Plato · a new plain-English translation from the Greek
We had come back the evening before from the camp at Potidaea, and since I'd been away so long, I was glad to head straight for my usual haunts. I went into Taureas' wrestling school, across from the shrine of Basile, and found a good many people there, some I didn't know, but most of them familiar faces. When they saw me come in unannounced, they called out greetings from all over the room. Chaerephon, being the wild soul he is, jumped up from the middle of the crowd and ran over, grabbed my hand, and said, "Socrates, how did you make it out of the battle alive?" A battle had just taken place at Potidaea shortly before we left, and the news of it had only just reached people here. I answered him, "Just as you see, I'm here." "Well," he said, "the report that reached us was that the fighting was very fierce and that many of our friends died in it." "That report is pretty much true," I said. "Were you there for the battle?" he asked. "I was." "Come sit down, then," he said, "and tell us the whole thing — we haven't heard all the details clearly yet." And with that he sat me down next to Critias, son of Callaeschrus. So I sat and greeted Critias and the others, and told them the news from the camp, answering whatever anyone asked, and different people asked about different things. When we'd had our fill of that, I turned around and started asking them about things here — how philosophy stood these days, and about the young men, whether any had come to stand out for wisdom or beauty or both.
Just then Critias glanced toward the door and saw some young men coming in, quarreling with each other, and a crowd trailing behind them. "As for the beautiful ones, Socrates," he said, "you're about to find out for yourself. These men coming in are the advance guard and lovers of the one who's considered the most beautiful of the moment, and it looks to me like he himself is already close behind, on his way in." "Who is he," I said, "and whose son?" "You know him," he said, "though he wasn't yet old enough to count before you left — Charmides, son of Glaucon, my uncle's boy, my own cousin." "I certainly do know him, by Zeus," I said. "Even as a boy he was nothing ordinary, and by now I'd guess he's quite grown into a young man." "You'll see for yourself in a moment," he said, "how tall he's grown and what he looks like now." And just as he said this, Charmides walked in. Now, my friend, I'm no judge of such things — I'm simply a blank slate when it comes to beauty, since practically everyone at that age looks beautiful to me — but even so, that young man struck me then as astonishing, both in stature and in looks, and everyone else in the room seemed to me to be in love with him too, judging by how stunned and flustered they all were the moment he walked in. And plenty of other admirers were following along behind him as well. Our own reaction, we grown men, was less remarkable — but I noticed how the boys behaved: not one of them looked anywhere else, not even the youngest, but they all gazed at him as if he were a statue. And Chaerephon called over to me, "What do you think of the young man, Socrates? Isn't he good-looking?" "Extraordinarily so," I said. "Yet," he said, "if he were willing to strip, you'd think he had no face at all, his body is so perfect." The others all agreed with Chaerephon on this. "By Heracles," I said, "you're describing a man beyond resisting — if only he happens to have one small thing besides." "What's that?" said Critias. "If his soul," I said, "turns out to be well made too. And surely it ought to be, Critias, given that he comes from your family." "Oh," he said, "he's quite fine and good in that respect too." "Then why not," I said, "strip that part of him bare too, and take a look at it before his looks? He's surely old enough now to want to talk."
"Very much so," said Critias, "since as it happens he's a philosopher, and — in his own view as much as others' — quite the poet too." "That fine trait, dear Critias," I said, "has come down to your family a long way, from your kinship with Solon. But why not call the young man over and show him to me? Even if he were younger still, there'd be nothing shameful in his talking with us in your presence, since you're both his guardian and his cousin." "Well said," he replied, "let's call him over." And turning to his attendant, he said, "Boy, call Charmides, and tell him I want him to meet a doctor about that ailment he was telling me about the other day, the one he said he was suffering from." Then Critias said to me, "Just recently he's been complaining of a heaviness in his head when he gets up in the morning. So why not pretend to him that you know some cure for headaches?" "No reason at all," I said, "just let him come." "He'll come," he said. And so it happened. He came, and it caused a great deal of laughter, since each of us sitting there started shoving his neighbor aside in a hurry, trying to make room next to himself, until we'd made one man at the end get up entirely and knocked another one sideways off his seat. In the end he came and sat down between me and Critias. At that point, my friend, I found myself at a loss, and all the confidence I'd had before — the ease with which I'd expected to talk with him — was knocked right out of me. Once Critias mentioned that I was the one who knew the cure, he fixed his eyes on me in the strangest way and looked ready to ask me something, and everyone in the wrestling school crowded around us in a circle — and it was then, my noble friend, that I saw what was inside his cloak, and I caught fire, and I was no longer myself, and I decided that Cydias was the wisest man alive on matters of love, since he said, giving advice about a beautiful boy to someone else, to be careful not to come as a fawn before a lion and end up as its share of meat — for I felt I'd been caught by just such a creature myself. Still, when he asked me whether I knew the cure for the head, I managed, with some difficulty, to answer that I did. "Well, what is it?" he said. And I told him that the remedy itself was a certain leaf, but there was also a charm to go with the remedy, and if someone recited the charm at the same time as using it, the remedy would make him perfectly well — but without the charm, the leaf was no use at all.
