What then comes next? Shall I ask you something, or is it too rude a question to ask?—Ask whatever you like."
"All I'm after," I said, "is getting us to agree with what's already been said. Here's how it stands. We agreed that philosophy is admirable, and that we ourselves are philosophers; that philosophers are good, and the good are useful, while the worthless are useless. And again, we agreed that philosophers, so long as the craftsmen exist, are useless — and the craftsmen will always exist. Isn't that what we agreed?" "Certainly," he said. "So it seems, by your own account, that if practicing philosophy means having expert knowledge of the crafts in the way you describe, then we're worthless and useless, for as long as there are crafts among human beings. But, my friend, perhaps that isn't how things stand, and that isn't what practicing philosophy is — busying oneself over the crafts, and living as some officious, prying, overlearned person — but something else, since I used to think this very thing was actually a reproach, and that people devoted to the crafts were called vulgar. We'll see more clearly whether I'm right if you answer this: who knows how to discipline horses correctly? Isn't it whoever can make them best?" "Whoever can make them best." "And dogs — isn't it those who know how to make them best who also know how to discipline them correctly?" "Yes." "So the same skill both makes them best and disciplines them correctly?" "It seems so to me," he said. "And again: is it the same skill that makes them best and disciplines them correctly, that also recognizes the good ones and the bad ones — or a different one?" "The same," he said. "Will you agree, then, that this holds for human beings too — that whatever makes people best is also what disciplines them correctly and discerns the good from the worthless?" "Certainly," he said. "And whatever knows one, knows many, and whatever knows many, knows one?" "Yes." "And this holds for horses and for everything else in the same way?" "I agree." "So what is the knowledge that correctly disciplines those in our cities who behave lawlessly and break the laws? Isn't it the judicial art?" "Yes." "And do you call this anything other than justice?" "No, this very thing." "So whatever it is by which people discipline correctly, is that also what lets them recognize the good and the worthless?" "The same." "And whoever knows one will come to know many?" "Yes." "And whoever is ignorant of many is also ignorant of one?" "I agree." "So if a horse were ignorant of good and bad horses, it would also be ignorant of what sort it itself is?" "I agree." "And if an ox were ignorant of good and bad oxen, it would be ignorant of what sort it itself is?" "Yes," he said. "And likewise for a dog?" He agreed.
"Well then — when a human being is ignorant of good and worthless human beings, isn't he ignorant of whether he himself is good or worthless, since he too is a human being?" He conceded this. "And is being ignorant of oneself being sound-minded, or not being sound-minded?" "Not being sound-minded." "So knowing oneself is being sound-minded?" "I agree," he said. "This, it seems, is what the inscription at Delphi is urging — to practice sound-mindedness and justice." "So it seems." "And it's by this same knowledge that we know how to discipline correctly?" "Yes." "So insofar as we know how to discipline correctly, that is justice; and insofar as we discern both ourselves and others, that is sound-mindedness?" "So it seems," he said. "Then justice and sound-mindedness are the same thing?" "It appears so." "And indeed cities too are well governed this way, whenever wrongdoers pay the penalty." "True," he said. "So this same thing is also statesmanship." He agreed. "And when one man governs a city correctly, isn't the name for him tyrant, and also king?" "Yes." "So he governs by the royal art and the tyrannical art?" "Just so." "And are these the very same skills as the ones before?" "They appear to be." "And when one man manages a household correctly, what is his name? Isn't it householder and master?" "Yes." "And does he manage the household well by justice, or by some other skill?" "By justice." "So it seems, then, that king, tyrant, statesman, householder, master, the sound-minded man, and the just man are one and the same. And there is one single skill — the royal, the tyrannical, the political, the masterly, the household-managing, justice, and sound-mindedness." "So it appears," he said. "Now then — is it shameful for the philosopher, whenever a doctor says something about the sick, to be unable either to follow what's said or to contribute anything about what's said or done — and likewise whenever any other craftsman speaks — while it's not shameful, when a judge or a king or any of those we've just gone through speaks, to be unable either to follow or to contribute anything on those matters?" "How could it not be shameful, Socrates, to have nothing to contribute on such important affairs?" "So should we say, then, that on these matters too the philosopher must be a pentathlete and a runner-up — coming in second to everyone else in this, and remaining useless as long as anyone surpasses him — or rather that, first, he must not hand over the management of his own household to another, nor settle for second place in that, but must himself discipline it, judging correctly, if his own household is to be well managed?" He conceded this to me.
"And then, of course, whether his friends entrust their disputes to him, or the city assigns him some case to decide or judge, isn't it shameful, my friend, for him to appear second or third in these matters, rather than taking the lead?" "I think so." "So we're far, it seems, my excellent friend, from thinking that practicing philosophy is the same as being widely learned or busying oneself with the crafts." When I had said this, the clever one fell silent, ashamed at what had been said before, while the simple one said that was indeed how things were; and the others praised what had been said.