"In that case," he said, "I'll take down the charm from you." "Only if you persuade me to give it," I said, "or even if you don't?" He laughed. "If I persuade you, Socrates." "All right," I said. "And you know my name precisely?" "I should," he said, "if I'm not mistaken — you're talked about quite a bit among us who are your age, and I remember even as a boy seeing you in Critias' company here." "Good of you to say so," I said, "because now I'll speak to you more openly about what this charm really is. A moment ago I was at a loss for how to show you its power. It's the kind of thing, Charmides, that can't just cure the head on its own — the way, as perhaps you've heard from good doctors, when someone comes to them with sore eyes, they'll tell you it's no use trying to treat the eyes alone, but that the head must be treated at the same time, if the eyes are to be well. And likewise, to think one could ever treat the head by itself, apart from the whole body, would be great folly. It's on this principle that they turn to regimens for the whole body together with the part, and try to treat and heal the part along with the whole. Or haven't you noticed that this is what they say, and how it actually is?" "I have," he said. "So this strikes you as well said, and you accept the argument?" "Absolutely," he said. Hearing him agree with this cheered me up, and little by little my confidence began to gather itself again, and I felt myself catching fire once more. So I said: "Well, Charmides, that's exactly how this charm works too. I learned it out there on campaign from one of the Thracian physicians of Zalmoxis, who are said to be able to make people immortal. This Thracian told me that what the Greek doctors say, the very things I just described, is all well and good — but Zalmoxis, our king, he said, who is a god, says that just as one shouldn't try to cure the eyes without the head, or the head without the body, so too the body should not be treated without the soul — and that this is exactly why so many diseases escape the Greek doctors, because they neglect the whole that they ought to be caring for, and if that whole isn't well, it's impossible for the part to be well.
For everything, he said, springs from the soul, both the bad and the good, for the body and for the whole person, and flows out from there just as it does from the head to the eyes. So it's that source above all that must be treated first and foremost, if the head and the rest of the body are to be well. And the soul, my good man, he said, is treated with certain charms, and these charms are beautiful words — and it's from words like these that self-control is born in souls, and once self-control has come to be present, it's then easy to bring about health for the head and for the rest of the body as well. So when he taught me the remedy and the charms, he said, "See to it that no one talks you into treating his head with this remedy who hasn't first offered you his soul to be treated by the charm." "For that," he said, "is exactly the mistake people make these days, that some try to be doctors of one without the other, self-control and health." And he charged me very strictly that no one, however rich, however noble, however handsome, should ever talk me into doing otherwise. Now I have sworn an oath to him, and I'm bound to obey it — so I will obey, and if you're willing, in keeping with the stranger's instructions, to offer your soul first, to be charmed by the Thracian's charms, I'll apply the remedy to your head. Otherwise, dear Charmides, there's nothing we could do for you." When Critias heard me say this, he said, "Well, Socrates, this headache would turn out to be a real windfall for the young man, if it forces his mind to grow better on account of his head. I'll tell you this too — Charmides is thought to stand out among boys his age not only in looks, but in this very thing you say you have the charm for — you say it's self-control, don't you?" "Certainly," I said. "Then you should know," he said, "that he's considered by far the most self-controlled of the young men here now, and in everything else too, for his age, second to none." "And it's only right, Charmides," I said, "that you should stand out from the rest in all such things — for I don't think anyone else here could easily point to two houses in Athens that, joined together, could reasonably have produced a finer or better offspring than the one you sprang from."
"Your father's house, that of Critias son of Dropides, has come down to us praised by Anacreon and Solon and many other poets as excelling in beauty and virtue and all the rest that people call happiness. And the same goes for your mother's side: of your uncle Pyrilampes, no man on the mainland is said to have seemed finer or more imposing, whenever he came as an envoy to the Great King or to any other ruler of the mainland. That whole family is in no way inferior to the other. Born of such stock, it stands to reason you should be first in everything. As for your outward form, dear son of Glaucon, I think you fall short of none of those before you. But if you are also well enough endowed by nature in self-control and the rest, as our friend here says, then, dear Charmides, I said, your mother bore a blessed son indeed. Here is how things stand: if self-control is already present in you, as Critias here claims, and you are adequately self-controlled, then you have no need at all of Zalmoxis's charms or those of Abaris the Hyperborean — you could simply be given the medicine for the head straightaway. But if you seem still to be lacking in this, then the charm must be spoken before the medicine is given. So tell me yourself: do you agree with him and say that you already have a sufficient share of self-control, or that you lack it?" Charmides blushed, and looked even more handsome for it — for the blush suited his youth — and then answered, not without spirit, that it was not easy at the moment either to agree or to deny what was being asked. "For if I say I am not self-controlled," he said, "that would be a strange thing to say against myself, and at the same time I would be showing Critias here, and many others who think I am self-controlled, to be liars, as his own account implies. But if I say I am, and praise myself, that will probably seem tiresome." "So I don't know what to answer you." And I said that what he said seemed reasonable to me, Charmides. "And it seems to me," I said, "that we ought to look into this together — whether you possess what I'm asking about or not — so that you aren't forced to say what you don't want to, and so that I, in turn, don't rush into the doctoring without due consideration." "So if it's agreeable to you, I'm willing to examine it with you; if not, we'll let it go." "But it's most agreeable of all," he said, "so as far as that goes, examine it in whatever way you yourself think best." "Well then," I said, "this is how it seems to me best to look into the matter."
"Clearly, if self-control is present in you, you have some opinion about it. For it must, if it is really in you, produce some perception, from which you would form some belief about what it is and what sort of thing self-control is. Or don't you think so?" "I do think so," he said. "And this thing you believe," I said, "since you know how to speak Greek, you could surely say what it seems to you to be?" "Perhaps," he said. "So that we may guess whether it is present in you or not, tell me," I said, "what you say self-control is, in your own opinion." At first he hesitated and was not at all willing to answer; but then he said that self-control seemed to him to be doing everything in an orderly and quiet way — walking in the streets quietly, and conversing quietly, and doing everything else the same way. "In short," he said, "it seems to me to be a kind of quietness, this thing you're asking about." "Well now," I said, "are you right? People do say, Charmides, that quiet people are self-controlled; let's see whether they're saying something. Tell me, isn't self-control one of the fine things?" "Certainly," he said. "Now which is finer, in a writing lesson, to write similar letters quickly or quietly?" "Quickly." "And to read — quickly or slowly?" "Quickly." "And surely playing the lyre quickly, and wrestling sharply, is far finer than doing it quietly and slowly?" "Yes." "And what about boxing and the pancration? Isn't it the same?" "Certainly." "And running and jumping and all the works of the body — aren't the quick and sharp ones fine, and the slow, labored, quiet ones shameful?" "It appears so." "So it appears to us," I said, "that as far as the body goes, it's not the quiet but the quickest and sharpest that is finest. Isn't that so?" "Certainly." "And self-control was something fine?" "Yes." "So as far as the body is concerned, it would not be quietness but quickness that is more self-controlled, since self-control is fine." "It seems so," he said. "Well then," I said, "is quickness at learning finer than slowness at learning?" "Quickness." "And quickness at learning is learning quickly, and slowness at learning is learning quietly and slowly?" "Yes." "And to teach another — isn't it finer to do it quickly and vigorously rather than quietly and slowly?" "Yes." "And what about recollecting and remembering — is it finer to do it quietly and slowly, or vigorously and quickly?" "Vigorously," he said, "and quickly."
"And isn't quick-wittedness a kind of sharpness of the soul, not quietness?" "True." "And isn't grasping what's said, whether in a writing lesson or a music lesson or anywhere else, finest when done not as quietly as possible but as quickly as possible?" "Yes." "And surely in the soul's inquiries and in deliberation, it's not the quietest person — the one who deliberates and discovers only with difficulty — who seems worthy of praise, as I see it, but the one who does this most easily and quickly." "That's so," he said. "So in everything, Charmides," I said, "both what concerns the soul and what concerns the body, the things marked by speed and sharpness appear finer to us than those marked by slowness and quietness?" "It looks that way," he said. "Then self-control would not be a kind of quietness, nor would the self-controlled life be a quiet one, on this argument at least, since it must be fine, being self-controlled. For there are only two possibilities: either nowhere, or in very few cases, have quiet actions in life turned out finer than quick and vigorous ones. But even if, at best, quiet actions turn out to be no less fine than vigorous and quick ones, still self-control would not be, on this basis either, acting quietly any more than acting vigorously and quickly — not in walking, not in speaking, not anywhere else — nor would the quiet life be more orderly, and so more self-controlled, than the unquiet one, since in our argument self-control was assumed to be one of the fine things, and quick things have turned out no less fine than quiet ones." "You seem to me to have spoken correctly, Socrates," he said. "Well then, Charmides," I said, "pay closer attention still, look into yourself, consider what sort of person self-control's presence makes you, and what kind of thing it must be to produce such an effect — put all this together and tell me plainly and bravely what it seems to you to be." He paused, and after examining the matter within himself quite manfully, said: "Well, it seems to me that self-control makes a person feel shame, and makes him prone to blushing, and that self-control is just what modesty is." "Very well," I said, "didn't you just now agree that self-control is a fine thing?" "Certainly," he said. "And aren't self-controlled men also good men?" "Yes." "Could something be good, then, that doesn't make men good?" "Certainly not." "So it's not only fine, but good as well."
"So it seems to me too." "Well then," I said, "don't you trust Homer to speak well when he says: 'modesty is no good companion for a needy man'?" "I do," he said. "So it seems modesty is both not good and good." "So it appears." "But self-control is good, if indeed it makes good those in whom it is present, and not bad." "Well, that does seem to be how it is, as you say." "Then self-control couldn't be modesty, if self-control really is good, while modesty is no more good than bad." "But this much seems right to me, Socrates," he said. "Now consider this other thing about self-control. I just recalled something I once heard someone say — that self-control might be doing one's own business. Consider, then, whether the person who says that seems to you to be speaking rightly." And I said, "You scoundrel, did you hear this from Critias here, or from some other of the wise?" "It must have been someone else," said Critias, "since certainly not from me." "But what difference does it make, Socrates," said Charmides, "who I heard it from?" "None," I said, "for what we must consider is surely not who said it, but whether what is said is true or not." "Now you speak rightly," he said. "By Zeus, yes," I said. "But whether we shall actually discover how the matter stands, I would be surprised — for it seems to be a kind of riddle." "Why so?" he said. "Because surely," I said, "whoever said self-control was doing one's own business did not mean it in the sense the words themselves suggest. Or do you think a writing-teacher does nothing when he writes or reads?" "I do think he does something — indeed I think so," he said. "Does it seem to you the writing-teacher writes and reads only his own name, or teaches you children to do so, or did you write your enemies' names no less than your own and your friends' names?" "No less." "So were you meddling and being un-self-controlled in doing this?" "Not at all." "And yet you were not doing your own business, if indeed writing and reading are a kind of doing." "But surely they are." "And surely healing, my friend, and building, and weaving, and producing any product whatever by any craft, is surely a kind of doing." "Certainly."
"Well then," I said, "do you think a city would be well governed by a law that ordered each person to weave and wash his own cloak, and make his own shoes, and his own oil-flask and scraper, and everything else on the same principle — not touching what belongs to others, but each working at and doing only his own?" "It doesn't seem so to me," he said. "And yet," I said, "a city governed with self-control would surely be well governed." "Of course," he said. "So doing that sort of thing, and doing one's own business in that way, would not be self-control." "It appears not." "So the man who said self-control was doing one's own business was speaking in riddles, it seems, as I said just now — for surely he wasn't so simple-minded. Or did you hear this from some fool, Charmides?" "Far from it," he said, "since he seemed to be quite wise indeed." "Then it's all the more likely, it seems to me, that he was posing it as a riddle, on the grounds that it's hard to know what 'doing one's own business' really means." "Perhaps," he said. "So what could 'doing one's own business' possibly mean? Can you say?" "By Zeus, I don't know," he said, "but perhaps there's nothing to stop even the one who said it from not knowing what he meant." And as he said this he laughed quietly and glanced at Critias. Critias had for some time clearly been on edge, full of eagerness to make a good showing before Charmides and those present, and had barely restrained himself before; now he could hold back no longer. It seems to me most certainly true, what I had suspected — that Charmides had heard this answer about self-control from Critias. Charmides, not wanting to give an account of it himself but to make Critias answer for it, was trying to stir him up, showing that he himself had been refuted. But Critias would not stand for it; he seemed to me to be angered at him, the way a poet gets angry at an actor mishandling his poems. So he looked straight at him and said, "Do you really think, Charmides, that if you don't know what the man meant who said self-control was doing one's own business, that he himself didn't know either?" "But, my excellent Critias," I said, "it's no wonder that he, being as young as he is, doesn't know; but you, presumably, ought to know, given both your age and your diligence. So if you agree that this is what self-control is, and accept the argument, I would much rather examine with you whether what was said is true or not." "I do agree entirely," he said, "and I accept it." "You do well to do so," I said. "Now tell me — do you also agree with what I was just asking, that all craftsmen produce something?" "I do."
Do you think people who behave with sound-mindedness do only their own work, or the work of others too? — The work of others too. So they're being sound-minded even when they're not doing only their own work? — Why not? he said. Nothing stops that, as far as I'm concerned, I said, but watch out — it stops the man who first laid down that sound-mindedness is doing one's own work, and then says nothing stops people who do the work of others from also being sound-minded. Well, he said, I have granted this much, that people who do the work of others are sound-minded, if I granted it of those who make things for others. Tell me, I said, don't you call making and doing the same thing? Not at all, he said — nor working and making the same thing either. I learned that from Hesiod, who said that no work is a disgrace. Do you think, if he'd called the kind of things you were just now talking about 'works' and 'working,' he would have said it's no disgrace to anyone to cobble shoes, or sell pickled fish, or sit in a brothel? You shouldn't think that, Socrates — no, I believe he too took making to be different from doing and working, and held that a product can sometimes be a disgrace, when it isn't done nobly, but a work is never any disgrace at all; for he called the things done nobly and beneficially 'works,' and such makings and doings 'workings.' And we should say he considered only such things as these to be one's own, and everything harmful to belong to another; so that we must think Hesiod, and anyone else with sense, calls the man who does his own work sound-minded. Critias, I said, right from the start of your speech I more or less understood your argument, that you meant by 'one's own' and 'what belongs to oneself' good things, and by 'makings' of good things, doings. In fact I've heard countless distinctions of names from Prodicus. But I'll grant you the right to set the names however you like — only make clear which thing you're applying the name to, whatever you say. So now, once more, define it from the beginning more clearly. Is it the doing — or making, or however you'd like to name it — of good things that you say sound-mindedness is? — Yes, I do, he said. So the man who does bad things isn't sound-minded, but the one who does good things is? — Doesn't that seem so to you too, my good man? he said. Let it be, I said — let's not examine what seems so to me yet, but what you're now saying. — Well, I for my part, he said, say that the man who does not good things but bad is not sound-minded, while the man who does good things and not bad is sound-minded; I define sound-mindedness for you plainly as the doing of good things.
And perhaps there's nothing to stop you from speaking the truth; but here's what surprises me, I said — that you think sound-minded people don't know that they are sound-minded. — No, I don't think that, he said. Didn't you say a little earlier, I said, that nothing stops craftsmen from being sound-minded even while making things for others? — Yes, I said that, he said — but what of it? — Nothing; but tell me, do you think some doctor, in making someone healthy, does something beneficial both to himself and to the one he's treating? — I do. So the one who does this does what's needed? — Yes. And the one who does what's needed is sound-minded? — Sound-minded indeed. Then must the doctor also know when he's healing beneficially and when not? And must every craftsman know when he's about to profit from the work he's doing and when not? — Perhaps not. So sometimes, I said, having acted either beneficially or harmfully, the doctor doesn't know how he acted — and yet if he acted beneficially, by your account, he acted with sound-mindedness. Isn't that what you said? — I did. So it seems, sometimes, having acted beneficially, he acts with sound-mindedness and is sound-minded, but doesn't know himself that he's sound-minded? — But that, Socrates, he said, could never happen; if you think this follows of necessity from what I've agreed to earlier, I'd rather take back some of that than ever admit that a man who doesn't know himself is sound-minded. For I hold, more or less, that this very thing is sound-mindedness — knowing oneself — and I agree with the one who set up that inscription at Delphi. For that's how the inscription seems to me to have been set up — as a greeting from the god to those entering, in place of 'welcome,' since that greeting isn't right, and people shouldn't urge that on one another, but rather sound-mindedness. So the god addresses those entering the temple somewhat differently than men do, as the one who dedicated it, I think, intended — and he says to whoever is entering, nothing else than 'Be sound-minded,' he says.
And he says it rather riddlingly, like a seer; for 'Know yourself' and 'Be sound-minded' are, as the letters say and I agree, the very same thing — though someone might well think them different, which is just what I think happened to those who dedicated the later inscriptions too, 'Nothing in excess' and 'A pledge, and ruin is at hand.' For they too thought that 'Know yourself' was a piece of advice, rather than the god's greeting to those entering; and then, so that they too might dedicate no less useful advice, they wrote these and set them up. Now the reason I'm saying all this, Socrates, is this: I concede you everything said before — perhaps you were saying something more correct about it, perhaps I was, but nothing in what we said was at all clear — but now I'm willing to give you an account of this, if you don't agree that sound-mindedness is knowing oneself. — But, Critias, I said, you're approaching me as though I claimed to know the answers to what I'm asking, and as though, if I wished, I would agree with you; but it isn't so — rather I'm always investigating along with you whatever is proposed, because I myself don't know. So once I've examined it, I'm willing to say whether I agree or not. But wait until I've examined it. — Examine away, then, he said. — And indeed, I said, I am examining. For if sound-mindedness really is a kind of knowing, clearly it would be a knowledge, and of something — or not? — It is, he said, of oneself. And isn't medicine, I said, a knowledge of what's healthy? — Certainly. Now if you were to ask me — medicine, being a knowledge of what's healthy, what is it useful to us for, and what does it produce? — I'd say no small benefit; for it produces health for us, a noble product, if you accept that. — I do. And if you were to ask me about house-building, a knowledge of building, what I say it produces, I'd say houses; and likewise for the other arts. So you too, concerning sound-mindedness, since you say it's a knowledge of oneself, must be able to say, if asked, Critias, sound-mindedness, being a knowledge of oneself, what noble product does it produce for us, worthy of its name? Come, tell me. — But, Socrates, he said, you're not searching correctly. For this knowledge isn't naturally like the other knowledges, nor are the others like one another — but you're conducting your inquiry as if they were alike.
Tell me, he said, what work of this kind does the art of calculation or geometry have, such as a house belongs to house-building, or a cloak to weaving, or other such products, which one could point to in many other arts? Can you show me any such product of these? You won't be able to. — And I said that he spoke truly; but this I can show you — of what each of these knowledges is a knowledge, which happens to be something other than the knowledge itself. Calculation, for instance, is of the even and the odd, of how they stand in quantity to themselves and to each other — isn't that so? — Certainly, he said. So the odd and the even are something other than calculation itself? — Of course. And again, weighing is a weighing of the heavier and the lighter weight; but the heavy and the light are something other than weighing itself. Do you agree? — I do. Tell me, then, what is sound-mindedness a knowledge of, which happens to be something other than sound-mindedness itself? — This is just it, Socrates, he said — this is exactly what you've come hunting for, the thing by which sound-mindedness differs from all the other knowledges; but you're looking for some resemblance between it and the others. That's not how it is — rather, all the other knowledges are knowledges of something else, not of themselves, whereas this one alone is a knowledge both of the other knowledges and of itself. And this hasn't escaped you by any means — no, I think what you just said you weren't doing, you're doing: you're trying to refute me, leaving aside what the argument is actually about. — What a thing to think I'm doing, I said — as if, however much I refute you, I'm refuting for any other reason than the one for which I'd examine even myself, out of fear that I might unknowingly think I know something when I don't. And that's just what I claim I'm doing now — examining the argument mostly for my own sake, though perhaps for the sake of my friends too. Or don't you think it a good common to nearly all people, that each of the things that are should become clear as it really is? — I do indeed, Socrates, he said. Take heart, then, blessed man, I said, and answer what's asked however it appears to you, and let it go whether it's Critias or Socrates who's being refuted; just pay attention to the argument itself and watch how it turns out once it's tested. — All right, he said, I'll do that — you seem to me to ask fairly. Tell me, then, I said, what do you say about sound-mindedness? — I say, then, he said, that alone among the other knowledges, it is a knowledge both of itself and of the other knowledges. So it would also be a knowledge of the absence of knowledge, I said, if it's a knowledge of knowledge? — Certainly, he said.
So the sound-minded man alone will know himself, and will be able to examine what he actually knows and what he doesn't, and will likewise be able to inspect others, to see what someone knows and thinks he knows, if he really knows it, and again what he thinks he knows but doesn't — no one else will be able to do this. And this is just what being sound-minded is, and sound-mindedness, and knowing oneself — knowing what one knows and what one doesn't know. Is that what you mean? — I do, he said. Once more, then, I said, for the third time, as if to our savior, let's examine from the start, first whether it's possible for this to exist or not — knowing what one knows and what one doesn't know, that one knows it and that one doesn't — and then, if it's entirely possible, what benefit it would be to us to know it. — Well, we must examine it, he said. Come then, Critias, I said, examine it, and see if you turn out to have more resources on this than I do — for I'm at a loss. Shall I tell you where I'm at a loss? — By all means, he said. Isn't it the case, I said, that all this would come down to there being some one knowledge, which is a knowledge of nothing else but itself and the other knowledges, and moreover of the absence of knowledge too? — Certainly. See how strange a thing we're attempting to say, my friend; for if you examine this same thing in other cases, it will seem to you, I think, impossible. — How so, and where? — In cases like these. Consider whether it seems to you that there's some kind of sight which, while it's not a sight of the things the other sights are sights of, is a sight of itself and the other sights, and likewise of non-sights, and which sees no color at all, being a sight, but only itself and the other sights — does such a thing seem to you to exist? — By Zeus, not to me. And what of hearing, which hears no sound at all, but hears itself and the other kinds of hearing, and non-hearings? — Not that either. In short, consider concerning all the senses whether any seems to you to be a sense of the senses and of itself, but perceives none of the things the other senses perceive. — Not to me. But does desire seem to you to be of any such kind — one that is a desire for no pleasure, but for itself and the other desires? — No indeed. Nor, I think, is there a wish that wishes for no good thing, but wishes for itself and the other wishes. — No, indeed not. And would you say there's some love that happens to be a love of nothing beautiful, but of itself and the other loves? — No, he said, I would not.
"Have you ever noticed a fear that fears itself and fears other fears, yet fears none of the dreadful things it should?" "I have not noticed that," he said. "Or an opinion of opinions, an opinion of itself, but which has no opinion at all about the things the other opinions are about?" "Not at all." "But we do say there's some kind of knowledge — one that isn't knowledge of any particular subject, but is knowledge of itself and of the other knowledges?" "Yes, we do say that." "Isn't that strange, if it really exists? Let's not insist yet that it doesn't exist — let's still examine whether it does." "You're right." "Well then: this knowledge is knowledge of something, and has a certain power such that it's knowledge of something — right?" "Certainly." "After all, we say the greater has a certain power such that it's greater than something?" "It does." "So greater than something smaller, if it's to be greater at all." "Necessarily." "So if we found something greater which was greater than the other greater things and also greater than itself, but not greater than the things the others are greater than, surely it would have to be true of it — if it's really greater than itself — that it's also smaller than itself. Isn't that so?" "That's absolutely necessary, Socrates," he said. "And likewise, if something is double the other doubles and also double itself, then, since it's half of itself and of the others, it would be double of a half — since nothing is double of anything but a half." "True." "And a thing that's more than itself won't also be less; a thing heavier than itself, lighter; a thing older than itself, younger — and so with everything else: whatever has its own power directed at itself must also have the very nature that its power is directed toward. Take what I mean this way: hearing, we say, is hearing of nothing but sound — right?" "Yes." "So if it's ever to hear itself, it will have to have a sound of its own to hear — there's no other way it could hear." "Absolutely necessary." "And sight too, my excellent friend, if it's ever to see itself, must have some color — for sight could never see anything colorless." "No, indeed." "So you see, Critias, that of everything we've gone through, some cases appear to us wholly impossible, and in others we have grave doubts that a thing's power could ever be directed at itself. Sizes and quantities and things of that sort are wholly impossible — wouldn't you say?" "Quite so."
"But hearing and sight — and further, motion moving itself, and heat burning itself — and all things of that kind might raise doubt in some people, though perhaps not in others. What we need, my friend, is some great man who can settle this question properly for every case: whether none of the things that exist has a power naturally directed at itself — except knowledge — but always at something else; or whether some things do have this, others don't; and if there are some that are directed at themselves, whether knowledge belongs among them — the very thing we're calling temperance. As for me, I don't trust myself to be able to sort this out. So I can't say for certain either whether it's possible for there to be a knowledge of knowledge, or, granting that it's entirely possible, that I accept this as being what temperance is — not before examining whether, being such a thing, it would benefit us at all or not. For I divine that temperance is something beneficial and good. So you, son of Callaeschrus — since you maintain that temperance is this: knowledge of knowledge, and indeed of the absence of knowledge — first show that what I just described is possible to demonstrate, and then, beyond its being possible, that it's also beneficial. Then perhaps you'll satisfy me that you're right about what temperance is." And Critias, hearing this and seeing me at a loss, seemed — like people who feel the urge to yawn themselves when they see others yawning across from them — to be forced by my perplexity into falling into perplexity himself. Since he had a reputation to keep up on every occasion, he was ashamed before those present, and he neither wanted to concede to me that he was unable to sort out what I had challenged him to sort out, nor did he say anything clear, covering up his confusion. So, to keep our discussion moving forward, I said: "Well, Critias, if you like, let's grant for now that it's possible for there to be a knowledge of knowledge — we can examine later whether that's really so or not. Come then: even granting this is entirely possible, what more does it let one know — namely, which things one knows and which one doesn't? For that, I take it, is what we said self-knowledge and being temperate amounted to. Isn't that so?" "Quite so," he said, "and indeed it does follow, Socrates. For if someone has a knowledge that knows itself, he himself will be of the very sort that what he has is. Just as when someone has speed, he's fast, and when he has beauty, he's beautiful, and when he has knowledge, he's knowing — so when someone has knowledge of knowledge itself, he'll then, surely, be knowing himself." "That's not what I'm disputing," I said — "not whether someone who has that which knows itself will know himself — but rather: what necessity is there for someone who has this to know what he knows and what he doesn't know?"
"Because, Socrates, this is the same thing as that." "Perhaps," I said, "but I'm apparently always the same — I still don't grasp how it's the same thing, knowing that one knows and knowing that one doesn't know." "What do you mean?" he said. "Like this," I said. "Will a knowledge that is knowledge of knowledge be able to distinguish anything more than this: that this is knowledge and that is not knowledge?" "No — just that much." "So then is knowledge and lack of knowledge of what's healthy the same as knowledge and lack of knowledge of what's just?" "Not at all." "No — one, I think, is medicine, another is statesmanship, and the other is nothing but knowledge itself." "Of course." "So if someone doesn't additionally know what's healthy or what's just, but knows only knowledge itself — since that's the only thing he has knowledge of — he might reasonably recognize, both about himself and about others, that he knows something and that he has some knowledge. Right?" "Yes." "But how will he know, by means of that knowledge, what it is that he knows? For he knows what's healthy by medicine, not by temperance; what's harmonious by music, not by temperance; what's a matter of building by the builder's art, not by temperance — and so on for everything. Isn't that so?" "So it appears." "And temperance, if it's only knowledge of knowledges, how will it let him know that he knows what's healthy, or what belongs to building?" "No way." "So the person who lacks that other knowledge won't know what he knows — only that he knows it." "So it seems." "So being temperate, and temperance, would not be this: knowing what one knows and what one doesn't know, but rather, it seems, only knowing that one knows and that one doesn't know." "It looks that way." "So this same person won't be able, either, to test someone else who claims to know something — whether he knows what he claims to know or doesn't know it. He'll only know this much, it seems: that the man has some knowledge — but temperance won't let him recognize of what." "Apparently not." "So he won't be able to distinguish between a man who merely pretends to be a doctor but isn't, and one who truly is — nor between him and anyone else who has knowledge, and one who doesn't. Let's look at it from this angle: if the temperate man, or anyone else, is going to distinguish the true doctor from the false one, won't he go about it like this — he certainly won't discuss medicine with him, since, as we said, the doctor understands nothing but what's healthy and what's diseased." "Yes, that's so." "And about knowledge he knows nothing — we assigned that to temperance alone." "Yes."
"So the man of medicine, as it happens, doesn't know about medicine either, since medicine is a knowledge." "True." "The temperate man will recognize that the doctor has some knowledge; but if he needs to test what sort it is, won't he have to look into something further — namely, its subject matter? Isn't each knowledge defined not only as being knowledge, but as knowledge of something in particular, by having some subject?" "Yes, by that." "And medicine too was defined as different from the other sciences by being knowledge of the healthy and the diseased." "Yes." "So anyone who wants to examine medicine must necessarily examine it in that domain in which it actually lies — not, surely, in things outside it, where it doesn't apply." "No, indeed." "So the one who examines correctly will examine the doctor, as a doctor, in matters of health and disease." "So it seems." "And within that domain — among the things said and done there — he'll examine the things said, whether they're said truly, and the things done, whether they're done correctly." "Necessarily." "Could anyone, then, without medical knowledge, follow either of these?" "No, indeed." "Nor could anyone else at all, it seems, except a doctor — certainly not the temperate man; for then he'd be a doctor in addition to being temperate." "That's so." "So it's all the more certain: if temperance is only knowledge of knowledge and lack of knowledge, it will not be able to distinguish a doctor who knows the matters of his craft from one who doesn't but merely pretends or thinks he does; nor will it be able to distinguish any other knowledgeable person from a non-knowledgeable one in anything else at all — except a fellow practitioner of his own craft, just like other craftsmen do." "So it appears," he said. "Well then, Critias," I said, "what further benefit could we still get from temperance, if it's a thing of this sort? If, as we assumed from the start, the temperate man knew what he knew and what he didn't know — knew of the one that he knows it, and of the other that he doesn't — and were able to examine someone else in the same condition, it would be, we say, an enormous benefit to be temperate; for then we and everyone under our rule would live our lives free of error, both ourselves and those who possessed temperance. For we wouldn't attempt to do the things we didn't know how to do, but would find out those who knew and hand things over to them; nor would we allow others under our rule to do anything except what they were going to do correctly — and that would be precisely what they had knowledge of. And so, thanks to temperance, a household run this way would be well run, and a city well governed, and likewise everything else that temperance ruled over;
for with error removed and rightness in charge, people in that condition would necessarily act well and nobly in every action, and those who act well are happy. Isn't this how we were talking about temperance, Critias — saying what a great good it would be to know what one knows and what one doesn't know?" "Quite so," he said, "that's how we were talking." "But now," I said, "you see that no such knowledge has anywhere turned up to exist." "I see that," he said. "So then," I said, "does the temperance we're now finding — this knowing of knowledge and lack of knowledge — have this much good in it: that whoever has it will learn more easily whatever else he learns, and everything will appear clearer to him, since alongside whatever he's learning he'll also be watching for the presence of knowledge; and he'll examine others better, too, concerning what he himself has learned, whereas those examining without this will do it more feebly and poorly? Is this, my friend, the sort of thing we'll actually get to enjoy from temperance — while we've been looking for something grander, and seeking it to be something greater than it actually is?" "That may well be so," he said. "Perhaps," I said — "and perhaps we've been searching for nothing worthwhile at all. I judge this from the fact that some strange things appear to me about temperance, if it really is of this sort. Let's look, if you're willing: granting that it's possible to have knowledge of knowledge, and not taking away, but granting, that what we assumed from the start — knowing what one knows and what one doesn't know — is what temperance is; even granting all this, let's examine still further whether being of this sort would do us any good at all. For what we were saying a moment ago — that it would be a great good if temperance were of this kind, guiding the management of a household and a city — I don't think we agreed to that correctly, Critias." "How so?" he said. "Because," I said, "we too readily agreed that it would be a great good for mankind if each of us did the things he knew, and handed over to others who knew them the things he didn't know." "Didn't we agree to that correctly?" he said. "I don't think we did," I said. "What you're saying is truly strange, Socrates," he said. "By the Dog," I said, "it seems that way to me too — and just now, looking at it again, I said that strange things were appearing to me, and that I was afraid we weren't examining this correctly."
"Because truly, even if self-control turns out to be exactly this, I still don't see clearly what good it does us." "How so?" he said. "Tell me, so we too can understand what you mean." "I suspect," I said, "that I'm talking nonsense — but still, it's necessary to examine what presents itself and not let it pass carelessly by, if a person cares even a little about himself." "Well said," he replied. "Listen, then," I said, "to my dream, whether it came through the gate of horn or the gate of ivory. Suppose self-control ruled us completely, exactly as we're now defining it — wouldn't everything be done according to knowledge? No pilot who merely claimed to be one, without really being one, could deceive us; no doctor, no general, no one else pretending to know something he doesn't know would go unnoticed. Given that, wouldn't the result be that our bodies would be healthier than they are now, that we'd come through safely at sea and in war, and that all our tools and clothing and footwear and possessions would be skillfully made, because we'd be using genuine craftsmen for everything? And if you like, let's grant that prophecy too is a kind of knowledge of what is going to happen, and that self-control, presiding over it, would turn away the frauds and set up the true seers as our foretellers of the future. Now, granted that the human race were furnished in this way, I follow that it would act and live according to knowledge — since self-control, standing guard, wouldn't let ignorance slip in and work alongside us — but that acting according to knowledge would mean acting well and being happy, that I still can't quite grasp, my dear Critias." "But surely," he said, "you won't easily find some other goal for acting well, if you disqualify acting according to knowledge." "Then teach me one small further point," I said. "Knowledge of what, do you mean? Cutting leather?" "No, by Zeus, not that." "Working bronze?" "Not at all." "Wool, or wood, or anything of that sort?" "No, certainly not." "Then," I said, "we're no longer holding to the claim that the happy person is the one who lives according to knowledge. Because these people who live according to knowledge of such things aren't agreed by you to be happy — it seems you want to limit the happy person to someone living according to knowledge of some particular thing."
"And perhaps you mean the one I mentioned just now — the one who knows everything that's going to happen, the seer. Is that who you mean, or someone else?" "Him, yes," he said, "and someone else too." "Who?" I said. "Could it be someone who, besides the things to come, also knew everything that has happened and everything that now is, and was ignorant of nothing? Let's suppose such a person exists. You couldn't, I think, name anyone living with more knowledge than he." "No, certainly not." "There's still one more thing I want, though — which of his branches of knowledge makes him happy? Or do they all do so equally?" "Not equally at all," he said. "Then which one most of all? By knowing what, among the things that are, have been, and will be?" "Is it, perhaps, the knowledge of playing checkers?" "What checkers?" he said. "Well, is it arithmetic?" "Not at all." "Is it the knowledge of health?" "Closer," he said. "And the one I mean most of all," I said, "knowledge of what is it?" "Of good and evil," he said. "You scoundrel!" I said. "All this time you've been dragging me around in circles, hiding the fact that living according to knowledge wasn't what produced acting well and being happy — not even the sum of all the other branches of knowledge together, but only this one, the knowledge concerning good and evil. Because look, Critias — if you want to remove this particular knowledge from the rest, will medicine be any less able to produce health, will shoemaking be any less able to produce shoes, will weaving be any less able to produce clothes, will the pilot's art be any less able to prevent death at sea, or generalship in war?" "No less able," he said. "But, dear Critias, the fine and beneficial performance of each of these tasks will be missing from us if this knowledge is absent." "True." "But this, it seems, is not self-control — rather, self-control is whatever it is whose function is to benefit us. Because it isn't a knowledge of knowledge and ignorance, but of good and evil. So if this other knowledge is the beneficial one, self-control, being something different, wouldn't be the one that's beneficial to us." "Why," he said, "wouldn't it be beneficial too? Even if self-control is above all a knowledge of knowledge, and it presides over the other branches of knowledge, then surely, ruling over this knowledge of the good, it would benefit us." "And would it be this that produces health," I said, "rather than medicine? Would it produce all the other products of the crafts, rather than each craft producing its own particular product? Or haven't we been insisting all along that it's a knowledge only of knowledge and ignorance, and of nothing else? Isn't that so?" "It appears so." "Then it won't be the producer of health?" "No, certainly not."
"Because health belonged to a different craft — didn't it?" "A different one." "Nor, then, of benefit in general, my friend — because we just now assigned that function to a different craft as well. Isn't that right?" "Quite so." "So how will self-control be beneficial, if it's the producer of no benefit at all?" "It doesn't seem possible in any way, Socrates." "You see, then, Critias, how rightly I was afraid all along, and how justly I blamed myself for making no headway in my inquiry about self-control? Because surely, if I'd been of any use for conducting the search properly, that which everyone agrees is the finest of all things wouldn't have turned out useless to us. But as it stands, we're beaten on every front, and we can't discover what in the world it is that the lawgiver had in mind when he gave this thing the name 'self-control.' And yet we've granted many points in the argument that don't actually follow for us. We agreed that there could be a knowledge of knowledge, even though the argument didn't allow it or claim it was possible; and further, we agreed that this same knowledge could also recognize the products of the other branches of knowledge — though the argument didn't allow that either — so that the self-controlled person could come out knowing what he knows, that he knows it, and what he doesn't know, that he doesn't know it. This we granted in the most grandiose way possible, without even examining whether it's impossible for someone to know, in any fashion whatsoever, things he doesn't know at all — for our agreement claims he knows these things precisely by not knowing them. And yet, I think, nothing could appear more irrational than that. Still, though our inquiry has found us so easygoing and unrigorous, it's no better able to find the truth — in fact, it has mocked the truth so thoroughly that what we ourselves, agreeing together and molding it with our own hands, had long since set down as self-control, this same thing it has now revealed to us, with great insolence, to be useless. Now for my own part I'm less troubled by this. But on your behalf, Charmides," I said, "I am very troubled indeed, if you, being as fine as you are in body, and beyond that possessing the most self-controlled soul, should get no benefit from this self-control, and it should do nothing for you in the course of your life. And I'm even more troubled on account of the charm I learned from the Thracian, if I went to all that trouble learning something worth nothing at all. Now, I don't really think matters stand that way — rather, I think I'm simply a poor investigator. For self-control, I believe, is a great good, and if you do in fact possess it, you're a blessed man.
But look and see whether you have it, and have no need of the charm at all — because if you do have it, I would advise you instead to consider me a fool, incapable of investigating anything by reasoning, and to consider yourself all the happier the more self-controlled you are." And Charmides said, "But, by Zeus, Socrates, I myself don't know whether I have it or not. How could I know something which, as you say yourselves, you're not even able to discover what it actually is? For my part, though, I'm not entirely convinced by you, and I think, Socrates, that I really do need the charm, and as far as I'm concerned nothing stops you from chanting it over me every day, until you say it's enough." "Very well," said Critias, "Charmides — if you do this, it will be proof to me that you are indeed self-controlled, if you submit yourself to be charmed by Socrates and don't abandon it for anything, great or small." "You can count on me following him and not abandoning it," he said. "It would be terrible of me not to obey you, my guardian, and not to do what you order." "But indeed," he said, "I do order it." "Then I'll do it," he said, "starting from this very day." "Here now," I said, "what are you two plotting to do?" "Nothing," said Charmides, "we've already plotted it." "So you'll use force on me," I said, "without even granting me a hearing?" "You can be sure force will be used," he said, "since this man here is giving the orders. So you, for your part, had better consider what you're going to do about it." "But there's no counsel left to take," I said. "When you set your mind to doing anything at all and use force to get it, no one on earth will be able to stand against you." "Then don't you stand against it either," he said. "I won't stand against it," I said.